Me & The Mariel Boat Lift, 30 years later

Today's Miami Herald trumpets a front page story about the success of the Mariel Boat Lift: 30 years later. I read every word of it with interest, and more than a bit of disbelief. Because I was there, in May of 1980. On the docks. Not as an arriving refugee. Or even as a member of a Cuban family behind the barbed wire fence, yearning to see the familiar face of a family member.

No, I was there, along with my photographer, Nancy Kahn, as a pr representative for Phillip Morris Tobacco Company. Basically, I was there to hand out Marlboro Cigarettes to arriving Marielitos. Cubans are big smokers, and boy, was I popular.

Let me give you some background. In 1980, my pr firm served as "man (woman?) in Miami" for a major NY-based pr firm named Ruder & Finn. It was a cushy relationship, with the NY company sending us well paying jobs in the South Florida area for their big national clients. One morning in May I received a phone call from my contact at the company informing me that I needed to round up a photographer and fly down to Key West as fast as possible. We would be met at the airport by the Phillip Morris distributor in the area, who would supply us with cartons of the popular cigarettes and hand us impossible-to-get entry passes to the Truman Annex docks, the area where the Mariel boats were beginning to arrive on an hourly basis.

Our job: take publicity photos of Cuban refugees gratefully accepting free Marlboros courtesy of Phillip Morris, USA. Not exactly a task to be proud of, in retrospect, but those of you old enough to remember, President Jimmy Carter had sent out a call to major US corporations to help the escaping Cubans.

A nice thought, except there was something very strange about these arriving refugees. As the first overloaded boat arrived at the dock where Nancy and I stood, there was not a single woman or child among the passengers. Nothing but 20 to 30ish men, all wearing the same cheap shiny rayon shirts in blue, red and green, with the creases showing that they were all brand new. As the first smallish boat pulled up to the dock, I graciously, and stupidly, extended my handful of cigarette packs. The men rushed to the boat's edge, almost overturning it. Believe me, I didn't do that again, opting to wait until they got off before allowing Nancy to get her photo ops.

After the arrival of the first two boats, I found myself standing next to a youngish man in civilian clothes who seemed to be mentally taking notes on the new arrivals. I got to talking to him and it turned out he was a Commander in the US Navy. I asked him why he wasn't in uniform and he told me because the men on these boats were afraid of uniforms, and after the first day he realized he was better off doing his job in civilian clothes. He then asked me if I felt there was something strange about the men on these boats and did I notice what they all did the moment they got off the boats?

I said yes, I noticed they all headed for a building next to the docks and emerged a few minutes later wearing different shirts. He nodded and told me the clothes in that building were donated by Cuban families already in Miami, who were hoping to see family members on the arriving boats. The shirts these arrivals were getting rid of, as fast as possible, marked them not as regular Cubans, but as dangerous prisoners and mentally ill, released en masse by Castro from Cuban jails and asylums, and sent to the US as some horrible joke. For every one decent human being he let leave, 100 prisoners received passage.

Over the next six months, more than 125,000 refugees left from Mariel and arrived at the Key West docks. While in the end, many law abiding Cubans arrived to welcoming families, and 30 years later represent a true American success story, Miami's jail population also swelled with a new crime wave sweeping over South Florida. Ultimately, Castro agreed to take back 1,840 of the criminals and insane that he sent to our shores.

Nancy and I flew back to Miami later that day. We had our photos and Phillip Morris was ultimately lauded for their good deeds. I sometimes wonder about the whereabouts of those men that I so blithely handed out cigarettes to. Not one of my prouder jobs, to be sure, but certainly one of the more interesting ones.

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hoto caption: On the Key West docks in 1980, handing out cigarettes to arriving Marielitos.

A Passion For Puzzles

I'm a two-a-day crossword addict. I get my fix from the daily edition of the Miami Herald and on line at the L.A. Times. Why else would I know that the entrance to a mine shaft is an adit, that a fancy needle case is an enui, or that a medley of things is an olio??

