How you love is who you are.

I sit here having completed a 10-page paper (written in Spanish) that was one of the most difficult I've ever had to write, complexity-wise. The process was made infinitely more challenging by my constant desire to procrastinate as much as possible.

During this ordeal, one thing got me through. The gang, having the same daunting task to do, started sending messages back and forth on facebook to each other, creating a thread discussion. The grand total amount of messages? 249.

This leads me to say how much I've learned and loved during my three months in Cuba. Now over a week after returning to the States, I'm finally attempting to write in this without bursting into tears (as I've done quite often since leaving that amazing island).

In an attempt to capture at least a small amount of the most incredible experience of my life, I will try to make a list of things that I have learned:

1. All you need is love. It's true, and the Cubans prove it every day.

2. Fashion's nothing without individuality. Burn your fashion magazines and wear whatever the hell you want. Just rock it with confidence, and that's all that matters. People in the States have infinite amounts of choices in what they buy, yet they all end up looking the same because they're afraid to stray from what's "in." Don't ever be afraid to wear what you want. I once saw a woman in Central Havana rockin' a t-shirt as a skirt, sleeves and all. And damn, did she rock it.

3. Peanut butter is a life-sustaining force.

4. It's no better to be safe than sorry. I mean this the most regarding relationships. A very wise man told me "se necesita dar amor para recibir amor" and it's true. And not just on the romantic level - Cubans are always willing to meet someone new and open up their hearts. There's none of that wondering whether or not to say hello to someone. You say hello, and you value that person because they are part of your life if you want them to be, and that is the most important thing. Your life is only as big as the people you let into it.

5. Some things simply don't matter. Awkward moments? Laugh them off. Mold on your bread? Eat around it. Ants in your bed? They won't kill you. Clothes don't match? See lesson #2. Tough day? Grab some rum, throw on some music, and forget about it. And don't forget about lesson #1.

6. Everyone is beautiful. It sounds cheesy, I know, but it's true. Much like with fashion, we Americans have been brainwashed to think that there's only one kind of beauty. And I know we deny it, but we're afraid of ourselves. We're afraid of our imperfections. You do not need to have a flat stomach to wear a form-fitting t-shirt. You do not have to obsess over cellulite. No one is perfect, so why hide what makes us unique?

7. Every day has the potential to be an adventure if you let it be one. Meet people, love people, and put yourself out there. It's the only way to have a day that you'll remember.

8. Titles don't matter. Communism, capitalism, spanish, english, white, black, american, rich, poor, educated, not. Really. The quicker we stop thinking in terms of what people are and focus on who they are, the quicker things get a whole lot better. And don't believe everything you're told. Question everything, but don't stop trusting people.

9. Don't listen to "La vida es un ratico" by Juanes if you're not in the mood to get sentimental.

10. La vida es sola una. Also told to us by a very wise man. It may be cliché, but it's important to remember that you only live once, so you best enjoy it. There's no reason to be afraid of doing the things you want to do. There's no reason not to be honest with someone that's important to you. There's no reason not to let someone be important to you. If you want live your life, take a risk, and try something. Move to a different country. Reject stereotypes. Figure out the truth for yourself. Be more than just alive; live.

Cuba is more than just an island, and anyone who's gotten to know it realizes that. It will break your heart, but it will give you the determination to put it back together again.

It's made an entire guagua full of college kids cry hysterically the whole way to the José Martí airport, but, more importantly, it's shown those same kids how to love stronger than they ever knew possible.

And what more could you need?

A Special Moment Between Educator and Student

Background: Our Siglo XXI (21st Century) class has two papers. One was due about a month ago, and one is due tomorrow. A few weeks ago we had received some feedback from Profe regarding our first papers, but no grade. Stating that said grades are "in his head," he promised to give them to us soon. A few days ago, still having not received the grades, Chelsea and Danny asked him about it, as they wished to know the paper #1 grades before beginning to write paper #2. He said that we would get them before the second paper is due. Tomorrow it is due, and we have not received the grades.

This afternoon the group went to the Hemingway House museum which was lovely. On the bus on the way there, I asked Profe about the paper situation. This was our conversation:

Me: Profe, when will we be getting our paper grades for Siglo?
Profe: CHILL, okay?
Me: [shocked] What?
Profe: Just chill.
Me: I am chill. I'm only wondering because the next one is due tomorrow, right?
Profe: Right.
Me: I just don't want to start that one until I have the grade for this one. I've gathered all my sources for it, but I haven't begun writing it because of that.
Profe: Right.
Me: So when are we going to get them?
Profe: [now yelling so the whole bus can hear, though they were all listening before anyway] Look, you'll get them when you GET THEM, OKAY?
Me: [too angry to continue the conversation] Okay.

