Political Asylum — September 13, 2012, 2:03 pm

Ybor Stories

“There was music in the cafés at night/ And revolution in the air . . .”—Bob Dylan
Some may conclude from reading this blog that I believe downtown Tampa to be a soulless, sun-blasted hellhole made up of little besides empty sidewalks, endless parking lots, and sterile glass boxes. Some would be right. But there are many other parts of the Tampa Bay area that have real style and character. My own favorite is Ybor City, which was where Jack and I stayed during our sole- and soul-blistering trip to the Republican National Convention.

Despite the name, Ybor is not a separate city, but an old neighborhood northeast of Tampa’s Saharan downtown. Teddy Roosevelt and his Roughriders camped hereabouts during the Spanish–American War, prior to embarkation for Cuba. The place was already a small but growing cigar-making village, filling up with Cuban, Italian, and Spanish immigrants, along with smatterings of Chinese, Germans, and Romanian Jewish shopkeepers—the most diverse community in Florida. The cigar-rollers wrapped up as many as 500 million stogies in a year, living in company shotgun shacks, hiring professional readers to read to them from newspapers and books while they worked.

The cigar industry and Ybor began to decline as far back as the Great Depression, as you can see from some of the scenic ruins I’ve photographed here. But as you can also see, many people have refurbished and personalized the old cigar-roller shacks, making them into terrific little homes. Aging biker bars, tattoo parlors, groceries, and lively new cafés and restaurants co-exist peaceably in the picturesque brick storefronts and under the loggias along Seventh Avenue, Ybor’s main street.

Since the 1980s, a motley collection of artists, bikers, musicians, and the generally irascible have been slowly reclaiming and rehabilitating Ybor. The scene here is wonderfully laid back and tolerant. My fabulous cousins and their friends, with whom we stayed, can make a living doing things like tending bar, hostessing, waiting tables, and cooking, while pursuing every possible sort of artistic endeavor on their own—painting skateboards and making sculptures out of bikes, inking tats and belly dancing, starting theater companies and burlesque troupes.

Every day, they took us around the Tampa Bay area for amazing food of every variety, thanks to their restaurant jobs and connections. (My personal favorites: Bernini’s and Samurai Blue in downtown Ybor; Samba and Ciro’s Speakeasy, both in Hyde Park.) At night, after tending to the writing and the speechifying, we would drink, and talk, and play pool deep into the night at Seventh Avenue bars with names like The Dirty Shame and The Boneyard.

Yet for all the hip nightlife, Ybor City is still part of a working port, with enormous container ships anchored at its docks. By day, huge tanker trucks and eighteen-wheelers roll through the streets, while freight trains barrel through downtown at all hours. Late one morning, punchy from hours of writing, I sat out on the little porch of my cousin’s boyfriend’s house in the staggering heat, breakfasting on half a leftover Cuban sandwich, listening to the train whistles blowing and feeling deliriously happy.

I fear that, with the end of the recession, Ybor as presently constituted will last about two minutes. Developers will likely snap up its lots and its little homes, gentrify and touristize its bars and restaurants, replace its smoke shops and tat parlors with galleries full of cheesy paintings. Already, high glass condos are sneaking in around the edges.

Yuppies follow the artists in today’s America, and Ybor is full of artists, if not always of the traditional variety. They remind me of my terrific niece, Zoë, already an accomplished poetess, who is out in Las Vegas trying to help preserve parts of that city, while taking photographs of its beautiful old signs before they vanish. I told her frankly that I didn’t know if Las Vegas could be saved—but to her infinite credit, she answered my pessimistic critique by replying, “I don’t think worrying whether America is dying will really help anyone.”

Well said. Zoë, my cousins Chris and Alana, Durke, whose home we stayed at, and all their friends and family—these people are the future. They are making a way where there is no way. Inventing new means of making a living where so many of the old ones have vanished. To spend some time with them is about the best antidote I know to having to listen to today’s American elite and their hand-bought representatives, telling endless lies to each other behind their barbed-wire and steel-berm perimeters, manned by their hordes of officious security personnel.

Ybor City is where it’s at.

Share
Single Page
undefined

More from Kevin Baker:

From the January 2020 issue

On Courage

From the November 2019 issue

Whiteout

Get access to 169 years of
Harper’s for only $23.99

United States Canada

CATEGORIES

THE CURRENT ISSUE

March 2020

Out of Africa

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Waiting for the End of the World

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

In Harm’s Way

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The Fifth Step

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

A View to a Krill

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The Old Normal

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

view Table Content

FEATURED ON HARPERS.ORG

Article
The Old Normal·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Addressing the graduating cadets at West Point in May 1942, General George C. Marshall, then the Army chief of staff, reduced the nation’s purpose in the global war it had recently joined to a single emphatic sentence. “We are determined,” he remarked, “that before the sun sets on this terrible struggle, our flag will be recognized throughout the world as a symbol of freedom on the one hand and of overwhelming force on the other.”

At the time Marshall spoke, mere months after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, U.S. forces had sustained a string of painful setbacks and had yet to win a major battle. Eventual victory over Japan and Germany seemed anything but assured. Yet Marshall was already looking beyond the immediate challenges to define what that victory, when ultimately— and, in his view, inevitably—achieved, was going to signify.