If you do enough of these crossword puzzles, you become the proud possessor of an amazing amount of extraneous and totally unuseable knowledge. You also end up with a helluva vocabulary. Lately,the word bolus keeps showing up as the definition for a large pill. Try working that into a conversation. There is no question that puzzle writers have favorite words that they use over and over again. Any puzzler worthy of the game knows that a Canadian hockey player is always Orr and a Giant heavy hitter is always Ott. Beware of a clue with a question mark after it. Inevitably its answer is going to be a clever play on words.

Nirvana for puzzlers, of course, is the Sunday New York Times. There's nothing to boast about until you can honestly say you've done every word of the Sunday Times puzzle. Years ago, I got a valuable lesson on doing crosswords from my friend Judy who truly does whizz through that weekly lesson in puzzle humility. I was visiting her in her Connecticut home and she had thoughtfully xeroxed a copy of Sunday's puzzle for me so we could companionably work side by side. A few minutes had passed and I was still stuck on 1 Across when she looked over at me and said impatiently, "Move on, Joan. First do all the words you know. Then go back and worry about the ones you don't know."

Excellent advice. I've followed it ever since, at least when I'm working on a puzzle, if not always in life. You out there who also love puzzles would do well to remember it as well. By the way, as long as I'm admitting to my addiction, I confess that I only work in pen, never pencil. A form of arrogance? Perhaps. I just prefer the feeling of a pen. Towards the end of the week, as the puzzle gets harder, the page may end up with multiple write overs. Fridays are always the worst. Monday's the easiest.

I was fascinated to learn that there is actually an annual "superbowl" for crossword players. Check out the 2006 documentary "Wordplay", that focuses on the world of crossword puzzles, those that construct them, those that love to solve them, and those that compete in the annual competition.

I'm not sure I'm ready for puzzle prime time just yet, but I'm working on it. Just need to fill in a couple of more spaces. . .does anyone out there know a six letter word for a stunted ear of corn??

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Photo caption: Miami Herald puzzle page, Wednesday, May 14th

To the Northwest and back. . . .

Just back from six days in Seattle/Vancouver and I'm still trying to warm up. My sister and I went to spend the Passover holiday with her son and my favorite nephew, actually, my only nephew. We still call him Bobby, although I believe he just passed his 60th birthday and has three grandchildren of his own.

Seattle is a fascinating city. The weather changes on a dime, from brilliant sunshine to grey and drizzly, but we charged onward regardless, and I do mean charged. Bobby gives no quarter and attaches no age to his mother (my older sister) or his aunt. Flattering, yes. Tiring, you bet.

We arrived on a Friday at noon and were out on the streets sightseeing and visiting two winerys by mid-afternoon, ending the day at what passes for a food court in Seattle, but seemed more like a middle-eastern/far east array of distinctly foreign food offerings. Forget Miami's Cuban food fetishes, this is Indian, Vietnamese, Japanese and Chinese, all rolled together, with a little Russian and Polish thrown in for good measure. Dinner, actually, was delicious, especially since we were joined by Bobby's son Mark, wife Kate, and adorable grandkids, Sam and Caroline.

Saturday morning at 7:30am we were on our way to the train station and the 8:30 train to Vancouver. The 2 1/2 hour trip was visually wonderful. . the northwest is magnificent with towering trees and lots of lonesome farm houses. After checking into the hotel where we would spend the night, we were off again, boarding a tiny, toy-like ferry to Granville Island where we had lunch (this time the food was Greek) and enjoyed a rare bit of sunshine in a large3 open patio, serenaded by a street musician who looked like a homeless person and seemed to be playing a giant stick. (See photo)

Vancouver is actually a spectacular city and we enjoyed every minute there before boarding the train on Sunday evening for the trip back to Seattle. Bobby allowed Fran and me to relax on Monday. Actually, I relaxed, my sister started cooking for the Passover seder we were having that evening.

