After Madison came the vast American pampas of Iowa, where presidential dreams rise and fall. It’s amazing to me, cruising past these Midwest acres which are so the picture of apple-cheeked Americana, that the current commander-in-chief found the wave here.
Of course, I’d barely slept the night before worrying about the car wobbling and had, in fact, had the tires “weighted” and “balanced” (whatever the hell that means) at the Madison Firestone, and while we the car was no longer doing a violent shimmy shimmy, it was still on Parkinson’s watch in that crucial 45 to 60 mph zone.
Truth is, I love cars, love driving, love being on a highway, and love when the Midwest opens up with its infinite horizon. And for the full effect, you really do have to leave the cities and venture out to where the interstate becomes a grey ribbon sided by green and gold acres like a giant patchwork.
Sigh.
And, er, that bastard GPS decided that it was Iowa-friendly and actually guided me beautifully, with ETA and maps and where to fill up, all the way to M’s parents’ house.
There, I managed to get about an hour’s worth of sleep before the reading. It was a wet and foggy night and M’s mom and dad drove me to Prairie Lights in Iowa City, about 30 minutes away, where we met up with M’s sister Carrie and her friend Allison. There were about 20 people, a good chunk of them students earnestly taking notes. At least one of them was a Cuban-American – I deciphered this from his questions and later realized I knew his dad (perpetuating the notion that all Cubans know each other).
One of the real pleasures of reading at Prairie Lights this time was the introduction I got from Roberto Ampuero, whom I’d met last summer in Spain during the Semana Negra de Gijon (which was actually ten days … ). Roberto is a critically acclaimed and best-selling Chilean novelist and, as it turns out, professor at the University of Iowa. He’s the author of the Cayetano Brulé detective series and Nuestros años Verde Olivo (about his years in exile in Cuba) and the metafictional mystery Los amantes de Estocolmo.
In other words, he’s a very, very big deal. And hearing him talk about how much he loved Ruins, and how powerfully it evoked Havana – “La Habana,” as he said with a grin --was both moving and an honor for me.
After the reading, M’s family and Allison and I retired literally next door for a celebratory round of white Russians and a couple of beers. And then we went home, where I crashed so hard it felt like I’d hurled down a long black elevator shaft in a 12 story building.
The next morning, resting in Cedar Rapidian splendor, I vaguely heard the phone, like an echo in a very vast valley. I finally climbed downstairs – M’s parents were long gone to work – and found a delicious bag of chocolate chip cookies and a small black piece of what turned out to be my car.
I really couldn’t face the awful reality of it so I sipped some coffee, checked my email, puttered, and finally surrendered to the voicemail and the evidence on the back of my PT Cruiser: M’s dad, perhaps sleepy from what was for him a late night (I did consider the possibility of displaced anger … ), had banged into my car. It was a rather small area but he did manage to hurt three different parts: the tail light, the bumper and the back fender.
On the way home, the GPS worked great (I also had M’s mom’s GPS as backup), the wobbliness was fairly contained, nothing fell off the car, and, now, the challenge is before me for this week: to rush repair or rent for the rest of the tour?
Madison on Monday, I’m headed north, but, first, I need a new tire. Well, fine. It takes a little longer than I expect and I actually find myself on the interstate pushing it for time. And traffic is hideous, there’s construction and we’re moving about 30 miles an hour, max.
And then I notice something: I am actually nearing Milwaukee, not Madison.
“Everybody makes that mistake,” says my friend Desi, “even people who live in Madison, like us.”
It seems that I90/94 split so seamlessly, I rolled east instead of west without the vaguest idea.
Desi – a pal from Cuba – and I had planned dinner but the tire matter had nixed that. Now I faced the fact that I would be late for the reading in Madison.
I’ll confess something right here and now: All of my prior readings in Madison had been at independent bookstores and at the university, so that there has always been a culture of warmth and familiarity around them. In my experience, indies are more personal – maybe because, publishing mostly with indies myself, we all feel like we’re on the same team, swimming against the currents. And while I’m happy to be a part of the Barnes & Noble Discover Program, so far all my B&N experiences had had a kind of clean, executive veneer to them. Not unfriendly, not in any way unpleasant, but just not quite the same.
So I when I called the Madison B&N to say it wasn’t looking good, I wasn’t expecting more than a quick “Thank you for letting us know.” Imagine my surprise when the bookseller on the phone insisted I talk to the manager. And imagine my shock when Jeanne Huie, in her warm motherly voice (spiced with just a tinge of Kentucky drawl), tells me to be careful, that she’ll hold down the fort and change the reading time by half an hour.
“It’ll be fine, dear, don’t worry,” she said.
