A few Photos

This was in the restaurant Guarida

Our Taxi

Hallway of the B&B

New BFFs

Hemingway's boat. Named for his second wife Pilar

Elephant School Report

New Field House at PEA; completion 2018. Is it just me, or is that insane for a high school? 

I'm sorry about the dearth of Cuba photos-it's a combination of one C. P. Sellman not sending them yet (he wants to collate or sterilize or something them (he is rather techy), combined with blog problems. But coming soon. Meantime, might as well give the PEA update...(warning- it's kind of boring, might be for grandmothers only).

It was 85 degrees last week, but then weather came back to slap us in the face. We were freezing. I asked F if he was upset about this and he said- no; the sun brings the seniors out on the lawn and he can barely stand the sound of the fun they are having. (Is there a more blissful period of life than final semester of senior year?)

We gave Chico flying lessons for his 16th birthday; he was delighted of course. Actually, no he wasn't- he was shocked. It was as if you are expecting a ride on a moped, and someone suggests the space shuttle. The combination of my ability to figure out (usually) what people really want for their birthday, with Thomas' research ability and sang froid at pulling the trigger; makes us a dream present giving duo.  Frederick is hoping we don't sober up before he gets behind the wheel. (Wheel? Throttle?)

On to tennis news: Serena Williams won the Australian open while pregnant. Does anything make you feel like a bigger loser? As most of you know, early pregnancy wasn't by best time. But I digress.

Frederick  (who is on the B team of the varsity- of course Exeter has an AA and an AB) had to play the girls of the A varsity; a team his coach said was better than any he had seen in the last ten years. Obviously the first person I told was Andrew; because no one would take this more seriously. " "Oh God, it's a lose lose."
And then he proceeded to detail how Frederick must extinguish every single ounce of chivalry in his skinny body and hit obnoxiously high to her backhand. Unless she likes that.

Well I am sure you can guess what happened- the girls crushed him and his partner-a rather strong calved Michael C. 8-2; then F got beaten 8-5 in singles. Michael got beaten in singles so badly he had a cheering/heckling squad of boys who watched and cheered saying things like: YOU've GOT THIS MICHAEL!!! And if he made one little point, no matter how lame: WAY TO GO MICHAEL! THIS IS WHEN YOU TURN IT ALL AROUND!!!
Cracked me up. In Frederick's defense: the girls were cute; he had never seen one of them before; it was windy. And this last thing- they were better.
On one point we saw (we were literally behind a tree) he aced the girl, and it was a thing of beauty... she said as much.
"Such a good serve!"... and then F proceeded to lose the next three points in a row.

F said a few interesting things: he said he feels less stress when we are visiting-not that he wants to see us every minute; because he doesn't, but he likes knowing we are close.
Also he and his friends have been playing basketball for no reason in between classes.
Now basketball was never Frederick's thing- too much touching other people. (He prefers sports where that is illegal.) But he says it is so hard to find people who will play: either they are experts, and do not want to play with skiers/tennis players; or they play the flute and can't risk acceptance into Yale with a broken hand. Kids - especially at these schools-are so specialized. There is something so sad about it. These little achievers are filling out surveys at school that prove they are doing very little drugs and alcohol, but they are wildly stressed out. Both Jack H. and Frederick's advisor said the same thing to me this weekend, i.e that F was so mellow, so laid back, always equanimous. And he is, to a point.
But I see the bitten skin around his fingers.

Oh this was an interesting story: Frederick told us that his history teacher, who is a Muslim, offered anyone an A in the class who converted to Islam. Frederick says this is not a joke. (who knows? it appears to us to be a social experiment). Here is the amazing part: not one kid has taken him up on it- no highly ambitious agnostic or cynic agreed to the deal. Thomas and I had different takes: Thomas says, God is God...so take the deal. Who cares what you call yourself. And I said, but it would be a lie to your fellow Muslims, wouldn't it? And in this the age of Trump, I literally cannot stomach any lying. I just can't (so don't ask me if you look fat in that dress). But it is a cool experiment, if that is what it was....Frederick hasn't gotten an A in history at that place, so if he does, he will probably be able to tell you which direction Mecca is.

Chico's dorm

When we left, I sent him this quote that made me laugh: "If at first you don't succeed; failure may be your style." and Frederick wrote back: "I love that quote, I've only been hearing terribly sad ones over here. My friend told me this one":

Gazing up at the dark sky
spangled with signs and stars,
for the first time, the first, I laid
my heart open to the benign
indifference of the universe.