I made the mistake of agreeing to take a "walk" with Boomer and Bosco, Bobby's two dogs. I put quotes around "walk", because neither Boomer nor Bosco have ever heard that word. They only know "run" and maybe "run fast". Boomer is a gorgeous Siberian Husky and all he needs is a sled to compete in the Iditerod. Bosco is a giant size brown lab, extremely sweet, but as Bobby admits, he has "issues". Basically, he's nuts. He specializes in qucik bursts of stop and go followed by a need to wind his leash around your legs. There was no way I could keep up with Boomer so I won Bosco. A couple of miles and 45 minutes later, on a steep hill, I called Uncle. . or rather Aunt. . and handed Bosco's leash back to his father.

On Tuesday we did the Tulip Festival . . acres and acres of absolutely gorgeous color. . .and Wednesday we drove to Tacoma to visit the incredible renovated courthouse, once a train station, (did I mention Bobby is a lawyer?), plus the marvelous Glass Museum. Tacoma is the home of Dale Chihuly, the glass artist, and I spent several months as a guide of the wonderful Chihuly installation at Fairchild Tropical Gardens, so it was very exciting to visit the source of all that beauty.

Wednesday evening we boarded the "red eye" and flew back to Miami, arriving at 7:30 in the morning, 4:30am, Seattle time. My inner time clock is still confrused, but it was a fun week. Miami's warmth feels wonderful. Did I mention it was in the low 40s most of the time?

The Northwest is spectacular, no doubt about it. But as I sit at my computer I am looking out the window at Biscayne Bay, the sun is shining and there are jet skis and fast moving power boats moving across the skyline. If you don't mind, I think I 'll stick with Miami.
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Photo captions: Top left: Gorgeous tulips everywhere. Top Right:Boomer & Bosco showing me love. Bottom left: The sisters in front of a field of daffodils. Bottom right: Street singer on Granville Island, Vancouver.

The view from up here. . . .

Don't mess with me, guys. I have a new professional commendation to add to my resume, delivered by the owner of the tour company that hired me to tour a group of 36 through Vizcaya Museum & Gardens yesterday.

"You have a very commanding presence," she said in all seriousness, at the conclusion of the tour as she handed me my check. All 4 ft. 11 1/4 inches of me, I said under my breath.

Commanding is not exactly how I would describe my less than towering height, but I do have a helluva loud speaking voice, a major plus with a large tour group. It must be that extra 1/4 inch that I'm desperately hanging on to, as gravity has its way with the 5 ft. stature I have endured since the age of 12. I was always the smallest kid in the class when they lined us up by height and I haven't made much progress since then..

Suzanne, the lady from the tour company, had e-mailed me that this could be a difficult group. . .it was something called The League, and she was finding them to have a bit of an "attitude". I wrote her back, not to worry. That was before I realized I had such a commanding prescence, and in truth, I was a trifle concerned. While I'm not new at guiding at Vizcaya, I am new at getting paid for what I've done for free for the past eight years. For free, if they didn't like me, that was their problem. This could ultimately be mine.

My apologies for channeling Sally Fields at the Ocars, but I think they liked me. . they really liked me. I could tell by the enthusiastic clapping at the end. We professional guides know that's always a good sign. They turned out to be a very nice group, well traveled. and fascinated with this wonderful seaside mansion that was built in 1916. Excuse me also for taking the opportunity to plagiarize Renee Zellweger and tell you, without an ounce of shame, that I had them from the "Hello, my name is Joan, and I will be your guide this afternoon. . ."

My new career as a professional tour guide is moving right along and I'm really getting the hang of it. It doesn't pay as well as my regular work, and I'm definitely not getting rich, but I am having fun. And growing taller, by the minute.
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Photo caption: Standing tall with the 6' 1" significant other. And I was actually wearing 3" heels in this photo!