I've never felt so disrespected by a professor before. I merely wanted to know WHEN we would get our grades so that I could assess my performance on the first paper before starting to write the second one. To be immediately answered with such hostility and defense is not only uncalled for, but entirely inappropriate.

This evening, the group received an email from Profe with the following final line: "Grades will be sent out tomorrow for you Paper #1 but that should not keep you from doing your second paper." What does this mean? "I haven't done what I promised to do, but don't let that stop you from doing what you're supposed to do, therefore ignoring my incompetence."

The Gang Flies in an Airplane

This weekend was time for the schedule group trip to Santiago de Cuba. A province down the other end of the island, we had to take a plane there. Exciting stuff.

Also exciting was that we got to go to Guantanamo. The city was rather unremarkable, though it was interesting to ruminate on the possible terrristz that were caged about ten miles away. Interesting. We weren't allowed to see the base (even from across the river) because of security reasons. Word on the street is that too many Cubans were swimming across the river to get to the base so that they were on US soil, so that made them cut back on tourist-viewing fun.

The bus ride to and from was absolutely stunning, however. I've never seen such beautiful land.


Fun things about the city/province of Santiago de Cuba:
1. Hot, hot sun. A lot hotter than in Havana. A lot further south.
2. Annoying, annoying men. A lot more annoying than in Havana. A lot more obnoxious.
3. Decent, decent cheese. A lot more decent than in Havana. A lot more edible.

Beyond that, the only event I felt the need to chronicle in my trusty moleskin(e) was the airport fun surrounding our return to Havana on Sunday. The following will be copied from said location.

Arriving at the Anthony Maceo airport in Santiago de Cuba at 3:00 pm, we checked the sreen of the flight times, seeing that ours had been changed from 5:00 to 6:10. Profe muttered something about how the flight time had changed from 5:30 to 5. Okay.

I find out a bit later (removed from Profe's earshot) that the airline had called him last Monday or Tuesday to tell him about the change to 5:00. He neglected to call after that to make sure all was the same. He didn't confirm a Sunday Cuban flight's time for at least five days before it occurred (and only did so then because THEY had called HIM).

It's now eight minutes of 5:00 and we've sat on the curb for an hour, checked in our bags, sat on the floor for a while, went through security, and I wrote this. Throughout said activities one - no, two - things have not occurred: 1. Profe has not admitted his mistake, rather saying that the change in time was sudden and unexpected. 2. I have only become more angry.

Time to read some Catch-22 for a bit.

--

A while later we noticed that our flight had disappeared from the flight list. We asked Profe if he knew what was going on. He did not know what was going on. Finally, upon coercion, he took a walk around the waiting area. He then asked the security guys if they knew anything about the flight. They did not (because they are security). Reaching the conclusion that it's probably because the flight is delayed, he sits down in his chair and takes the nap in an odd vertical fetal position.

Asking him to figure things out again, he finds no information. Courtney then decides to ask the airport people if they know anything. She finds out that our plane had left Haiti (its previous location) and should be arriving within the hour. We would probably be boarding around 8:00. Yes, the professor who is in charge of us all (or is being paid to be so) and is fluent in Spanish, and has traveled in Cuba many times, was not able to retrieve the information that Courtney, a 21-year-old student still learning Spanish, could get.

The following are notes from the rest of the evening:

7:13
"We are the world, We are the children" music video is now playing on TV above our heads. Leonard (Dr. Brown) yells, two times, "It's Michael Jackson! Back when he was still black!"

7:16
No flights on the board.

7:18
Cubana flight se fue (this was a different flight to Havana scheduled to leave at 7:15). Still no flights on the screen. European boy whose outfit has orange highlights (orange underwear showing slightly, an orange arm patch, and an orange tote bag) is now drinking a refresco naranja.

7:21
On the TV the third Shakira music video in the past hour is now playing.

7:22
A man in all gray has a José Martí mustache. Is he made of marble?!

7:25
Dancing and snapping to the beat of a Cuban folk song that's playing has led to concerned stares from at least five European tourists.

7:25
Cubana flight leaves gate.

7:28
Profe notices Cubana flight's absence, and announces this, standing up with a flourish.

7:30
An awkward, overweight European tourist in a tie-dye t-shirt is staring at me as he absent-mindedly bumps his large body against the bar along to the beat of the music playing.

7:30
"That's supposed to be our plane and that other one's already left so [hands waving] yeh know..." - Profe, referring to a white, unidentified plane which he speculated to be CIA, joking about this twice

7:34
Britney Spears' "Toxic" is now on the TV. We moved to a different seats for a better view. Singing along. Evil stares from European tourists.

