Three-Quarters of a Million Minus One

Well, it was a wonderful little festival. Had everything: what most people call music, warm beer, enforced physical proximity to your fellow drunk.

Even had a murder!

Nobody quite knows what happened, and the incident wasn’t filmed. The New Day, reaching into lyricism, announced that the victim, who had no criminal past, had bumped into his executioner (tropezó con su opresor, and thanks, Mr. Fernández for that translation…). Then hundreds of people took photos of the corpse, and stuck them on Facebook and Twitter.

This was the Fiestas de la Calle San Sebastián in its 2013 reincarnation. And no, the half-million people didn’t show.

It was three-quarters of a million.

At least half of whom were in front of us, after we had coaxed a cab driver to drive us home. Initially, she had refused. How much money could we pay her to drive into that insanity?

Not as much as we had.

Right, we said. So take us to the train station, and we’ll grab a bus home.

The train station occupies a large city block. The crowd had entirely circled the station. Fights were breaking out, the riot police were there, but bottles were still being thrown at the buses.

So the driver had a dilemma. Take us home or abandon us to our fates.

Fortunately, she was a nice—and very funny—woman.

Nor was it bad, until we reached the capitol. We then encountered the half of three-quarters of a million people who were ahead of us in their horn-blaring cars.

We spent over half an hour going one city block.

Until we were met with the cops, who had blocked off the intersecting street, and were telling everyone to turn around and go home again.

And what were people doing?

Getting out of their cars and arguing with the police.

As did our cab driver. She had a little plan to get us into the city, park her taxi at the taxi stand, have a cold beer and a cigarette—richly deserved, both. Instead, she spent fifteen minutes futilely—and erroneously—arguing that she had tourists going to the cruise ship. (There were—the goat that calms the cup or la gota que colmó la copa—two enormous cruise ships in town as well…).

Nor was she alone. EVERYONE was out of their cars, arguing with the police. And we have a facility, down here under the Latin sun, for argument. We do it with passion. And also, of course, with no little amount of body language. Actually, any brisk discussion usually cancels the need to go to the gym that day—you’ve done your aerobics already.

Well, was I going to miss out? Of course not! How often to I get the chance to play the tourist? So I got out of the taxi and looked confused (never difficult for me) and addressed the cop in English.

Me—“Is something the matter, officer?”

Officer looked away!

Well, look, their job is hard enough, sorting through the thousand-plus murders that get committed every year. Speaking English is a trifle….

You’ll have guessed the end of the story. If that taxi driver ever got that cold Heineken and cigarette, it wasn’t at the Sheraton. We walked in, carrying the six bottles of Scotch that one of us had to buy (hey, duty free!), just as did most of the three quarters festivants (well, computer, what do you call people who go to a festival? Bring me the solution, not the problem, dammit!)

It was—predictably—an unqualified mess. Calls are being made to cancel the festival. Other calls are being made to spread it out. This is a map of the old city.

Putting so many people who have drunk so much beer into so small an area is madness. The miracle is that the situation hasn’t turned bad—or much worse—before.

So here’s my idea. Spread the artisans across the city, in every available plaza. But have the music and the other “cultural” events at the Escambrón, in the evening. It’s got a huge open lawn roughly the size of Central Park’s. It’s got a big parking lot for the buses that will be the ONLY way to access the event (residents with stickers excepted).

Get everybody out of the old city and let my people sleep.

Two Muslims (Part Two)

Readers may remember my rant against a “religious” Muslim, who in the name of Islam was going to kill his 15-year old daughter for the sin of writing a boy’s name in her notebook.

Three hours after writing the post we’re in a cab, John and Jeanne and I. The driver is clearly an Arab, and—let’s assume—Muslim.

The first thing he says?

“Wow, Ma’am, that’s a wonderful button you’re wearing! I love it!”

“Oh, you mean the one of Big Bird?” asks Jeanne.

“Yeah, it popped right out at me—even before I stopped! Love it—it’s terrific!”

And so we meet our second Muslim.

Who doesn’t lack for words, nor opinions. In fact, he’s on a par with Puerto Rican volubility—and that’s high in the nineties on the standard scale.

“My daughter just loves Obama—she calls him ‘Barrack.’ And the other day, she told me, ‘Daddy, why does your belly stick out and Barrack’s doesn’t? You’re never gonna get to be president with your belly sticking out!’”

Jeanne inquires—how many kids does he have?

Two girls—12 and 5.

And he wants to know—where can he get that Big Bird pin?

The pin is round, has Big Bird smack in the middle. Above—“Save Big Bird.” Below—“Vote Obama!”

“I was almost going to give him mine,” says Jeanne later, “but I have a collection of pins going back decades, and this one is special.”

That’s when she remembers—the Obama campaign committee is striking camp at Broadway and 93d. So she proposes that he stop, she’ll get out, grab one, and we can be on our way.

“God bless you, Ma’am!”

So we do, picking up one for me as well.

Well, the cabbie is ecstatic with the gift; he can barely wait to get home and give it to his daughter.

We go on to talk politics.

“You know, it’s incredible to me that the first thing the Republicans are saying is that they’ll do everything possible to prevent Obama from doing ANYTHING! I mean, aren’t they elected to lead, to make compromises, to make the country a better place? Isn’t that what we pay them for?”

A cab? Nah—we’re in the Democratic National Convention, with the cabbie the keynote speaker!

“And you know, what I like about Obama is that he’s all about the next generation, about improving the schools, about making a world that’s better for all, about seeing your kids go places that you couldn’t get to!”

Balloons are dropping!

“People come into my cab who are Republican, I tell them ‘hey, that’s OK! We’re all American, we’re all working for the same goal, and even though we may disagree, that’s great! That’s what makes us strong! That’s what unites us, our ability to listen, criticize, compromise, and respect each other! That’s the American way!’”

Confetti!

“I see my kids learning things I never knew and I know that their world is going to better than mine!”

And the spotlights pan the backseat!

Fearing that at any moment the Stars and Stripes Forever would fill the taxi, I asked about the gasoline situation. The governor has imposed rationing, and so you can only get gas every other day, depending on the last number of your license plate.

And yeah—that applies to cab drivers, as well.

‘What,’ I think, ‘that’s completely outrageous! Gas is the lifeblood of this guy’s business!”

The guy responds—he was in a line from 7 to 11PM to get a tank of gas.

Right—but what about tomorrow? Will a tank of gas last him?

“It’s a hard life,” remarks Jeanne. “Most cabbies gotta make 200 bucks a day, just to pay rent, expenses, gas….  So a lot of them have partners, who can work the extra shift.”

I’m thinking something different. I’m thinking of two parents, two fathers. And three girls. One father is somewhere in Pakistan, planning—perhaps—a ritual killing of his daughter in America.

The other father is on the streets of Manhattan, driving for hours on end, thrilled that a stranger—now a friend!—would stop and buy him a campaign button.

Two fathers, both Muslim.

One has gone forward—physically, to another country; spiritually, to another reality.

The other is locked into his past.

We should have a word, I think.

“Two fathers, both Muslim,” I wrote four paragraphs up.

A word for a father who is, and who is not.