Susan Rubin is my favorite aunt, and she’s FABulous. MFA has always been this way. She calls me her first born. Ever since I was a kid, she caught my attention. The globetrotter. The ringleader, bringing the family together with my uncle Mark, whether for sacred Passover seder on their Grove apartment balcony or down by the pool for a shlepy Sunday barbecue. And those were the festivities on the home front. Away, it was Snowmass at the ski-in, ski-out condo she’d arrange each winter, in front of the fireplace we’d gather after a day on the slopes – or in Susan’s case, shopping! – cooking dinner, being a family. Our family. The George Cinq? I was welcome of course! Crashed on the floor. But what a floor it was. And those photos of the giraffes and lions, the printed kind, from far away lands and framed on her wall, a tribal fertility figure holding court on the floor below. That’s my Susan. The memories flock, triangulate in layers behind her wings, spread as if guided by some invisible force fixed to the horizon. My blood like hers runs thick with wanderlust. It will always connect us. The thing is, it’s only part of why I love her so.
This past weekend a few of us gathered in Nicaragua at a magical place called Mukul Resort to celebrate her 75th birthday, and what a trip it was. We sipped Flor de Cana 25 yr in a tiny room, with wicker chairs for her and boyfriend Howard, passed out on hammocks on Manzanilla Beach while storms passed through with enterprising surfers in tow, dined by candlelight illuminating photos meticulously curated by cousin Stacie… And laughed and laughed. Hiking with cousin David, biking with Mom, the agony of World Cup defeat and the exhilaration of soccer pick up games, ages 9 to 33 welcome. And did I mention hot meals on both my internet-booked flights?! More memories, all love, and forever traveling her way. Always my Susan.