7:38
Shakira video number four.

7:43
Ricky Martin's "Maria" video is on. Awkward chair dancing commences. Euro tourists continue to drown in their own misery.

7:46
Marc Anthony. Eh. Once again reminding us that everyone else gets Marc Anthony but Americans. Make it stop.

7:49
Door rustling. OUR MOMENT?!?! Profe's bag is ON.

7:50
Chels confirmed that it's our flight.

8:00
Went pee. Returned from the bathroom to find no progress. Profe's bag is on and his cane is in one hand.

8:07
Eagles' "Hotel California" on now. Euro tourists are slightly less pained.

--

9:09
Just served soda on the flight. Seating is as follows: Six seats, three facing the other three. Two tourists and Profe sit on one side. Steph, Danny and I sit on the other.

I write this whilst balancing my notebook, napkin, muffin, water, purse, and soda on my lap and the seat. Directly facing someone means:
1. No leg room
2. Awkward eye contact every time you look up
3. No pocket/tray on the seat in front of you
4. Nowhere even to put your purse

The French man across from me is reading a novel, has a white scarf on, white linen pants, and a black button-up short-sleeved shirt. His legs keep extending to under my seat. He slightly resembles Kurt Vonnegut in facial features, and has a smoker's cough. At the moment, I dislike him immensely, though in reality I'm rather fond of him. He has a mole on his left cheek and another on the right side of his forehead. These are things one learns about a stranger she's staring at for a couple hours.

The woman next to him has tan linen pants, a jean jacket, and the face of a conservative mother of three boys. We have made eye contact at least nine times. I wonder if she does have three boys. I suppose I could ask her, but I don't know French. Her hair is short, but not too short. Her hands are very feminine. She is napping right now.

--

Thus concludes the airport/airplane narration. Exciting, exciting stuff. We ended up getting home around 11:30 and were greeted with enthusiastic hugs from Maria and dinner on the table waiting (even though we told her not to).

The internet is being exceptionally slow this evening, so I cannot add pictures at the moment. I will make sure to add them later for the greatest reading experience.

The Gang Goes American: Part 2

When at the US Interest Section, the person behind the dark glass invited us to the US Marines' house in Miramar for their St. Patrick's Day party that night. The thought of such an event had such potential for hilarity, we tossed all other plans aside and added that to the ol' Cuban palmpilot (a piece of paper in one's pocket).

The woman we were standing with at the Interest Section told us the address of the house, and then said that it would be easy to find "because it's the only one in the area with concrete walls and barbed wall around it. It's very safe." As we walked out of the building, Steph turned to me and said, "Is the barbed wire to keep people out, or to keep them in?" I had no answer to that one.

Sporting our most festive green shirts, the group took a cab out to Miramar and, sure enough, the concrete and barbed wire came into view. "Yeah, we're going there," Chelsea said to the cab driver. He pulled over the cab, and chuckled at us. Apparently this was a unique destination.

When we walked in (and signed in with security) the first area that we reached was a patch of grassy area and a pool. We then gravitated to the bar area where some of the younger (non-family) crowd was. The staff sergeant (whose name I do not remember) made sure to first corner us and announce that the drinking age is 21 and over. "Are you all 21?" he asked. Everyone nodded their heads except for me, as I was the closest one to him and couldn't see what everyone behind me was doing. "You? You 21?" he said to me specifically. "Oh, yes. Yes I am." I answered. Not that drinking was that important, but the principle of the situation required that answer. We ain't in America, honey.

Later, we went and sat out at one of the tables and started chatting with a couple of the Marines. The conversation began to divide in two, and at a moment I didn't hear, one of them asked Steph, "How do you find communism?"

He's been in Cuba for more time than us, but that's what he asked. Scary.

I was chatting with a different Marine. His name was Chris, and he went to a private Catholic high school in Michigan. He was the person in the booth earlier that day, and admitted that he was bored and decided to go through our passports during our meeting. "So we all knew who you were before you got here," he said. I wasn't quite sure what to say in response to that.

Later on, the conversation moved to the Cubans who ask for money on the street. I said to him that I can never find it in my heart to deny someone a CUC if it means that they will eat for a couple days, especially when an amount of money that small means so little to me. "I actually pride myself on not having given any money to anyone since I've been here," he said. "So many are just scamming you." That's when I said that sure, some may be scamming, but the majority of the time if someone is at the point where they're asking for money on the street, they're really, really hungry. And they look hungry. And even the Cubans who don't look hungry are hungry. "Yeah, well, I feel like I already help people so much, you know? It's like I can't give any more of myself," he said, sitting back with his beer. He then made a comment about the Cuban government starving the people.