I know, this doesn’t sound like much – but even before laying eyes on her, Jeanne Huie practically exuded love.
I immediately called Desi again. “Oh, that’s Madison,” she said. “It’s the most relaxed place in the world.”
I had managed to get back on track to Madison (after various wrong moves – the construction didn’t help – there was one place where you couldn’t get back on going north if you got off the interstate, which took me on a little tour of rural Wisconsin) but then, just as I exited the construction zone, I began to notice a distinct wobbling to my car.
I don’t mean a little tremble because of high speeds. I mean, a spirited, robust, martini shaking teeth rattling wobble that felt as if the new tire was going to spin right off the axel and hurl me to kingdom come. It took me a bit to figure out that it only happened when I hit the 45-60 mph rage. Anything less, no prob. Anything more, fine – except that there were too many state troopers on the highway to risk repeating my Mishawaka experience.
I call Jeanne Huie back. “Listen, this is looking ugly. I don’t think I’m going to make it before, I dunno, eight …” I’m thinking: If at all.
“Well, you just come on in … I’ll still be here. I just feel so bad, with you making such an effort. If there’s anybody here still, we’ll do the reading, and if not, you can sign some stock. Plus, I’ve got some treats for you to eat.”
Treats?
I was now beginning to wonder about Jeanne Huie.
And then I realized something else: Coming in from Milwaukee versus Chicago meant all those carefully calibrated directions from Mapquest sent to me by Akashic were, er, worthless. And, no, of course I didn’t have a map.
But then I also realized I had my groovy new phone with a GPS. So I did my best to input the info while driving as fast as I could and wobbling like a penguin on amphetamines but, alas, no -- complete systems breakdown. The GPS kept instructing me to go to “an open area” to get a stronger signal. And Desi’s phone wasn’t answering either.
I thought: I am so fucked.
I was literally sweating. My mouth was dry.
Desperate, I called Jeanne Huie again and pretty much told her we had to cancel.
“You just come on in, honey,” she said. “I want to make sure you’re okay, all right?”
As I got into Madison, I called CHACHA – one of those text services that will answer any questions (seriously, they’ll give you a response to What is love?) and begged for driving directions to the B&N from the interstate. The car was shaking so badly, the CHACHA people wrote back twice to ask what I meant because my ever more anxious texts were gibberish.
Thanks to CHACHA, I finally wobbled my way into a parking space at the biggest B&N I’ve ever seen in my life. It looked like the Astrodome. I didn’t even bother to grab my book with the marked out prepared text because, at one solid hour late, there could not possibly be a soul at this reading. I rushed inside, where the vastness was overwhelming, but one of Jeanne Huie’s people immediately grabbed me (gently) by the arm and lead me to the back reading area while another paged Jeanne Huie. They were like a tactical team in the trenches, everybody taking care of their task exactly as needed.
I was breathless, my heart beating through my chest and my adrenaline pumping like the most amazing LSD.
And then I really think I am hallucinating because Jeanne Huie – a sweet faced grandma – extends her hand to me, practically hugs me, and reveals 15 very relaxed Madison souls still waiting for me to read.
“I’m so sorry but a few of them had to leave,” she said, apologizing while I considered how inappropriate it would be for me to throw myself at her and hug her. She offered me water, marshmallow treats and cookies.
So I grabbed one of the books in stock and I read. And then, for more than an hour, I took questions and generally chatted, hung out and shared with the folks who’d waited – a diverse group of Madisonites, many of them with first hand knowledge of Cuba, others with a keen interest.
“I could have gone on for another hour,” Jeanne Huie said while I signed books, including hers. The store was closing.
Desi leaned over. “This woman was amazing,” she said. “Every time you called, she’d give a progress report over the PA. And she kept us all entertained, telling us all about you – what you’d done, your other books, the Discover program.”
“I have to tell you, Jeanne, this is just about the nicest Barnes & Noble experience I’ve ever had,” I said.
She grinned. As I gathered my things, Jeanne told me all about her journey to Madison, how she’d come up to be close to family.
“You mean you’re not from here?” I asked, a little surprised.
“Oh no,” she said, “I used to run a little independent bookstore in Kentucky. Oh, I forgot these.”
She handed me a little gift box of tea and a handwritten note thanking me for coming to Madison to share my work.
I never read in Jeanne’s store in Kentucky but, suddenly, it all made sense to me.
Mon., March 23, 6:30-8pm Enoch Pratt Free Library (Central Branch, Poe Room) 400 Cathedral St. Baltimore, MD *With Robert Arellano, author of Havana Lunar.
Tues., March 24, 7pm Bluestockings 172 Allen St. New York, NY *With Robert Arellano, author of Havana Lunar.
