Fidel Comes to Dinner
This is something I found in the files on my computer:
FIDEL COMES TO DINNER
Dream Journal, November 1, 1997
This must be a good omen, to be dreamt on the night of my last official day as an employee of IHS. I suppose it was suggested to me by reading the flyer about the potluck for the Caravan which is coming to New Mexico on its way to Mexico and Guatemala. Or maybe it was all the news about Zhang Zemin, from China, visiting the US, and ringing the opening bell at the Stock Exchange, amidst a week of wild ups and downs. In any case, I was sitting at home with a few friends on a sunny fall Sunday afternoon. There was some kind of flower festival going on outside, or a few blocks away, a big event that a lot of people were coming and going for, but in a relaxed Sunday afternoon kind of way. We knew that Fidel was in town for various events, and while we were chatting came up with the idea of inviting him over for a visit. I guess there was going to be a potluck for him later in the evening, but luckily there was a slow spot in his schedule where he had time to just kick back for a while. Another thread of my life which might have suggested this was that Thursday nite, at El Grupo, the Spanish conversation group I attend every two weeks, we were visited by 15 teachers from Bogota, Columbia. They’re in town for a couple of months to attend intensive English classes at the University, part of the LAPE program. I spent the evening talking to Gilma about her life in Bogota, and the contrasts she finds here.
Well, Fidel was charming, but anyone who has seen him in person knows that. I actually did have an experience like that, when I was in Cuba in 1970 with the cane-cutting Venceremos Brigade. He came to our camp to address the 500 of us, and afterwards, sat around the table where we had our meal and talked with us informally. Lowen, then my husband, took some great photos. I wonder if we can find them. The man in my dream didn’t look like the real Fidel; he was much younger, didn’t have a beard, and his hair was caramel-colored and curly. Perhaps, in the dream, I was but younger, too. I remember some difficult scene in my dream when I went to change my clothes, dress up a bit I guess, and had some trouble with the plumbing in the bathroom, while the company waiting in the living room. We spoke in Spanish, but the ideas flowed easily, fluently. In fact, later in the dream, someone asked why we didn’t ask him questions in English, since he supposedly does know the language, but we responded that there was no need, we were doing perfectly well in Spanish, and I think somehow it seemed to be a more intimate exchange. I don’t remember the content of what we discussed, altho we never did get to take him out to see the flowers, since he seemed much more interested in sitting and chatting with us. For a while, I had his full attention, as the others were elsewhere in the room, and he seemed to take a special liking to me, so we were really having a tete a tete. He wanted to get a real sense of the people living in Albuquerque, instead of being dragged around from one formal event to another. For a while, we sat on the front porch, and talked with people as they came by, on their way to and from the flower show. (Perhaps this was my mind’s representation of Albuquerque’s annual international balloon fiesta). No police or bodyguards were present. The sun was the golden color of a warm fall afternoon, and the ambiance relaxed and pleasant, a lazy but exciting Sunday afternoon. I wanted somebody to take my picture with Fidel for a memento (how unusual for me, I usually refuse people’s offers to take my picture when I’m photographing). Everybody else kept trying to get in the picture, for a large group shot, when all I wanted was one of me with Fidel, to show the warm intimate conversation we had had. I think it was about here that I woke up, having to go to the bathroom, about 7:10 a.m. So much for my ideas about sleeping late on Saturdays...
FIDEL COMES TO DINNER
Dream Journal, November 1, 1997
This must be a good omen, to be dreamt on the night of my last official day as an employee of IHS. I suppose it was suggested to me by reading the flyer about the potluck for the Caravan which is coming to New Mexico on its way to Mexico and Guatemala. Or maybe it was all the news about Zhang Zemin, from China, visiting the US, and ringing the opening bell at the Stock Exchange, amidst a week of wild ups and downs. In any case, I was sitting at home with a few friends on a sunny fall Sunday afternoon. There was some kind of flower festival going on outside, or a few blocks away, a big event that a lot of people were coming and going for, but in a relaxed Sunday afternoon kind of way. We knew that Fidel was in town for various events, and while we were chatting came up with the idea of inviting him over for a visit. I guess there was going to be a potluck for him later in the evening, but luckily there was a slow spot in his schedule where he had time to just kick back for a while. Another thread of my life which might have suggested this was that Thursday nite, at El Grupo, the Spanish conversation group I attend every two weeks, we were visited by 15 teachers from Bogota, Columbia. They’re in town for a couple of months to attend intensive English classes at the University, part of the LAPE program. I spent the evening talking to Gilma about her life in Bogota, and the contrasts she finds here.
Well, Fidel was charming, but anyone who has seen him in person knows that. I actually did have an experience like that, when I was in Cuba in 1970 with the cane-cutting Venceremos Brigade. He came to our camp to address the 500 of us, and afterwards, sat around the table where we had our meal and talked with us informally. Lowen, then my husband, took some great photos. I wonder if we can find them. The man in my dream didn’t look like the real Fidel; he was much younger, didn’t have a beard, and his hair was caramel-colored and curly. Perhaps, in the dream, I was but younger, too. I remember some difficult scene in my dream when I went to change my clothes, dress up a bit I guess, and had some trouble with the plumbing in the bathroom, while the company waiting in the living room. We spoke in Spanish, but the ideas flowed easily, fluently. In fact, later in the dream, someone asked why we didn’t ask him questions in English, since he supposedly does know the language, but we responded that there was no need, we were doing perfectly well in Spanish, and I think somehow it seemed to be a more intimate exchange. I don’t remember the content of what we discussed, altho we never did get to take him out to see the flowers, since he seemed much more interested in sitting and chatting with us. For a while, I had his full attention, as the others were elsewhere in the room, and he seemed to take a special liking to me, so we were really having a tete a tete. He wanted to get a real sense of the people living in Albuquerque, instead of being dragged around from one formal event to another. For a while, we sat on the front porch, and talked with people as they came by, on their way to and from the flower show. (Perhaps this was my mind’s representation of Albuquerque’s annual international balloon fiesta). No police or bodyguards were present. The sun was the golden color of a warm fall afternoon, and the ambiance relaxed and pleasant, a lazy but exciting Sunday afternoon. I wanted somebody to take my picture with Fidel for a memento (how unusual for me, I usually refuse people’s offers to take my picture when I’m photographing). Everybody else kept trying to get in the picture, for a large group shot, when all I wanted was one of me with Fidel, to show the warm intimate conversation we had had. I think it was about here that I woke up, having to go to the bathroom, about 7:10 a.m. So much for my ideas about sleeping late on Saturdays...
Labels: Cuba, dreams, Fidel Castro, Venceremos Brigade
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