Cubano

Road trip!

Well, 18.4 miles. One. Way.

Personal quest!

Okay, 35 minutes for a sandwich. One. Way.

When I was a boy--six-ish most likely--my father took me with him across the Gandy Bridge to Tampa from St. Pete for a short office visit. My reward for tagging along was a visit to a local sandwich shop. My recall of the moment includes walking along a row of older brick buildings and how inside the shop all the tables were filled with old men. And the sandwich. 

Roasted pork. Ham. Swiss cheese. Mustard. Pickles. And Cuban bread. And, maybe, another ingredient.

Saturday I walked into Roll-In Cuban Shack in Spartanburg, SC, and Angela--the owner's daughter--pushed a menu toward me. Forgot my readers, but no matter. "I'm here for The Cuban." 

A customer waiting for her order nodded. "Good choice. You'll be happy."

Happy? That's more than promising.

Angela: You want gravy?

"Gravy?"

"Yes, really the pork drippings."

Pork drippings? I love this place.

While seated, Angela and I chatted about the failures of technology, the loyalty of their food truck customers now that the business settled in this locale, and how young cashiers couldn't make change. 

Another happy tell. When Angela brought out my lunch, she brought a stack of napkins.

How good was this Cuban? I didn't cry, but I could have without shame. Hot, juicy, bread-perfect, and when dipped into the gravy--get out!

And I'm wiping my chin, the outside of my hands, and all the while Angela and I are talking modern cars, the music playing, and how great their old ovens are.

Then the owner comes out to makes sure I am happy.

Happy? Hell yes.

I told him how as a boy I ate a Cuban in Tampa. He said, yes, good food in Tampa, but different in Miami. No salami. 

I could not recall one way or the other on that issue. Regardless, Miami style works for me.

"When you come back, you will have the Cuban quesadilla."

"Really?"

"You will never have the Cuban again."

Road trip!

Commencing Countdown

Class of '25, let me begin with the timely words of American essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson--no, no let's not start there.

Rather, as my good friend, Bruce Springsteen sang--well, enough of that poppycock.

Confucius--

James Baldwin--

Dorothy Parker--

So, indeed, today for you is a sort of launching. A launching from where you have been grounded to up and out of here. 

But let's not reach for the stars. Let's not try to lasso the cosmic.  

Given my age--71--and yours, so young, to me at least, I wouldn't--don't--know how to talk to you other than to push my mind back 50 years through to the filing system that is my memories--not literally of course--and sweep aside the cobwebs and dust to my launching--metaphorically--different time and space--not that I trust the validity of my memories, but now I am straying.

Empathy is difficult given how differently you may think about the world--uncertain? Excited? Resolved? Bored? All at the same time? I may have been in all of those states. But it was half a century ago.

Elon Musk--

No, not-- I, I won't ask for your empathy. 

Instead, let's work instead on extending sympathy to those in need--in their sorrow, in their grief, in their disappointment, in their despair, in their loneliness, in their pain. 

Listen to one another.  Look one another in the eyes.  

And here's the clincher. Believe them.

Iris Murdoch--

Be good to yourself. Be good to each other.

Farewell.