Now this makes a mother worry- kids have already been sent home on psych leave (suicide risk) and the drumbeat has now begun for the lowers (10th graders) for college. It makes one envy the simpler times when all you had to do was kill a water buffalo and you were considered a grown up.

Happy Harkness-ers

But teenagers are teenagers, and I am sure the little cave men ones were moody too. In Africa, our guide told us that teenaged male elephants are sent to live away from the herd, to live with older males only. Because they are a such pain in everyone's ass, it is less painful if they figure out how to be a grown up elephant away from their parents.

Boarding school is a bit like that- you miss some moments that are probably ok to miss.

Below a photo of F last year - seems like a life time ago; and it breaks my heart knowing how tough those first two weeks were. But it's ok now, it really is. I noticed, for the first time, what he has on his instagram feed- where most kids put the sports they play, or the school they go to, with graduation year- F's has merely the quote below.

"Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot. 
Nothing is going to get better. It's not. "
Dr. Seuss

Maybe they are learning something over there.

Chico's first day. Can't believe it was just 18 months ago. 

Havana Mi Amor

Greetings from Boston where I am happily jogging around and flushing toilets at will (more on that later). I am just going to throw everything down on paper before I forget; excuse the prose.

Havana is a just a wonderful, gobsmacking morsel- a big surprise in many ways. It was way poorer than I imagined; but also had, at one time, a shocking amount of wealth (I didn't know that either). The buildings are the most beautiful things- really I can't describe. From 1492 on, Spain wildly (seemingly drunkenly) built one after the other of these limestone and marble beauties with inner courtyards of palm trees and iron. Picture black and white marble floors with stone statues surrounded by the pale pastel colored walls of the Caribbean. But then picture hundreds of years of hot sun and wind and no budget for repair, and what you are left with is something that makes your mouth drop. Really. We went to a restaurant called the Guardida-a few short months after Michelle and Barack did-and it is tied for third of the most beautiful buildings I have ever been in....right up there with the Hagia Sofia and a 13th century number in the old town of Zurich. And what makes them special (I hate that word) is not how they look, but how they feel. They transport you to another time..while lots of other places, equally beautiful, equally old, just don't.  It's as if you can feel the ghosts swirling around. I'm telling you, this dinner, with our over cooked fish and crummy wine, was worth the trip; one should go just to spend some time in this building.

In the old town, you see what Ernest Hemingway must have loved- long shiny bars of wood panelling, marble floors to dance on; and a breeze from the dangerous ocean that keeps everyone from swimming away.  Only now, the streets are dirty. I walked around in flip flops the first day and had to walk on glass and poo and rotting food. There is laundry hanging where it wouldn't be in Paris or Prague, and stray dogs are everywhere...but there is music. God there is music! It's just as you imagine. So you are walking along a hot street looking at the buildings that have faded into the most achingly beautiful grand dames. They make you want to age- they are that staggering- and you are looking down and up and everywhere, and then you actually hear the Buena Vista Social Club pouring out of the cafes and bars. It's too much.

One also notices the book stores; evidence of Cuba's famously well educated population. I went into every one I could: lots of revolution stuff, lots of chain smoking intellectuals. If only I could read Spanish. Tricia developed a wee crush on Che...he was rather handsome and his picture is more ubiquitous than Fidel's. The girls do like their smart bad boys.

At first glance, when you see the airport, you think you are in Kenya. You have to change money there- you can't do it in America, and no credit cards are accepted in Cuba. The line is about an hour; so between that and the wait for the luggage, it's about 2 hours before you get your freedom.  Then you get in a taxi without any modern conveniences (I didn't see a seat belt the whole trip, and one time the car didn't even have headlights at night). You see goats and garbage at first, and then we saw this strange looking revolution plaza or something..with a Soviet looking obelisk in the middle..some BS about "Viva La"...but the Cubans are so laid back, it's hard to imagine they care that much. Or ever did. Fine, Fidel and Che whatever floats your boat is the feeling you get. The muscly, scary brutalist architecture they got courtesy of the Soviets is of course hideous and strange...and it seems so Un Cuban. Having said that: there are pictures of Che everywhere, and of course Fidel whom they loved. But none of Raoul, who it seems they think is a bit of a tool.
Our guide was a young guy whose family is Spanish and came around the turn of the century to grow tobacco. Needless to say they were, and still are, the elites of Cuba. But when the revolution came, they didn't leave: they were hours outside of Havana in any case, so they were more sanguine about the whole kerfuffle. Castro took away most of their land, but each person got five acres, so they cobbled together, as a family, about 35 acres which they still own and run now. They all live in Havana, and go there on the weekends. He says 80 percent of the Cubans haven't been off the island- no visas and no money, but he has been to Spain. He said his friends all pestered him to tell him about his travels, but he just couldn't describe the way people think. He was as interested in our lives as we were in his- couldn't really get the whole boarding school thing, nor the single sex education which he thought was absurd.

