AN INTERESTING LUNCH IN CARACAS

At last we arrived at the glamorous hotel and very high up it was.  I was pale and Paul was green.  We both thanked God for our deliverance and tottered inside.  Our gracious hosts were solicitous.

"We drive a little too fast for you, Leenda?"  Leenda was weak in the knees and clutched her husband.  "Oh, no, not too fast," I lied.

"I'm just not used to mountains.  I live in Florida, you know."

"Not too many mountains in Florida," said Paul in a vain attempt to be lighthearted.

Suddenly, both men looked very serious as we studied the menus which, of course, were in Spanish.  I realized my three years of Spanish in high school were totally worthless.

"Now, Leenda, a few precautions.  Don't drink the water.  And no lettuce or raw vegetables, very unsafe.  We don't want you to be sick."

I nodded as the list of forbidden foods went on.  What could we eat that would not make us violently ill?  Paul and the two gentlemen had a lively conversation in Espanol and the three of them came up with a menu.  Plates and dishes and bowls and platters of unidentifiable foods were brought.  I was at first tentative, but everything was delicious.  Juan,the young, handsome waiter eyed me every time he came to the table and smiled most provocatively.  Finally, he said something to the men, but looked at me.

"What was that all about?" I said to Paul.

"He thinks you are very pretty, but too skinny. He is bringing you a very rich dessert with his compliments. And he asked if you were married to any of us."

I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened had I not been married?  I pictured Juan emerging from the shadows and pulling me into his arms.  In this little fantasy Juan looked like George Chakiris in West Side Story.  Ah, here was Juan coming toward us in the flesh carrying some unbelievably scrumptious masterpiece. He placed it before me with a shy smile.  Did this type of thing happen often in Caracas?  Who knew?

"Muchas gracias....Juan."

Then each of us was given a small cup of what appeared to be .... black mud.

                                                                 TO BE CONTINUED

CARACAS, VENEZUELA 1965 -- The Very Rich and the Very Poor

 Caracas, Venezuela

After taking lots of painkillers, I felt I could accompany Paul into the city.  He had lived in South America for four years when he was a boy when his father worked in Buenos Aires.

Representatives from that company in Caracas were to meet us and show us the sights.  Notice the mountains.  I was a Florida girl.  Little did I know what lay ahead.  We rose early to watch the ship dock.  The impressive mountains seemed to have brown rectangles everywhere.

"What is that all over the mountain?" I asked Paul.  "It looks like a bunch of boxes."

A long pause.

"It IS a bunch of boxes.  Packing boxes for refrigerators, stoves, things like that.  The poor take them out of the garbage of the rich and live in them.  They have nothing." *

"I don't understand.  How can you live in a box?Where do you go to the bathroom and bathe?"

"Here there are only the very wealthy and those who live in poverty.  There is no middle class."

Up until now I had thought that I was poor.  Now I realized I was not.  Remember, I felt too ill to leave the ship in Haiti where naked children begged so I was unprepared.

Two charming gentlemen met us as we left the ship.  They immediately presented me with a huge orchid corsage.  I was overwhelmed.  In the States those orchids would have cost a fortune. I said Muchas Gracias about a hundred times. Although their English was quite good, Paul's Spanish was excellent.  The three men chattered away in Spanish as I tried to adjust my world view.  And I was about to be shocked yet again.  Our gracious hosts were beautifully dressed and had important jobs, but their car was very old and banged up.  Paul and I sat in the back and the gentlemen sat up front and explained that there were no automobile manufacturers in Venezuela at that time so old cars no one in America wanted were shipped to Caracas at great expense and then sold to men like them for a great deal of money.  Then the ancient auto took off at great speed on the narrow mountain roads--guard rails were non-existent--and we climbed higher and higher and I knew I would soon be in Heaven one way of another.  I saw that Paul was silently saying the    Rosary as I gripped his hand in mine.  I prayed we would be at the hotel before I experienced heart failure.  We flew into clouds.                             

                                                       TO BE CONTINUED                                                            

 *I could not find a photo of what was on the mountain in 1965.  The above pictures must reflect more modern times.

SAILING AWAY ON GRACE LINE

Grace Line

Paul and I set off on our week-long honeymoon cruise.  We would visit Curacao, Aruba, Haiti, St. Thomas and Caracas, Venezuela.  I had never been to any of these exotic locations and I was pumped! Paul loved the sea and was always happiest when aboard ship. I didn't feel quite well, but tried to ignore it.  However, by the third day I had familiar symptoms and we visited the ship's doctor.