This second world war of the twentieth century, Marshall understood, was going to be immense and immensely destructive. But if vast in scope, it would be limited in duration. The sun would set; the war would end. Today no such expectation exists. Marshall’s successors have come to view armed conflict as an open-ended proposition. The alarming turn in U.S.–Iranian relations is another reminder that war has become normal for the United States.

Article
Waiting for the End of the World·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

1.

A man is to carry himself in the presence of all opposition, as if every thing were titular and ephemeral but he.

I rose long before dawn, too thrilled to sleep, and set off to find my tribe. North from Greenville in the dark, past towns with names like Sans Souci and Travelers Rest, over the border into North Carolina, through land so choked by kudzu that the overgrown trees in the dark looked like great creatures petrified in mid-flight. The weirdness of this scene would, by the end of the weekend, show itself to be appropriate: my trip would be all about romanticism, and romanticism is a human collision with place that results, as Baudelaire put it, “neither in choice of subject nor exact truth, but in a way of feeling.” My rental car’s engine whined as it climbed the mountains. Day was just breaking when I nosed down a hill to Orchard Lake Campground, where tents were still being erected in the dimness.

Article
The Fifth Step·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Harold Jamieson, once chief engineer of New York City’s sanitation department, enjoyed retirement. He knew from his small circle of friends that some didn’t, so he considered himself lucky. He had an acre of garden in Queens that he shared with several like-minded horticulturists, he had discovered Netflix, and he was making inroads in the books he’d always meant to read. He still missed his wife—a victim of breast cancer five years previous—but aside from that persistent ache, his life was quite full. Before rising every morning, he reminded himself to enjoy the day. At sixty-eight, he liked to think he had a fair amount of road left, but there was no denying it had begun to narrow.

The best part of those days—assuming it wasn’t raining, snowing, or too cold—was the nine-block walk to Central Park after breakfast. Although he carried a cell phone and used an electronic tablet (had grown dependent on it, in fact), he still preferred the print version of the Times. In the park, he would settle on his favorite bench and spend an hour with it, reading the sections back to front, telling himself he was progressing from the sublime to the ridiculous.

Article
Out of Africa·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

1. In 2014, Deepti Gurdasani, a genetic epidemiologist at the Wellcome Sanger Institute in England, coauthored a paper in Nature on human genetic variation in Africa, from which this image is taken. A recent study had found that DNA from people of European descent made up 96 percent of genetic samples worldwide, reflecting the historical tendency among scientists and doctors to view the male, European body as a global archetype. “There wasn’t very much data available from Africa at all,” Gurdasani told me. To help rectify the imbalance, her research team collected samples from eighteen African ethnolinguistic groups across the continent—such as the Kalenjin of Uganda and the Oromo of Ethiopia—most of whom had not previously been included in genomic research. They analyzed the data using an admixture algorithm, which visualizes the statistical genetic differences among groups by representing them as color clusters. The top chart shows genetic differences among the sampled African populations, in increasing degrees of granularity from top to bottom, and the bottom chart shows how they compare with ethnic groups in the rest of the world. The areas where the colors mix and overlap imply that groups commingled. The Yoruba, for instance, show remarkable homogeneity—their column is almost entirely green and purple—while the Kalenjin seem to have associated with many populations across the continent.

Article
In Harm’s Way·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Ten yards was the nearest we could get to the river. Any closer and the smell was too much to bear. The water was a milky gray color, as if mixed with ashes, and the passage of floating trash was ceaseless. Plastic bags and bottles, coffee lids, yogurt cups, flip-flops, and sodden stuffed animals drifted past, coated in yellow scum. Amid the old tires and mattresses dumped on the riverbank, mounds of rank green weeds gave refuge to birds and grasshoppers, which didn’t seem bothered by the fecal stench.

El Río de los Remedios, or the River of Remedies, runs through the city of Ecatepec, a densely populated satellite of Mexico City. Confined mostly to concrete channels, the river serves as the main drainage line for the vast monochrome barrios that surround the capital. That day, I was standing on a stretch of the canal just north of Ecatepec, with a twenty-three-year-old photographer named Reyna Leynez. Reyna was the one who’d told me about the place and what it represents. This ruined river, this open sewer, is said to be one of the largest mass graves in Mexico.

Cost of renting a giant panda from the Chinese government, per day:

$1,500

A recent earthquake in Chile was found to have shifted the city of Concepción ten feet to the west, shortened Earth’s days by 1.26 microseconds, and shifted the planet’s axis by nearly three inches.

The commissioner of CPB admitted that “leadership just got a little overzealous” when detaining hundreds of U.S. citizens of Iranian descent in the wake of Qassem Soleimani’s assassination.

Subscribe to the Weekly Review newsletter. Don’t worry, we won’t sell your email address!

HARPER’S FINEST

Jesus Plus Nothing

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

By

At Ivanwald, men learn to be leaders by loving their leaders. “They’re so busy loving us,” a brother once explained to me, “but who’s loving them?” We were. The brothers each paid $400 per month for room and board, but we were also the caretakers of The Cedars, cleaning its gutters, mowing its lawns, whacking weeds and blowing leaves and sanding. And we were called to serve on Tuesday mornings, when The Cedars hosted a regular prayer breakfast typically presided over by Ed Meese, the former attorney general. Each week the breakfast brought together a rotating group of ambassadors, businessmen, and American politicians. Three of Ivanwald’s brothers also attended, wearing crisp shirts starched just for the occasion; one would sit at the table while the other two poured coffee. 

Subscribe Today