We went outside of town to see Hemingway's house which i loved. Apparently he left expecting to come back; or perhaps to kill himself in Idaho, but in any case he left everything- books and a Picasso, everything. And the Cubans kept it exactly as he left it. It is up on a hill overlooking Havana and had a pool and a tennis court; all very colonial faded glory even in its day. Wonderful leather chairs from Africa, and animal heads and mahogany desks, just simply perfect-I could move in. You also see where he slept and wrote-even the tower where he apparently housed an 18 year old Italian journalist student with whom he had an affair, and who (according to the guide there) killed herself when she heard he had. I was re reading the Old Man and the Sea, and it really is a gem. I think everyone wants to be him- to live a large fearless life in the most interesting places drinking and smoking and giving the devil, who is waiting for us, the finger.
But then we go to lunch where we look suspiciously at the lettuce wondering if it has been washed properly. Sigh. Chuck and I had a few bites in honor of ol Ernest...I mean it was the least we could do.

After our last day, the guide, (Umberto Javier) escorted us back to the hotel, and then heard we were going to try to find this ice cream place. The ice cream story started with Tricia, super star tour guide herself who picked our hotel - a wonderful sort of bed and breakfast with rooms as nice as any I have ever stayed in, with breakfast in the garden. As you know, Thomas and I just throw money at the hotel problem, and sign up for any old five star; but those aren't really up and running yet, so we said we would go where the Sellmans went. Anyway Tricia always is keen to find someplace cool, and read about this in the FT- a renovated stately house with lovely garden, and huge bedroom suites, run by a Belgian. It's called La Reserva, and we can wholeheartedly recommend. Anyway, she had also read about this enormous modern open air building: a sort of soviet mid century blend. Frankly it looked like something out of the Jettsons cartoon. It is a pavilion that sells only one thing: ice cream. Apparently it was the brain child of El Jefe himself- take away their land and their travel privileges, but give them ice cream. In its day , it offered 40+ flavors. Now, our guide said, they are lucky to get five; and in the dark times after the Soviet money stopped, there was only one flavor on offer. So you would go, and wait in a long line, only to be given the option of one scoop or two of vanilla.
U.J. said, anyway the ice cream wasn't very good, and we should try this other place that was run by an Italian who could sneak the good ingredients in to the country somehow. So we decided to go...and he said he would come along.
Here is the most amazing thing about the people- everywhere we went, we met people who did not want our money. I am not kidding- they would approach us and we would gird ourselves, and they would just tell us something about Cuba, or the music or anything...but neither asked for, nor accepted when offered, any money.
The ice cream was pretty good...and on the way back an old man approached our guide to tell him and us there was a concert in the next block in this large garden of some small but grand edifice. He was rushing to get there himself.
So we go.
People People People....it was like something out of a movie where four gringos find themselves by traveling in a third world country-  the spontaneous dancing scene at the end before they go back to Cincinnati and their dull lives. Here is the scene: band is rocking, and locals of all ages, but lots of old, are ripping it up at 4: 45 pm on a Wednesday. The same guy who told us about it, refused any offer of drinks, and then without being asked, shooed people away so we could sit. There was an 80 year old woman with one tooth who weighed maaaaybe 65 pounds, grinding with another old guy who was in a chair. I am not making that up. She had a little bow on her head, the kind that babies do before they have hair and she had no teeth (ok one) but she was INTO it....the well dressed black men, one of whom had most of his teeth, but they were all gold, took a shine to me...I hate to brag. Thomas was not going to dance, nor was Chuck, so Tricia and I had to find company with the locals. My heart belonged only to the little one and I kept trying to dance next to her.  I even sent guide over to buy her table drinks, but he ended up buying them himself because he was worried they would be offended by our American bucks. See what I mean? you can't buy them anything!
So five rum shots later we had to get back for our dinner resey, a dinner that I was so not hungry for..but the setting was gorgeous: a factory with a tower next to it and a roof top bar. They are really into roof top bars...but no locals can go to any of these places, they just do not make enough money. A salary of a government worker can be as low as 50 bucks a month, and even with the necessary black market work they do, there just isn't enough. So they stay home, and dance.