Wed., March 25, 7:30pm 92nd St. Y 1395 Lexington Ave. New York, NY *With Robert Arellano, author of Havana Lunar.
Thurs., March 26, 8pm Raconteur Books 431 Main St. Metuchen, NJ *With Robert Arellano, author of Havana Lunar.
Fri., March 27, 7:30pm Ada Books 717 Westminster St. Providence, RI *With Robert Arellano, author of Havana Lunar.
Thurs., April 16 Bryn Mawr College Philadelphia, PA
Sat. & Sun., April 25 & 26 Los Angeles Book Fair
Thurs., April 30 Center for New Words Boston, MA
Fri., May 1, 8pm Loose Leaf Tea Loft 4229 N. Lincoln Ave Chicago, IL * Poetry only -- with Mary Hawley, David Hernandez, Lisa Alvarado and others.
Mon., May 4, 7:30pm Elliott Bay Book Co. 101 S. Main St. Seattle, WA *Akashic All-Stars Event: Featuring Achy Obejas, author of Ruins, Robert Arellano, author of Havana Lunar, and Maggie Estep, author of Alice Fantastic.
Tues., May 5, 7:30pm Powell's 1005 W. Burnside Portland, OR *Akashic All-Stars Event: Featuring Achy Obejas, author of Ruins, Robert Arellano, author of Havana Lunar, and Maggie Estep, author of Alice Fantastic.
Thurs., May 7, 7pm City Lights 261 Columbus Ave. San Francisco, CA *Akashic All-Stars Event: Featuring Achy Obejas, author of Ruins, Robert Arellano, author of Havana Lunar, and Maggie Estep, author of Alice Fantastic.
Fri., May 8, 7pm Book Soup 8818 Sunset Blvd. Los Angeles, CA *Akashic All-Stars Event: Featuring Achy Obejas, author of Ruins, Robert Arellano, author of Havana Lunar, and Maggie Estep, author of Alice Fantastic.
Sat., May 9, 7:30pm Make-Out Room 3225 22nd St. San Francisco, CA *Part of the "Writers with Drinks" reading series.
Wed., May 13, 6pm DePaul University Lincoln Park Campus Chicago, IL * With Cristina Garcia and Edmundo Desnoes.
There’s nothing more thrilling, or nerve wracking, than looking out at an audience and seeing worlds colliding. And that’s what always happens to me in Chicago.
Thursday night at Women & Children, it was a raucous cosmic rabble out there: former students, current students, a former roommate, the boy whose birth I witnessed, other writers, my girlfriend’s friends, my ex girlfriend’s friends (but no ex gfs!), former Trib pals, folks who formerly worked at the Trib whom I’d never met until that moment, that woman who comes to every reading I do at WCF, the folks from my writers group, a former landlord, the girl I met on a layover in Jamaica en route to Cuba who was dating a friend of mine (and whom I liked so much right away, I wanted to warn about his, er, wandering eye, but didn’t), bunches of dykes, at least a couple of Orthodox Jews, a hip little cadre of Art Institute girls, really cute Cubans (some new ones!), poetry community big wigs like Mike Puican (a/k/a, the world’s most handsome man), et al …
I’ve been coming to WCF since it first opened in Lincoln Park in 1979 (it’s since moved twice, having taken root in Andersonville, prob one of the country’s queer friendliest and most diverse neighborhoods), first as a reader and then as a writer. It’s a big, bright place, one of the last feminist bookstores still standing. Long before I ever had a book published, owners Linda Bubon and Ann Christophersen would frequently book me, usually for poetry. When I was writing Days of Awe, the WCF staff practically doubled as a research team. There’s a whole different crew these days but they’re just as amazing.
Anyway, it’s always a little special to read here because it feels like home base. But this time it was really moving to hear Linda’s heartfelt introduction to Ruins. What got me wasn’t just how effusive she was, but how different it feels when somebody has read every word you’ve ever published and really knows your work. There’s familiarity, sure, but there’s also a bond that comes from having survived so much together (besides our literary adventures, Ann, Linda and I also served way back when on Mayor Harold Washington’s Committee on Gay and Lesbian Issues, which revealed whole other sides of our personalities and temperaments!).
It was sweet and wonderful to see so many folks turn out (there were people standing all over). I don’t have the strongest voice in the world so I tried to be conscious of projecting. I noticed a number of people were following along on my reading – no doubt noticing that I actually edit quite a bit in the process, trying to make the excerpt as self contained and smooth as possible. When it was over, I was so flush and nervous, I actually needed to sit down.
I hung out for a good long while, greeting friends, signing books, meeting lots of new people. Afterwards, a group of us went to the Korean place down the street to celebrate. The worlds continued to collide.
