On the Road: Havana

for mylittlebird.com

THE AIR IN HAVANA is sweet on Thursdays, laundry day. The scent of fabric softener from sheets flapping on lines strung across balconies and streets overwhelms the malaise of diesel exhaust from the candy-colored 1950s cars and various claptrap, pasted-together vehicles that tootle about the narrow streets. They are, these cars, just as fantastic as you’ve heard.

If I were to go to Havana again, instead of pants I’d pack a skirt. Something swinging, colorful, sparkling with sequins that would swish along in time to the beat of the streets and catch the sun. Hola! I’d echo the call of the people I met; Trump he loco! which is invariably the second thing said. Si, si, Trump he loco.

They may not have much, but they do have cable TV, Florida stations overdubbed in Spanish, so we non-Spanish speakers  know something important is happening, like Chuck Schumer is weeping, but we’re not sure exactly why. Commercials are untouched, in English, delivered without irony. Cheerios, Crest smiles, Shield your home, the Slomin shield. Dial 1-800-alarm me.
This winter, The Prince and I flew to Havana to celebrate a Rather Large Birthday. His.

Fabulous Finds

for Mylittlebird.com

I’D MUCH RATHER find things than buy them. If I wait long enough, what I want usually appears, though I might not know I want it until it does.

Whatever it is will be lying about in discarded splendor, or given to me (since people know I have a magpie’s delight in cast-offs, the shinier the better,) and would be quite satisfactory or even better than what I might have bought. This is why I rarely buy anything (besides food—I have yet to dumpster-dive for celery and steak).

There are wonderful wrought-iron Alice in Wonderland chairs in the dining room that once belonged to actor John Heard’s mother, Helen, a long-ago friend who gave them to us (please don’t tell her son, he might want to snatch them back).  She also gave us a pen-and-ink drawing of a race horse that may or may not be Important, but that I happen to like.

The chair backs are high ovals with the metalwork knitted into a loose basket weave. They were a tad rusty, which is both good and bad. If your back itches you can rub up against them, which feels good. Doing so in your best cashmere sweater is bad.

The Swedes Invade Georgetown

for mylittlebird.com

THERE’S IKEA, H&M and A Man Called Ove, the best-selling “feel good” novel by Swedish writer Fredrik Backman. And don’t forget hygge, the trendy yet unpronounceable Scandinavian word that covers comfort in food, furnishings and clothes.

Now, enter COS and & Other Stories, higher-end siblings of H&M, flagship of cheap chic, just opened in Georgetown. It’s a Scandinavian invasion.

COS, which has taken over the Benetton store at the corner of Wisconsin and M, NW, wears an air of paranoia entirely suited to today’s DC. No photos please! Any questions go to PR.

One manager, who told us nearly nothing, gave his first name only, and looked nervous about it, so we’ll keep it to ourselves. More forthcoming was a black-clad cool salesman who was too excited about the wares to zip it. Another manager, forehead scrunched into worry lines, asked if the salesman had given his name and when we said no, she said “good. We need clearance from PR.” We just smiled and admitted our disobedience.

The space is dazzling, with large windows, bleached floors and minimalist displays —a few of each item hang from racks with signs telling you to just ask if you don’t see your size or color.
Men’s and women’s clothing are arranged on three levels; for now, kid stuff is only available online or in the brand’s Los Angeles location. There are suits, dresses, shoes and accessories, with the highest price point a suit for $295 and the lowest, $9 for a pair of sparkle socks. The lines are clean and classic, many of the styles are comfortably oversized, at least for women. The menswear runs more to the schoolboy chic look of Thom Browne, on a budget.

Flower Power in Philadelphia!

for mylittlebird.com

Washington continues its march toward the most floriferous spring in memory, with

cherry trees, daffodils, and tulips beginning to bloom, and mock orange, hydrangeas, and

roses leafing out months ahead of schedule.

Usually this unnatural combination of flowers is only visible at the Philadelphia Flower

Show, where city-sized plots manicured by top designers brim with fantasy: Full grown

trees, waterfalls, and ponds, and plants that never bloom together are nurtured to peak in

time for a floral extravaganza.

Each year has a theme. This time it’s Amsterdam, and a “controlled chaos” of flowers,

according to the press release. Wander under a bridge inspired by the Dutch canals and

 decorated with Delft tile, brim-full flower boxes, and hanging baskets, and enter

the centerpiece of the show, a floral canopy of more than 6,000 cut and dried flowers

hovering above thousands of tulips, fritillaria, narcissus, and anemones.

I See A Little Fertilizer in Your Future

For My Little Bird

AMONG THE MANY questions I have never been asked is why there is a small crystal ball suspended from a rather grimy pink string hanging from the broken lamp that occupies a sizable section of my desk.

It is possibly the most useless piece of gardening equipage in my arsenal of gardening implements.

Equipage, by the way, and since I just double-checked with Encarta, means:  “The equipment and supplies needed for an undertaking, especially a military expedition.”

Which about sums up gardening tools, yes?

The crystal is supposed to sense the plant’s desires, the which way it wants to nestle into the pot or the earth. The “do I need water or not.”  The hunger for an 8-0-24 or 10-10-10 fertilizer.

All you need to do is hold the string (allowing enough string for it to dangle freely) with a weight suspended (I use a crystal since I happen to have such things handy, but anything with just enough heft to keep the string taut will do) between thumb and forefinger above whichever plant is troubling you.

Green Acre Lucky #13: From Trash to Treasure

for MYLITTLEBIRD.COM

SOMETIMES, AND BY THIS I mean almost daily,  the design pages of the New York Times provoke me to scream, Are you out of your minds!?

And I say this fondly, being an ex-New Yorker, born and raised and schooled and—to demonstrate my street cred—once able to tell at a glance a real Gucci bit on a shoe from a knock-off, and consider this essential information.

I am looking at a planter by designer Huy Bui, who wears what might impolitely be called a shit-eating grin in the photo that accompanies the interview, as well he should. It’s really a terrarium and it’s constructed of oak strips that you mount yourself, “like Lego blocks,” he says, on a charred wood base, whatever that is. Part of his “Homemade Collection,” it can sit on your tabletop for $850.

I think, I’m in fact sure, the parts for something like this are lurking in our garage, or possibly the basement. Maybe the attic.

For your outdoor space, Mr. Bui suggests various planters, including one with “deep asymmetrical ripples,” called the Babylon. Designed by Harry and Camila for Dedon, “it comes in four sizes, the largest more than three feet tall—ideal for a tree.” It costs $1,385 and is made of polyethylene.

Green Acre: Have a Finger? Grow a Plant!

JULY 6, 2016

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For mylittlebird.com

Tradescantia pallid. / Above and cover photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

I JUST FLIPPED through 42 Googlets on the care, feeding and propagation of spiderwort—or, as my Jewish grandmother called it, wandering jew. This is the plant least likely to require any instructions whatsoever.

I have been growing tradescantia pallida (as it’s more haughtily called) since 1972, or thereabouts, when Stan and Betty Gottlieb gave me a sprig snipped on a trip to Jamaica or Trinidad or Aruba. I stuck it in one of the many potted avocado plants that lined the windowsill of the New York apartment I shared with my husband once removed (the Pre-Prince), and it grew.

Avocado plants raised from pits (stick a couple of toothpicks into the sides and balance on a glass of water until roots emerge) do not usually fruit, at least in northern climes. They are useful as screens, however, in this case softening an unglamorous view of Columbus Avenue (except when Robert Redford, in all his Butch Cassidy glory, was playing tennis across the street). They are also fine starter plants for budding gardeners since the process is so stupidly simple.