The food overall wasn't anything to write home about: it is so tough to get good ingredients, and they are not apparently farming them. Also wine lists are either 450$ for a bottle, or pretty simple stuff. But they will get there- and the settings are so amazing. The design of these new places- the narrow stairways leading to a roof looking at the sea, the tiny restaurant that serves the best ceviche with perfectly beautiful wooden tables, the ivy covered walls in the factory, the restaurant on the river behind the sea.. all  are so wonderful, you are happy just to sit there. And you get a nice piece of fish, so it's fine. But Boo asked about the food, and it is not a foodie destination place for sure.

Ok I have to start there...pictures will be up soon. Have to drive to Choate today (yes the one that is in the papers..) to pick up first born at his tennis match. Tonight and Easter a trois in Boston. yay.
more soon.

Viva la Revolucion!
xxxx

Will report all from Miami!

Viva!

Internet very spotty! Rum awaits.. xx

Postscript

I have just broken my third iPad or kindle (don't ask) and now have to face reading the Old Man and the Sea in Havana on my iPhone. That is unless I can find a bookstore in Miami, which is doubtful. 

Maybe I am being too harsh. Let's see if I can find one here before my flight. 

Taking all bets now. 

More from Havana.... xo

Miami Bitch

I don't really get Miami. I love palm trees and blue water and warm wind; sure. I also like an easy long run along the beach; I love it when one hears Spanish as much as English, and I quite like the dignified women who help you in stores; and how they say 'Jew' instead of 'You'. But there are some places that just don't make you happy, and Miami Beach is one of them. I tried to put my finger on it, and I think it is because between the vicious air conditioning (Thomas is known to have covered his skinny frame in a wool turtleneck before facing a sushi restaurant), and the boob jobs, it is a depressing snapshot. It's just so uninspiring. The population seems focused on little more than displaying their body parts at all times; even though not every one is, lets say, "conventionally beautiful". I have seen a fat, 60 year old woman in high waisted lycra leggings and a jog bra, ride by with her gray hair billowing behind her; I have seen a woman with legs in the exact shape of drumsticks, but unlike a real chicken, the thighs were covered in cellulite. She also happened to be displaying them proudly in a micro jean mini skirt-it looked like a denim napkin was in her lap, and she forgot her pants.  On Ocean drive, you are accosted by hostesses who suggest you eat in their restaurant with cocktails served out of a fish bowl: not fish bowl sized glasses, but an actual fish bowl with straws. There are lots of women, post fish bowl, with things to say- things they need to scream across the street. I had a Spring break too- in fact, I am in a very rare club of people who were kicked out of Senor Frogs. Do you know how wild you have to be, to find yourself on the curb in Cabo San Lucas? But since then I've moved on. Why aren't they moving on? 

We are staying someplace called the Setai- an Asiany vibe, very pretty restaurant, and our room is on the 30th floor. We look north, towards Mar-a-Lago, a name that Chelsea Handler says sounds like a water park that was closed down due to a water borne STD infestation. 

The crowd here seems to like to express themselves on the front of their shirts: " I went to Miami Bitch!" or "You looked better on line"; or "No one knows I am a Lesbian".  I love the below headline from the Miami Herald (a real newspaper by the way)...kind of says it all really. Butt surgery is the rage, as is that horrible lip pumping. It makes me really think the end might be closer than we think. What are the aliens going to say about those lips??

Thomas and I have become even bigger nerds in reaction to the Miami crowd. We dress for dinner in sweaters and long pants due to the cold (in case you think I am exaggerating-an elderly woman next to us had a jacket wrapped around her head). Then we had a long discussion on the walk home about the rules/etiquette/ protocol of crossword puzzles. The mini daily ones in the Times are my new obsession (they take just a few minutes and a little piano song plays when you complete it). My father used to do them in pen....as Bill Clinton supposedly did; some people think pencil is good enough; I will occasionally ask Thomas what the fourth most spoken language in South Africa is, but would never Google it, unless I were giving up. My point is, we all have our own moral compass as it relates to Crossword puzzles, and I wanted to know if there were an official rule book. So we google it and find of course Will Shortz has been interviewed on this very subject. He says you can do whatever you want: "it's your crossword" . That is of course ridiculous-everyone knows God is looking while you crossword. 

