My swing through Latin America then continued with stops in Lima, Bogotá, Caracas and finally Mexico City, after which I headed to New York to spend Christmas with my family.
In Peru I was introduced to the pisco sour, but the pickings for Variety were few though we were entertained in the homes of two of the country’s leading producers. It was while I was in Lima, on November 20, that in far-off Madrid General Franco died, aged 82, ending his decades-long dictatorship. Already before I left Madrid he had been ailing and was in and out of hospitals for three separate operations. Since I would not return to Madrid until January, I missed out on the impressive funeral held in the Palacio de Oriente where up to a half million mourners passed the Caudillo’s coffin to pay their respects. and Juan Carlos was pronounced King.
In Bogotá, due to the high altitude, I had to rest in the lobby of the Tequendama hotel to catch my breath. In my room, next to the telephone, I found a card listing the medical services available 24 hours a day, complete with the rates for taking blood pressure, intravenous shots, nursing services in the hotel and oxygen.
In Caracas I spent a long boring weekend sitting around the Tamanaco hotel swimming pool, waiting for Monday to arrive; and in Mexico I booked into a hotel called the Fiesta Palace and came down with a terrible cold. All I remember is that for some reason there was a pervasive odor of gasoline in the bedroom. On subsequent trips I learned to lodge in the Hotel Presidente, located in the pseudo-European Zona Rosa. Near the hotel was a street lined with al fresco restaurants as well as a New York style delicatessen where I could help kill the Sundays reading a Victorian novel and munching on a pastrami sandwich. I toured some of the tourist sights including the Chapultepec Palace where Carlota and Maximilian once romped. Variety did have a correspondent in Mexico, named Sam Abarbanel, a crusty, haggard expatriate who was only minimally helpful and forthcoming. In later years I was able to appoint a lively, ingratiating stringer named Paul Lenti who filed excellent copy from the Aztec capital.
In the “Distrito Federal” I soon learned not to rely on the Beetle taxis to get around the city, since they were almost impossible to find free during rush hours, being so cheap. Instead I hired a chauffeur-driven limo outside the hotel, paid for by the hour, that took me the considerable distances to visit the film and television offices scattered around the sprawling metropolis. These included the Churubusco film studios, the Televisa and the government TV channel and a dubbing studio. Despite the eternally mild, polluted atmosphere, it was clear that the Yuletide season was upon us, for the supermarkets and malls were already decked out with Christmas decorations, which seemed rather jarring given the mild temperature.
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Then, after having spent the holidays in New York, in early January I embarked on a separate week-long trip to visit Miami and Puerto Rico, realizing that the coverage of the Hispanic scene must also include those two centers of Latino film and television, mostly the latter.