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Havana domiciles, Part 1

I was only in Cuba for a week, only in Havana except for the day we went to the beach. So I’m hardly an expert on living arrangements on the island. I can, though, show you what I saw.

First, in this post, Monty’s apartment. He only recently bought it, so it’s still being furnished. (Thus, from my earlier blog post, the pillows, blankets, and hardware.) It’s on the 5th floor of a 7-story building constructed in 1958, designed by Maria Elena Cabarrocas, an architect from a distinguished family of Cuban architects. The light when you walk in is amazing: the front wall has two wood jalousie doors that open onto the terrace and two glass panels beside them, floor to ceiling.

View from the terrace

Shot with my back to the terrace, living room/dining area. (Though anytime we ate in the apartment we ate on the terrace.) Monty walking toward the bedrooms. Kitchen door on the immediate right, door to maid’s room (!) a little farther on right.

The building has 2 long thin apartments per floor, designed so every room has cross ventilation. Some of the windows are wood jalousies to allow the breeze; for some reason unknown to me Havana seems to have few mosquitoes* — although I came bug-ready, with repellent and anti-itch cream — so the jalousie windows have no screens. In each room at least one of the windows is glass, so in a rainstorm when you close the jalousies there’s still light.

My room

Monty had already bought a fridge; the way it works, sometimes there are fridges in the stores, sometimes there are stoves, sometimes there are clothes washers, depending on what ship came in. When we got there, lo! the store had stoves, so he bought one even though the kitchen still needs to be renovated. Right now, the stove in its box is serving as a coffee table.

One of the best parts of the trip was shopping for furniture. Havana has a number of stores selling mid-century modern furniture that was sold off or left behind as people fled the Revolution, or since then. Although the provenance of any individual piece might be a sad story — or not — the furniture is beautiful and Monty is happy to support the Cuban economy and give pieces new homes.

View from the building’s hallway into the apartment as the new bench arrives.

Next post, Monty’s cousins, two other homes we visited, plus some other residential exteriors, inhabited and not.

*There are those who say it’s the constant ocean breeze, and those who say it’s the government anti-mosquito program since the advent of dengue fever.

A week in Cuba

January 3, 2020 / SJ Rozan / 2 comments

So there I was, minding my own business in early December, when my buddy Monty emailed and said, “I’m going to Havana for Christmas. Come with me?” Monty’s half Cuban and still has family there, cousins who supported the Revolution and stayed. He goes back and forth a lot, sometimes leading architectural tours; he’s an expert in Cuban modernism. A year and a half ago, with the help of his cousins, he bought an apartment in the El Vedado neighborhood of Havana.

I had three immediate reactions: I don’t have the time, I don’t have the money, and I can’t just go to Havana. I mean, we have a 60-year embargo against Cuba. The list of acceptable categories of people who can travel there is pretty tight. I’d need to have set this up long in advance…

Monty stopped me. Nope, he said. Any writer can go. Journalists with credentials have always been allowed, but also, novelists and non-fiction writers doing research.

For real?

Yup.

Well, so much for the other two roadblocks. I checked the “professional research” category on the visa application and told the calendar and the bank account I’d talk to them when I got back. Christmas Day we left at 5:00 am to get to the airport, carrying door hardware, light fixtures, blankets, and pillows, to help furnish the place, which has been undergoing renovation. We flew direct NYC-Havana, and by 3:00 pm we, and Monty’s young nephew Sam, were sitting on the balcony sipping Cuban coffee.

I’ll be reporting more over the next couple of days. Meanwhile, pix or it didn’t happen. Well, it did.

View from Monty’s balcony

My room

Waves splashing on the Malecón

About that Chinese Cemetery

July 9, 2019 / SJ Rozan / One comment

Here we have the gate to the first Chinese Cemetery in Greenville, MS, the existence of which got me started down the rabbit hole of the entire history of the Chinese of the Mississippi Delta. This cemetery was founded in 1913. In 1931 a second cemetery was begun when it became clear the needs of the growing Chinese Delta community would soon outpace this one. This one, however, was still receiving new occupants in family plots as late as the 1990’s.

The gate is kept locked, but security is not tight. I myself found it simple to sneak in. It’s a Chinese tradition to offer food and drink to the deceased. As you can see, even the older graves are still well-tended.

PAPER SON Publication Day!

July 2, 2019 / SJ Rozan / 2 comments

PAPER SON comes out today! On the shelves at your local indie — or if not, they can get it stat. Or you can order it to wing your way, or download it on your e-reader or for audio. If you pre-ordered, thanks and you probably have it in your hot little hands, or ringing in your ears, by now. To celebrate: Party at Red’s!

Red’s Juke Joint, Clarksdale, MS. Photo, me.

Winding up in Mississippi

June 24, 2019 / SJ Rozan / One comment

PAPER SON, my sixteenth book and the twelfth in the Lydia Chin/Bill Smith series, will be out July 2. Mississippi, however, got a special dispensation to have books early, because I went down there last week to do a book tour. Cleveland — yes, Cleveland MS — Clarksdale, Greenwood, Jackson, and Oxford. Plus a podcast for the Mississippi Book Festival, where I’ll be on a panel Aug. 17, in case you’re in Mississippi and didn’t get sick of me last week.

For those of you not in Mississippi, I thought you might like a few photos. I posted some others on my Facebook page while I was there, and you can check them out even if you’re not on Facebook.

For those of you in Mississippi and not on my mailing list, or not on my mailing list and not in Mississippi, which I do believe covers everyone unless you ARE on my mailing list, you can sign up right here on the left of this page. I promise no more than a couple of newsletters a year, and you’ll get to hear from Lydia’s mom each time.