Me and my computer. . . .

I'm not sure, but I think I was just scammed.

My computer has been running very slow lately and I was becoming increasingly annoyed watching that little blue circle go round and round. I found myself deleting more e-mail than I was reading, rather than sit here, tapping my foot, waiting for the latest joke (that I had already received last week) to download.

Every time I would turn off my computer, which is actually rarely, a window would come up for something called Cyber Defender, offering a free scan. Today I decided to click on it and when the scan was complete I was informed that I had. . and I'm not making this up. . .980 problems in my software. And for $34.50 they would do a complete cleaning that would absolutely, not a doubt in the world, make my computer run faster. Because I was so frustrated, I decided to go for it, entered my credit card information, and downloaded the cleaning program.

When the receipt came in the next e-mail, I had apparently made a total purchase of $54.95, not $34.50. I am not altogether an idiot, so I called the number on the receipt to question how the amount changed so quickly. Apparently I had not "opted out" from the check mark on something called "Optimizer". . .and lo and behold, my computer has been Optimized. OK, it seemed to be running a helluva lot faster and I was willing to go for the extra charge.


Except that the very nice woman named Patty from Cyber Defender, who told me she was my Personal Activator, informed me that I had a terrible virus that was eating up my files and for $279 I could have one year of technical support that would include a $50 Visa gift card. I said thank you very much but I didn't want to spend that much and didn't need a Visa gift card.


Patty assured me that this virus could do away with my entire computer in the next five minutes and since I only wanted a one time technical help to rid me of the file devouring creature, I could have a special price of $235 without the Visa gift card. In desperation, because she sounded so concerned for the life of my computer, I agreed to have the work done later in the afternoon when I was back in the office. She told me she would personally call me before any virus extermination was begun.


My computer program is Vista and it occurred to me that I had seen a free program called Malware on it that will scan for viruses. I pulled it up and scanned. It took a little more than 5 minutes and the damned thing actually scanned 50,501 items. And guess what? It didn't find a single virus. Not to mention that the computer is now running fine. It obviously did need a cleaning.

I just called Cyber Defender back to cancel the $235 technical program. Not so easy. I have now spoken to three different people and still haven't gotten confirmation that they will give me a refund, even though they haven't done the work. My next call is to Master Card to inform them that I am disputing the charge.

Like I said at the beginning. I think I just got scammed. And I bet I'm not the only one this has happened to. The threat of my computer crashing was enough to talk me into anything. Talk about co-dependency. Not too smart, guys. And I'm not even blonde.
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Photo: Can't live with it. Can't live without it.

Will wonders never cease!!!

I think I've stumbled onto a new career! It's not going to make me rich, I'm sorry to report. But I thinks it's going to be an interesting adjunct to my resume.


First the back story. More than ten years ago the significant other and I went to a friend's fabulous birthday party at Vizcaya Museum & Gardens. For those of you not familiar with this extraordinarily beautiful waterfront estate here in Coconut Grove, it was the home of industrialist James Deering. It was built in 1916 at a time when Miami was literally a jungle.

We were so awed by the mansion that first Benard, and two years later, I, studied to become unpaid, volunteer guides. Both of us loved guiding at Vizcaya on Friday afternoons right up until December of 2009. If I say so myself, we were both damned good at it.

I won't go into our reasons for quitting, but suffice to say that the new administration didn't feel my heart was in the required new tour that they had instituted. They were probably right. I thought it was better suited to 5th grade kids and an insult to the guests . I guess it showed. But that's beside the point. What was the point was that I gave up doing something I loved and did for free for eight years.

Fast forward. In February, out of the blue, I received a call asking if I was a "professional" Vizcaya guide. "Hmm," I said to myself. "What the hell. Sure", I answered, "why do you ask?"

Seems the lady on the line was calling from a tour company in Naples, Florida and desperately needed a guide for a group she was busing over, two days hence. When she told me it paid $125 I almost burst out laughing.