"Well, it certainly sounds as if you have more kidney stones and since we are at sea, there is nothing I can really do," the doctor said, sympathetically. "You will probably need more surgery as soon as you get home." 

Discouraged, Paul and I trudged back to our room.  How would we pay for more surgery?  I had given up my job (and insurance) and Paul had no insurance at the Players.  We both tried to be cheerful but a pall had settled over our honeymoon. Because of feeling ill, I had missed seeing Aruba and Curacao. 

We ate a delicious dinner in the elaborate dining room; we tried to laugh and joke but our stories fell flat.  After dinner we walked on deck and looked at the stars.  I suddenly thought of Paul's mother, Mabel, and her last words to me in private.

"Now, Linda," she said, "Paul's dad and I have been married many many years and during all that time we have never seen each other naked.  I hope that you and Paul can follow this tradition."  I had no words.

But now I repeated Mabel's sage words of advice to my new husband.  He looked at me in the moonlight and said, "I think the ship has already sailed on that one."

We both began to laugh and couldn't stop.

TO BE CONTINUED

A MAGICAL DAY AT THE WORLD'S FAIR

             I don't think there has been another World's Fair since the glorious Fair of 1964.  Remember--at that time DisneyWorld and Universal did not exist.  There was no CGI.   Cell phones, computers, Kindles and all the other electronics we have grown so accustomed to today had not yet been invented.  So what we experienced at the Fair was amazing, unbelievable, fantastic, unheard of.  And even though I had been born in New York, I had lived most of my life in a small Florida beach town.  So what I saw that day impressed me as nothing ever had before.  Paul and I went from one marvel to the next, agog.  We were like children exploring the Circus for the first time, the best circus the world had ever seen!

                           

I had no favorite exhibit; I loved all of them.  But Paul loved It's a Small World After All the best.  He continued to love it for the rest of his life and saw it over and over again when the exhibit came to DisneyWorld.  He liked to think that Small World was the world of the future--a place where all the people in the universe coexisted in peace and harmony, where no one was marginalized.  And we had reason to think it was possible as those years were the beginning of the civil rights movement, the women's movement and the birth of gay rights.

We were naive of course, but I remember that day at the Fair showed us a world of unimagined possibilities.  And just think of what we have now; it's almost beyond belief.  But the ideal of peace and harmony that Paul saw in It's a Small World eludes us still.  We're not even close.

And that breaks my heart.

THE 1964 WORLD'S FAIR IN NEW YORK

Paul had arranged a honeymoon cruise on Grace Line, the company he had once worked for.  He didn't like to fly so we took the train from Sarasota to New York.  In those long ago days the train station was downtown.  When the train roared into the station, we boarded, all set for our honeymoon adventure.  I got off the train in an unknown town and walked up and down the platform trying to get my sleeping leg to wake up.  As I strode along with a broad smile, the heel came off my left shoe and I fell down on the filthy platform (the stains on my homemade going away suit never came out.)  I looked around for my high heel and saw that it had fallen onto the tracks.  I then noticed a huge run in my nylons.  My big smile slowly faded as I limped along in my soiled suit and ruined stockings.  I saw Paul coming toward me with two cups of coffee and a stunned expression.  His pretty young bride looked like a homeless woman.  Paul helped me back onto the train (I had twisted my ankle) and when I was safely seated he handed me a cup of coffee and told me to be careful as it was very hot.  Exhausted from the wedding, I fell asleep within five minutes and the hot coffee poured into my lap.  I screamed so loud the porter came.  Chaos reigned.  Passengers handed me napkins, paper towels, hankies-- anything to stem the tide of coffee which was now dribbling down my legs onto the floor.

We arrived in New York many, many, many hours later.  Paul looked fresh as a daisy.  I, on the other hand, had wild hair, a filthy suit, a broken shoe, ruined stockings, a dirty face and a look of profound shock.  Paul's mother was speechless.  My new husband tried to make the best of it.  He brought forth a big, phony smile
and said, "We're all ready for the 1964 World's Fair!"

