By Carolina Hospital
Almost an Island
We drive through a downpour
to Las Terrenas in Samaná Peninsula.
Not our first trip to the island, but first here, and
with our son-in-law, Dominican born and raised.
Storm long gone, we follow a trail lined with arecas
that opens to a wide cove of turquoise waters.
The coast is dense with coconut palms extending from
shore to the mountains behind us, like a calendar photo.
My whole body unhinges with joy,
a reaction since exile to such landscapes.
I climb the seawall above the surf towards a cluster
of blue wooden fishing boats tucked beneath palms.
My pulse races from the “what if’s”
to the “how will I ever leave this place.”
But when the days are up, I do.
Now back, it’s a bit cooler. I wrestle with the tropics.
I walk in pre-dawn light, as I do each morning
since moving north, and stop to trace a sabal palm
reaching for the sun. Through the thick of branches
it finds its way. The live oak doesn’t seem to mind.
A squirrel scurries up its trunk. The sidewalk forks
and between the two paths grow tall shrubs
of American Beautyberry. Strings of purple berries
hang from its arching branches.
On the way home, the light falls through the trees
and over my breath deep and slow.
Legacy
Little June collects rocks.
She prefers smooth ones and hands them over.
I drop them in my pocket and tell her
that I love the rounded ones as well.
My mother kept a secret stone.
She gently rubbed it across my clammy forehead,
an incantation by touch.
It always felt cold and comforting.
One of the few objects I have saved of hers,
it is brown and smaller than I remember.
I like to think of it, tucked into mom’s old
metal trinket box engraved with flowers,
as hiding the wise force of Ayao,
the divine and fierce spirit of air and wind,
who lives in the ceiba forest, a warrior like mami.
She can both nurture and unleash.
Last week, we covered the driveway
with white gravel; from each bag some turquoise chips
spilled out, the color of the rocks we used
for our make-believe river
in the make-believe garden
where our granddaughter plays, a fearless queen
guarding the path from intruders
to protect her own secret stones.
Foraging
1.
Flown out of my birth island at four, my recall ware is empty.
I glean and assemble the random scraps.
My earliest taste of San Juan (where we lived for five years after leaving Havana):
Pan Dulce, a fluffy eggy sweet bread dusted with sugar
When I retrieve our Luquillo beach outings, they always include the alcapurrias we bought at a kiosk on our way home, fritters made with plantains and yautía stuffed with seasoned ground beef.
Little else seems to have stuck with me except
1.my lost canary
2.the outdoor courtyard at Vedruna Catholic school
3.the woods where I searched for a ball tossed over the fence
2.
I grew up mainly in Miami with school paper bag lunches of sandwich spread sandwiches.
When I whip up the Magic places of my youth there:
1.The Perezsosa bakery, where we bought pastelitos, merenguitos, and Cuban bread
2.Lums, where we ate its famous hot dogs
3.El Gaitero Supermarket, where we picked up flank steaks
4.The neighborhood 7-11, to where I biked with my saved coins for Sugar Daddys and Zero bars
3.
On Sundays, my sisters and I climbed into the back of our red Ford station wagon for El Centro Vasco Restaurant on Eighth Street. A ritual more memorable than church, even though we did attend mass, most weeks.
My father, raised in Cuba with grandparents from España, was homesick.
The original Centro Vasco was opened by Juan Saizarbitoria. When he arrived in Havana in 1940, he pretended he had been a famous jai-lai player from the Basque region. His restaurant became one of the most popular. When he lost it to Castro in 1962, he started a new one in Miami.
By the time we visited, it had moved to the building on Southwest Eighth Street.
Before El Centro, it was The Garden, an eatery owned by Austrians with their own food nostalgia who eventually returned home.
Before that, a 1920’s speakeasy.
The structure looked like a stone tower with arched windows, a large fountain, and tall hedges.
Along with the hearty Caldo Gallego soup with white beans, kale, and chorizo chunks and the moist Brazo Gitano roulade cake with creamy filling, which I chose almost every week, the stone walls, white tablecloths, baskets of warm bread and ice cold air conditioning raised the bar for the kind of restaurant I still prefer.
4.
Perhaps moving away from Miami, where I took culinary diversity for granted, to a place with few food choices outside of chain restaurants, has triggered my hippocampus hungry for food memories.
5.
I finally visited Spain.
We drove through amazing landscapes and historic sites.
What most surprised me or not:
I tasted home.
Carolina Hospital’s most recent poetry collections are All Roads Lead to Here (Anhinga Press) and Bamboo Ghost Notes (Contagioso Press). Other poetry collections include Key West Nights and Other Aftershocks and The Child of Exile: A Poetry Memoir, as well as Myth America and How to Get into Trouble, collaborations with Maureen Seaton, Holly Iglesias, and Nicole Hospital-Medina. She published the novel A Little Love, under the pen name C. C. Medina and collaborated on the bestselling novel Naked Came the Manatee. She edited the groundbreaking anthology of Cuban American writers Los Atrevidos, as well as A Century of Cuban Writers in Florida. She also wrote the poetry used as lyrics to Greetings from Florida: Postcards from Paradise by composer Scott Lee with jazz vocalist Camila Meza, released as a CD by Sunnyside Records.