Anyway, back to Miami- The good news is anything goes. And I mean anything. Obese man in wheel chair with dog resting on the top of his blubber like a hood ornament? check. Wear a bikini while walking at 80 years old? sleep on the sidewalk? check check. Here is total 100% self acceptance...it's kind of wonderful. But also so very tiring. 

It makes you want to hide in your high rise with a crossword; that or go to Cuba. 

(Today was some sort of Gay pride festival- or maybe that's what they call Sunday here. In any case, no one does it like Miami Beach. Below a few of my new friends. I told Frederick I think the guy below went to Andover.)

I love imagining what the founding fathers would make of this...

Getting pumped for the PTA meeting

Cosines of a Vector

(this is an old summary from the parents' weekend in October; somehow it didn't get on...Sellman/Wehlen Cuba bonanza this week. The highlights will include, apparently, a stay at a local's house ...(!))

Had a whale of a time at the Academy; met some of Frederick's friends, and met with his advisor who reported all was okey dokey on the eastern front. We went to four out of five of his classes: History (20th century); English (The Taming of the Shrew); math (vector algebra) and Physics (basic mechanics).

The place looked like a children's drawing: bright blue skies; orange trees: white church steeples; red white and blue flags. That is until the rains came...

New Hampshire giveth, and then it rains on you. 

F has a history teacher they call Schwartzie who is the hardest grader he has encountered yet. She has been known to write things on the children's papers like: "this writing is childish"; 

"Impossible premise; you didn't read the book." Or my favorite to a friend's kid: "you are remarkably unremarkable" 

F was handed his worst grade on a paper ever-  and yet he told Andrew this was his surprise favorite class. 

My new obsession is WPEA the Exeter radio station... Kid run and I believe the only one of its kind. This gray haired feminist NPR obsessed taxi driver turned me onto it. She couldn't believe we weren't listening. Basically the kids can play any song or speak about what they want- but unlike most DJs who are frankly what's the word? Idiots... These are not.

One kid was playing songs in pairs and then explaining the pattern. So she plays a haunting, teen-aged angst filled tune, (Medicine by The 1975), followed by an 80s upbeat one called "Jessie's girl". And I'm glued- how is she going to connect the two? 

And in this adorable voice carefully makes her Harkness trained argument. 

F had to explain a point in Math for a very cute girl in cowboy boots... (See below.) I was worried, but he is an old hat at this now, and does not seem distracted by cowboy boots. The teacher was the single most enthusiastic teacher I have ever met. I wish I could have gotten a better picture. 

She looked like a teenage Munster - very pale in a black dress, with long black hair; and so young I didn't realize she was the teacher. But unlike a Munster, she was soooooo joyful. Frederick said she claps her hands with glee over their homework sometimes. 

I went to an early morning presentation on "communicating with your teenager".  I happened to be in the back chatting with my friend, and new fav who went there in the 80s. He and his wife went to a party (that we nerdily declined), the night before and they got rained in. That's right...it was too stormy to get to their hotel. Long story short, his wife was so hungover and under slept, she shoved her husband out the door to attend. I mean really, one parent seemed enough.

God I love her. Not many parents at Exeter blow off a seminar due to dancing. As I told him: you do realize most parents are not here for the dancing?"
Anyway I needed the de brief, so I was only listening with one ear. But with that ear, I heard the kiddies seem to be stressed.  
They read to us anonymous notes from the kids to their parents (!) Here were some of them:  "I'm not going to be going to Harvard (Georgetown, Stanford, fill in the blank) You need to know that."
"it's your dream to be a doctor, not mine"
"Don't worry if i don't call you back right away...I am really really busy. But I love you."

I have a friend who talked to a guy with seven children (four with the first wife, and three with the second). My friend asked him if he had any advice...seeing as how he had done this seven times. The guy actually said: Well yes I do- your children are not your art project to make into the shape you desire. They are their own work of art; separate from you.

I do admit, I wish I could just tell F what to do. I would love to dress him in what I want, change his sheets more than twice a month, and shove five servings of fruits and veggies and a vitamin D pill in his mouth every day. But I can't; he lives 2, 842 miles from my outstretched arms.

So maybe, staying up all night at parents' weekend is the answer- leave the little mounds of clay alone and concentrate on your dancing.
Let's just hope she made the advisor meeting...

F at the board, cute munster at the head; cowboy boot in foreground

don't ask me where they got this...probably shot by some Exonian when Exonians still hunted and wore ties. 

Pysics. The teacher was so unbelievably kind as well.