I’ve never been much of a tourist. From my days residing in the Haight-Ashbury to my thin-air existence in the Colorado Rockies, from my street musician days in North Beach to my current residence under the Hollywood sign (nope, not homeless), I’ve been an objet du tourism more frequently than I’ve been a tourist.

Nothin’ to see here, folks, move along.

Hollywood tourists never listen but the fact is, there has never been a Hollywood beneath the chimeric glitz. Only recently, a succession of mayors have moved to create an iconized Hollywoodland, complete with post-modern film academies, an Oscar theater, and fledgling actors costumed as superheroes.

Developers have begun digging holes in the ground and slinging concrete-and-glass towers skyward. Before that, Hollywood consisted of littered boulevards sporting cheesy, rundown storefronts full of costume jewelry, cheap suits, and memorabilia.

I often take my out-of-town friends to the flatlands of Hollywood, where low, windowless buildings shelter actors, directors, post-prod outfits, and technicians who spin the magic of Hollywood from green screens, pixels and props.

“Here it is, folks,” I say, sweeping an arm along the drab facade of a sound stage or food craft service parking lot. I feel bad for the tourists, vacationing in such a vacuum of glamour.

When I do travel, it’s usually to attend or present at a conference, scribble or teach or at a writers’ workshop, or tour with a band or theater company. Yes, those journeys often involve hard work, stress, and responsibility, but I like to vacation that way —it’s usually companionable (or conflict-ridden, or both) and you get to dig beneath the surface of a new, often-unique community and relate on a quality basis with the locals.

One such vacation still strikes a high note for me. In 1993, our theater company was invited to a Cuban theater festival during a time called el periodo especial. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Cuba was left to fend for itself. As much as the Cubans love American jazz, baseball, cars, and customs, they were forced to depend on trade relations with the cold and distant Soviet Union after the Eisenhower administration established el bloqueo, the blockade.

“Why would we want to trade with the Soviets 10,000 miles away,” Fidel complained, “when we could reach across 90 miles of Caribbean to our American neighbors?” Of course, Fidel was being purposely naïve. He knew why we cut Cuba out of our lives.

We had blockaded Cuba in 1960 after refusing to sell U.S. crude oil to the young revolutionary government. At that point, Cuba was forced to import Soviet crude to keep the island economy afloat and, when American-owned refineries refused to process the commie oil, Cuba was forced to nationalize Yank refineries.

For the U.S. government, it was okay for Cuba to break the mafia’s hold on Havana hookers, gambling, and nightclub fantasy, but — as we have seen more recently in the Middle East — you mess with Yankee petroleum and you mess with The Man… The Big Man…The Very Big Man.

For over thirty years, Cuba and the Soviet Union embraced, until 70 percent of the island’s economy depended on interaction with the Ruskies. When the Great Soviet Socialist Experiment fell to its knees and collapsed, Russia withdrew from Cuba precipitously and completely.

By 1993, Cuba had no petroleum, no paper, no ink or paint, no new vehicles, no manufactured goods. Had it not been for their national health system, they would have had no medicine. During the periodo especial, Cubans in the cities and the countryside often went hungry.

It was at that point that our theater company arrived in Santiago de Cuba for an international theater festival. We were very excited and honored. We were the first American artists to travel to Cuba for nearly two decades. We managed to fit a theatrical stage set into two duffel bags.

Five actors and six musicians stripped down to one piece of luggage and a musical instrument per artist and flew from Miami to Havana to Santiago de Cuba in a swanky Haitian Airlines 727 and a funky wreck of an Aeroflot jet. There were chickens in the overhead compartments and the white mist that ascended from the cracks in the floorboards was described by the implacable flight attendants as aire acondicionado. Many of us held hands during takeoff and landing. Who knows, perhaps some prayed.

In Santiago, we were welcomed with open arms by the Cubans who considered us heroes for defying the anti-Castro wrath of our government. At the time, before the Bush Administration shut every door to Cuban-American relations, we had a State Department license to travel to Cuba to perform, but the Cubans didn’t give a damn. We were heroes… unless we were spies.

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[Read more about our vacacion de periodo especial…]

Charlevoix. For five glorious summers my family stayed at the Scutt Guest House in the resort town on Lake Michigan for a few weeks in August, beginning in 1959. I believe it became quite a well-heeled resort, but at the time it felt cozy and lots of our friends and family from Detroit also made the five hour car ride, so it was fun-in-the-sun and I didn’t understand that we weren’t staying at a posh hotel. Mrs Scutt was a grandmother who had converted closets into bathrooms in her large house and found a way to make guests feel comfortable. She had a grandson my age who sometimes visited and we got along fine, running around in the large backyard during my “leisure” time.

Mornings my father golfed so my mother and I took walks into town. I bought my first Barbie doll in the general store in 1959. The store had wooden floor boards, glass cases; it truly was an old-fashioned five & dime and I loved going in there to look for treasures, my Barbie doll, being the best ever purchased. I still have it. Charlevoix also had Murdick’s fudge, which is a Northern Michigan tradition. Imagine my delight when I discovered the same fudge on Martha’s Vineyard. It seems it was founded by brothers who stopped getting along, so one left Michigan for another resort destination: Martha’s Vineyard, where I now have a home! In 1961 my brother started attending the National Music Camp, an hour away. I missed him terribly (he is five years older than me, but we are close), so mornings was also a time to write postcards to him.

After my father returned from golf, we would oil up and head to the beach. I was slow to learn to swim, so there were inner tubes, rafts, splashing around, “digging to China” (I fell into the hole once and had to be rescued). The water in Lake Michigan is cold, but the last day of our first visit, I finally learned to float! That was an accomplishment. My mother was afraid of the water. Going into the water was always with my father or other kids, who were plentiful on the beach, as was a swing set, slide, and a wonderful barrier wall. The beach was fantastic, full of bronzed bodies and friends.

Evenings, we dressed and went out for nice dinners. I remember tasting duck for the first time at the Gray Gables Inn. On a stormy day we decided to drive to Interlochen, as we couldn’t go to the beach. We got to see my brother in Romeo & Juliet. He was a Capulet servant, but at the age of 10, I fell in love with Romeo & Juliet for good.

The guest house was an interesting place. There were three unmarried sisters who always took the bedrooms on the first floor. We had different rooms on the second floor during our five stays. When my brother stayed with us, we shared a room, adjoining my parent’s room through a bathroom. When I was there without him, I stayed on a cot in my parent’s room. One year, after my brother and I went to bed, we heard a commotion outside our room. Evidently, there was bat loose in the hallway!

Mrs. Scutt hooked rugs made out of rags. She braided the fabric, then hooked it into an oval rug, much like one we had in our family room at home. I would watch, fascinated, so she let me help her, as all the guests gathered in the living room at night, in front of her inviting hearth. I brought my Barbie dolls (after 1959, I had two, and then a Ken doll as well, and lots of clothes. The three sisters thought I was cute.) So I would set up my dolls and she would hook her rug and conversation took place among the guests. Looking back, it all seemed very civilized.

Charlevoix came to be associated with JonBenet Ramsay, the little murdered beauty queen, whose family retreated to their summer home there to escape the press, but for me, it will always be the lovely destination when my family seemed happy and I was also.

William Styron put the finishing touches on Sophie's Choice on this very island.
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