My buddy Eric’s porch, my Mississippi Delta home.

Twilight, Clarksdale.

Sunset over the Delta.

Greenwood sidewalk and don’t ask me.

I guess the message here is, Oxford is Oxford is Oxford.

Winding down in Wisconsin

May 24, 2019 / SJ Rozan / 2 comments

Here I am at the end of another Novel-in-Progress Bookcamp. This is my sixth year as writer-in-residence here and I love this gig. The writers who come are serious and work hard; my fellow staff members are a joy to be with; the caffeine flows freely; the food is plentiful; the place is beautiful. And in the evenings there’s beer, wine, and chocolate. What’s not to love?

View from my window

Lonely bull on the neighboring farm. His cows and calves have been moved to a pasture over the hill. He keeps bellowing for them. They’ll be back next week when the near pasture’s grown in again, but meanwhile he has no one for company but a big flock of geese and some heirloom chickens. (He’s a Belted Galloway, for those of you keeping score.)

The front of the property is a retirement home for goats and horses. Right now two aged goats and an old pony are in residence.

After this week’s weather more streams than usual are flowing on the 100 acre property. Some of the new ones are in what are usually paths. This one, however, is a real stream.

I love New York, and

November 24, 2018 / SJ Rozan / No comments

I’m walking behind a young boy, maybe four years old, and his dad. They’re holding hands and talking in Spanish, about the parking place they found and something about Mama that I didn’t get. Then the kid says, “We need ta poo.”

Dad says, switching to English, too, “You just went before we left home.”

Kid: “We need ta poo.”

Dad: “Well, I don’t, so if you don’t, then we don’t.”

Kid: “We need ta poo!”

Dad: “Okay, no problem. We’re almost at the park and they have a potty there.”

Whereupon the kid stops, pulls on his dad’s hand, points to the stuffed bear the little girl ahead on the sidewalk is carrying, and says, slowly and loudly because adults can be so dim-witted, what he’s been saying all along: “WINNIE! THE! POOH!”

I love New York.

I love New York so much I made a 2019 calendar. Get yours now while there’s a discount!

SJ Rozan 2019 Calendar

All the photos except one were taken in New York. Extra points if you spot that one.(Hint: this isn’t it.)

Father’s Day

June 17, 2018 / SJ Rozan / No comments

Happy Father’s Day to all the fathers fighting against gun violence, against concentration camps for children, against climate change. To fathers not in the fight: look at your children, and ask yourselves how they’ll feel about the world you’re leaving them.

I Love New York

June 16, 2018 / SJ Rozan / No comments

In NYC, when you’re doing a construction job, you post a copy of the Building Department-approved façade drawing. One of my neighbors did, and another neighbor seems to have found it boring, and thus enhanced it. I love New York.

The Pizza’s Purse; or, What Exactly Do You Do at Bookcamp?

May 25, 2018 / SJ Rozan / No comments

I’m out in Wisconsin (except for you people also in Wisconsin, who can read that as ‘I’m here in Wisconsin’) as the Writer in Residence at the Novel-in-Progress Bookcamp. Kind of like bootcamp for books. This is my fifth year in this gig, and I love it. Some photos herewith; but it’s not the beauty of the place that’s mostly responsible for how I feel about coming here. Though the place is beautiful. It’s a retreat center west of West Bend, in the eastern part of the state. You don’t need to know that, I just got a kick out of saying it.

This is farm country, and right now everything’s green and lush. A farm bordering the property on the west has the biggest cattle I’ve ever seen, a breed known as Belted Galloways. I’ve been told, by the way, that cattle like it when they’re sung to; I’m going to try it tomorrow and woe be unto thee who told me that if it turns out not to be true. This property is gently rolling, with a pond, lots of lilacs in bloom, trees, woods, streams, plus a chapel, comfy reading spaces, and a labyrinth to walk if you get the urge. The rooms have beds, chairs, desks, bathrooms with showers, and that’s it. No TV, no room service — in fact, no maid service. Your room’s made up when you get here, and after that it’s up to you. No fancy stuff. A dining hall for your three hots, a couple of classrooms. There’s also a spa where you can get a massage and suchlike but I’ve never seen anyone use it. Maybe when other stuff is going on, but Bookcamp week, everyone comes to work.

And that’s why I love this gig. We have breakfast together, the “campers” and the “retreaters” and the staff. Then the retreaters go off and write, and the campers come to class, where Phil Martin and I teach Beginnings, Middles, Ends, and Whateverthehellelseyouwanttoaskus. Lunch, more writing, critique sessions, talks by outside experts. We have a number of returning students, which is great, and people go from “I want to write a book… I think…” to “I’m a writer working on a book” and that’s what I love most. People taking themselves and their writing seriously. It’s what I love most about Art Workshop International in Assisi, too (for which, plug plug, there’s still time to sign up this year) but if you feel Italy’s a bridge too far and you want to do a workshop in the US, next year here would be my recommendation.

Oh, that pizza. At lunch yesterday we were for some reason discussing pizza at my table — not clear why, because we weren’t eating pizza — and a couple of people started advocating for pineapple on pizza. I was strongly in the opposition camp. Someone said I was looking at it wrong. The pizza, she said, is the crust and cheese and tomato sauce and ham. The pineapple is like an accessory, the one that makes the outfit.

“You mean, like a bracelet?” I asked skeptically.

“No, more like a purse. A really great purse. The pineapple is the pizza’s Prada purse.”

Which would be why I love writers.