To Be Continued

MY WEDDING DAY

Our wedding day dawned bright and clear....and very, very warm.  It was the hottest May 22nd in Sarasota's recorded history.  I thought of my beautiful handmade wedding dress with it's long sleeves, long skirt and 35 covered buttons.  I was already sweating.  My dad drove me to the church and let me off at a little wooden cottage where brides dressed.  As we passed the rectory I saw Father Smith, the priest who was to perform the ceremony, in old work pants, scrubbing the steps.  Not a good sign.
                                                                           
I had left the Catholic Church while I was at Wesleyan for many reasons and yet here I was.  I would have liked a small garden wedding with a few close friends.  I was paying for the wedding on my $50 a week salary, but somehow decisions were made by others and I stood by like a sleepwalker.  I was a guest at someone else's wedding.  My maid of honor, Sue, and my dear friend, Kathy, arrayed me in my bridal gown.  Putting the 35 buttons in the loops took 20 minutes as we all stood, smiling, as the sweat poured down our slender, nervous bodies.  At last I was ready and my friends escorted me across  Orange Avenue and into the packed church which was so hot I thought I would faint.  (Father Smith had forgotten to turn on the air conditioning until five minutes ago.)  Someone handed me my bouquet of pale yellow roses and I took my father's arm.  Little Debbie, Paul's niece and our flower girl, was walking down the aisle, strewing rose petals while my brother, Jim, looking so sweet and handsome in his little tuxedo, was carrying a satin pillow with the ring.  Both children looked so young, so vulnerable that I wanted to cry.  Sue looked at me and smiled (I think I looked terrified), then started down the aisle in her yellow silk dress.  Then it was my turn.  I saw Paul standing by the altar; he looked miles away, but smiled reassuringly.

My father and I started walking down the endless aisle and I realized that the woman playing the Wedding March was the worst organist I had ever heard.  Friends smiled at me, but I couldn't remember who any of them were.  I started to panic and then I saw 12-year-old Paul Rubenfeld,* my close friend from the Players.  Young Paul was wise beyond his years and we had connected.  I looked into his eyes and my heartbeat slowed down.

My dad handed me off to Paul  and the wedding began.  I remember absolutely nothing about the ceremony, but suddenly it was over and we were walking up the aisle, husband and wife.  Father Smith had done his duty.  As Paul and I walked along, nodding and smiling to everyone, the organist once again showed us all her astonishing lack of talent and musicality.  Paul looked at me and rolled his eyes wildly.
I laughed.

*Paul Rubenfeld grew up and became Paul Reubens, the actor  who created Peewee Herman.  We still have a connection to this day.

LIFE CHANGES

The old Players Theater

I had always been a girl with goals both large and small.  Now my goal was to get through the day.  I wasn't good at my job; my family was fractured and I had no idea what to do with my life.  In the early 60's girls went to college and then married a lovely boy from another college to whom she was "pinned."  Some girls had careers.  I had been trained to become an actress, but for some reason I was too terrified to try.  I had no idea how to start.  I pictured myself living in New York City in a tiny apartment with four other girls.  Working as a waitress while going to auditions.  Being rejected.  Over and over again.

To escape this grim fantasy (which was probably very realistic) I spent my spare time at the Players Theater, where I had spent a good deal of my youth.  I made some friends; I worked on costumes; I went to cast parties.  At work I went out to lunch with Lorrie who was pregnant and was trying to figure out if she should marry Boot.  Marrying a Black man in 1964 seemed fraught with danger.  Becoming an unmarried mother of a biracial child in the South seemed equally dangerous.  But I kept these thoughts to myself.

On the homefront my parents were determined to keep my grandparents in the dark about their separation as they feared they would be shocked and upset.  My personal feeling was that since dear Nana had abandoned her first husband and son when my father was 12 so she could have a better life, she had no real reason to be shocked.   But as usual I kept my thoughts to myself.

But then one day everything changed.  I needed to ask our director, Peter, a question. Someone said he was in his office so I went and knocked on the door.  No answer.  I knocked again and called out his name.  Silence.  I opened the door and saw Peter on the floor unconscious.  I ran for help and honestly what happened after that is all a blur.  I think an ambulance came and Peter was taken to the hospital.  No one talked about what had happened.  I never found out exactly what was wrong with Peter, but I knew he drank.  If explanations were made, I didn't hear them.  Quite suddenly Peter and his wife moved to New York without saying Goodbye.  A new director was needed immediately to direct Bye, Bye Birdie, a musical Peter had already cast.

A professional actor and director named Paul was hired.  He had run his own summer stock theater in Malden Bridge, New York, for many years and had given a 14-year-old girl named Barbra Streisand a chance to be an apprentice one summer.  She turned out to be a capable little actress and played five roles.  No one knew Barbra could sing.  Paul stepped right up and directed Birdie, which turned out to be a huge success.  I was his assistant for the next production and dutifully wrote down his notes for the cast at rehearsals.  Paul turned out to be a sweet man I felt comfortable with and he could easily make me laugh.  We became friends.

Six months later we were married.