“How do you know each other?” Ceci Vaisman, a terrific radio artist and former NPR producer, asked me about the poet Mary Hawley, who’d joined us.
“We used to be in a poetry group, ‘Girls Night Out’, which used to do readings all over the city,” I explained. “It included Patricia Smith, Susie Berger, and Cin Salach. Back then, the only one of us who had a book out was Debbie Pintonelli. Patricia worked at the Sun-Times, but as a copy girl.”
“How do you two know each other?” Mary asked in turn.
“We used to share a boyfriend!” Ceci said with a laugh.
“I was about to say that Mary’s one of my oldest friends,” I said, “and then I realized, wait a minute, Ceci’s one of my oldest friends … “
I looked across the table at Patrick Reichard, one of my very best buds, who was laughing and shaking his head. We used to room together and this kind of thing happened with alarming frequency. He’d already met Ceci at last year’s seder. Then he leaned forward and made a point of introducing himself to Mary and Mike.
Oh, man, so I'm driving to Mishawaka, which butts up against South Bend, Ind., home of Notre DameUniversity – this is familiar territory – not just Indiana but northern Indiana. This is so close to Michigan City, where I grew up on the coast of Lake Michigan, that my high school team, the Raiders, used to play against the Mishawaka Cavemen. Not that we were rivals or anything but driving to Mishawaka wasn’t a big deal. Parents didn’t even worry.
The scenery from Chicago to Michigan City is, of course, familiar: the busy and crowded Skyway (always in construction), then industrial and cloudy Gary, transformer lights and steel towers rising from the side of the road, and then, suddenly, green, a yellowish I-survived-the winter-green but green nonetheless, and clusters of naked trees up and down both sides of the highway.
I’m just rounding out from Michigan City, turning a slight south away from the lake shore, when, in a stuttery flash of light, my phone flips one hour forward. What? I’d given myself so much time, I’d so wanted to get there early and hang out at the Barnes & Noble café, I’m actually packing my lap top.
But no, no, no: the phone is telling the truth: Chicago, Michigan City, the whole curved panorama of Lake Michigan is on Central Standard Time but Mishawaka is, inexplicably, on Eastern Standard Time. Mishawaka is on New York time, as if it had just turned its snotty little municipal back on the entire Midwest.
Best case scenario, I’d be 10-15 minutes late. I called the store, of course, and talked to a very nice man named Dave, who assured me it was fine. “Be careful, don’t do anything crazy,” he said. I assured him I wouldn’t, even as my foot sank on the accelerator. The buzz of the air speeding around my PT Cruiser (the poor Midwestern girl’s version of a low-rider) intensified and the car actually wobbled.
I was on my way for almost 20 minutes and then, just as I was getting cocky, just as I was passing with impunity, a mess of twirling lights appeared in my rear view mirror.
“Do you know how fast you were going” asked the breathless state trooper.
“I dunno, 70, 80?”
“Seventy, 80? Lady, the speed limit is 70 – I clocked you at 105!”
He wanted to know why I was in a hurry; he wanted to know what was wrong. I didn’t even try. I just told him the truth. He wandered back to his unmarked squad car – a big, thick American model with a grill that looked like a muzzled dog – and performed his investigative tricks.
I was good after that, going 70, doing breathing exercises. And Dave and I got to talk a whole lot more. As it turned out, my MapQuest directions to the store didn’t take into account a smattering of construction. And so Dave, who couldn’t remember street names but was fabulous with landmarks (“Is there a Martin gas station on the corner? Yes? Great!”), was transformed into a live GPS. Thanks to him, I finally crashed through the Mishawaka Barnes & Noble, my legs a little wobbly, my heart racing, 20 minutes late.
Waiting for me was an audience of three (which grew to five during the reading), two of whom I knew as former students, both from the University of Chicago: Lindsay, who’d been in my very first class on Jewish Latin American literature (and later went on to do her thesis on Days of Awe and even stayed at the house I shared with my then girlfriend in Havana) and Terry, who lives in Chicago and likes to drive, thus his Indiana cameo. It was, needless to say, a very intimate reading!
Unfortunately, this will not be the last of my Mishawaka adventure. A speeding ticket lingers on driving records and impacts stuff like insurance rates. So, in order to get that thing expunged, I’ll be taking a driver’s ed class in Mishawaka later this spring.
Sigh …
NEXT: Chicago, Lafayette Saturday, Madison Monday, Iowa City Tuesday, Chicago again on Thursday.
is currently the Sor Juana Writer in Residence at DePaul University in Chicago. She was born in Havana and continues to spend extended time there.
RUINS is her latest novel.