The tour went great and I had a ball. I walked away with check in hand and a date in March when she would be needing me again. Now, another phone call, this time from a Miami-based tour company, asking if I would be available to do an evening tour about Miami on a bus taking a group to Vizcaya and then tour the mansion. Sure, I said, so now I'm an instant maven on Miami history, thank you Google. She was paying $25 an hour with a minimum of four hours. Wow! And also, by the way, did I know another Vizcaya guide who might be interested?

Did I know one? I practically live with one. A quick call to the significant other, and we're both on the dotted line. Not to mention potentially $200 richer. My accountant will be impressed.

I'm thinking of revamping my website to reflect my new career path. I've made myself a very professional name badge on the computer so the guests will know who I am, and I'm good to go.

"Welcome to Vizcaya, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Joan and I will be your guide today. ."
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A few thoughts on my life. . .

I've been trying to write my biography for the past year and a half. So far I've gotten up to 1959 and the fact that I missed being stuck in Havana for Castro's revolution because we had a New Year's Eve party in Miami. Those were the days when I went regularly, once a month, to review the new shows at all the major Havana hotels and nightclubs for a man named Paul Bruun who was the Walter Winchell of Miami Beach. I'd write the reviews for his newspaper, the Miami Beach Sun, and he'd put his name on them. My Mother never understood that. Since we were dirt poor at the time, my husband and I understood it very well, especially when the checks arrived.

But back to my biography. Although I am sure nobody will ever read it except, I guess, my daughter, and maybe my grandson under duress, I seem to have this need to put my life down on paper. Maybe because, as my sister Fran always says, she and I are the only ones left who were actually there, at least in the early years.


Years ago, when Alex Haley's "Roots" was brought to television, my Mother decided to write down her family's history. She typed it on her manual typewriter and made carbon copies for Fran and me. It is a fascinating account of a Jewish family's trek from a small Hungarian village named Gyngos, to New York City, at the turn of the century. Mother was actually born in NYC and her description of growing up in what was literally an immigrant society is truly a treasure. All the grandchildren have read it and we are so glad she did write it all down.


Mother was a whiz at typing. She would have loved the computer with it's ability to make instant changes and print out gorgeously clean, multiple copies. Believe me, I remember when one mistake on a finished press release meant you had to go back and do the whole damned thing over again, regardless of erasers and white-out. Incidentally, Mother made both my sister and me take typing in high school because, as she told us, "you can always make a living if you know how to type." Gee, Mom, looks like I'm still doing it.


What's interesting about trying to write your biography is the fact that you are forced to review different times in your life where decisions you made, rightly or wrongly, ended up making a huge difference. At times, it's an exercise in humility. You find yourself wondering, why in hell did I decide to do that. What was I thinking? At other times, I find myself saying, gee, I did that pretty good, didn't I?

I've decided I'm a very lucky person. Don't want to give myself a "kina hura". . the spelling is probably wrong but hopefully you get my meaning. . if not, ask someone who understands Yiddish, it has to do with putting a curse on yourself. . . I've had a really interesting life, and in fact I still enjoy every day. My kids are wonderful. My health is good. I can still do two crossword puzzles a day (sometimes with a little help from the significant other), can't jog any more but still walk miles several mornings a week, and clients still hire me to write for them. I'm the one they hire when they need someone to write "rich". . .that's a joke, they should see my bank balance these days.


I promised myself I was going to do some work on my biography this morning, at least get through a few more decades, but now I'm all written out. Besides, I have to go to Publix and buy cat litter. . .the kind we didn't win in that ill-fated Pet of The Month Contest. Ginger and I are still pissed off about that fiasco, but that's an old story. I'm also thinking I need to finish up on my latest attempt at being a painter.

No wonder I'm still on 1959.
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Photo caption: The first page of my bio on my computer's desk top. . .at least I've done that much.