"Well, it's not like the US is helping very much either," I said. "In fact, the US is the majority of the problem in that respect."
"Oh really? What do you mean?" he asked in response, trying to ask casually yet not reveal that he was completely clueless.
"Well, the embargo, for one. The US is keeping these people from getting the food and the medicine they need to survive. They're strangling these people in order to get to the government."
"Huh," he said. Then he started talking about how large the Russian embassy is (and of course it is - it was the USSR embassy). He was then saying that we have no idea what's going on, and what the Cuban government is doing with the Russians, and that the government is always watching us because we're Americans. "The Cuban government's so good, sometimes we don't even know what they're doing, but they're always doing something."

By the end of our discussion I was getting angry, and was at my wits end saying, "Do you even know what the Helms-Burton Bill is?! Do you even understand any of this?"

No, they don't. The US Marines are stationed in Cuba and are not allowed to talk to Cubans. Their only job is to sit behind a box of dark glass with a bumper sticker on the front. They have never talked to Cubans, and therefore they do not know anything about Cuba. At one point, one of them said that they have had the same Cuban maid for a year, "And I'm sure she's picked up some English by now," he said. "She must be an informant for the government." None of the Marines except for the Staff Sergeant knew Spanish, so they couldn't really talk to Cubans if they wanted to. Instead they stay inside their cement box and continue to believe the lies that they've been told. The officials at the US Interest Section live similarly.

Conclusion: The only US officials that are in Cuba are not allowed to know what Cuba is like. They influence the US/Cuban policies that affect millions of people in both countries, most critically the Cuban people.

I wish I could express this more eloquently, but at the moment I can't find a way. The situation is relatively simple, however: how can the US and Cuba move forward if the people in charge don't know what's going on? Or, more terrifyingly, they THINK they know what is going on, but have no idea. The Marines we talked to tried to tell us that we were wrong about things that we know first-hand. This, to me, is the scariest part of it all. Cubans' lives are depending on these people, and the Americans are letting them down by reducing them to stereotypes.

The Gang Goes American: Part 1

Friday, the thirteenth day of March, was a day of such oddities that one must always remember that in Cuba, the day you've planned when you woke up could be drastically different by the time you go to bed. This is one of the many reasons to love Cuba.

Let us begin.

The US Interest Section is a large building in the middle of the strip along the malecón. Heavy security surrounds the building, and one is not allowed to walk on that side of the street. To stroll down the other side of the street usually grants you an oh-so-sneaky security man following you. They don't bother you, though, so it's really not a big deal. It's just very, very odd.

The US embassy was built in 1953. Standing tall along the malecón, its prime location is quite unlike the other embassies seen dispersed throughout Vedado and Miramar, mostly occupying old mansions left abandoned by their owners during the revolution. Why does the US have this building? It was built before the revolution. It was built during the time that the Americans had their puppet dictator in power (Batista) and Cuba was their playground.

After abandoning the building for a time, the US embassy is now known as the US Interest Section, technically a part of the Swiss Embassy. (The Cuban Interest Section in America is the same way, being a part of the Swiss'.) The security surrounding the building is from the Cuban SEPSA crew (as, I believe, all embassy securities are) and some of the floors of the building are occupied by Cuban officials.

Why do I tell you all this? Well, the gang got to visit. It took some planning on Dr. B's part, but it was a go.

Passports in hand, we were headed to America.

The security was rather excessive, but soon we were all in the building, greeted by American flags, granite floors, and a dark booth with someone inside, a Semper Fi bumper sticker on the glass.

We were brought into a conference room and introduced to a couple fine folks who work there, and were allowed to ask some questions. We learned a bit.
1. The staff of the US Interest Section influences US policy on Cuban/American relations. They are not allowed to talk to the Cuban government, however. All info they receive is through other people who have talked to them (reporters, other embassies, etc.). Scary. That means that everything they know about Cubans they can mold into their own stereotypes. Very Scary.
2. We were told to leave fashion magazines behind with us when we leave Cuba in order to show them the outside world. This was another scary indication that these people know absolutely nothing about Cubans. They're not dumb. A fashion magazine is nothing but an ode to consumerism, and does nothing more than say, "Hey, look at all these things that you don't need and never will have because you don't need them."
3. The embargo only "impacts some shipping" and "only means that a country can't trade with Cuba and the US on the same trip." Direct quotes there. Yes, he said that the Helms-Burton Bill only impacts SOME shipping. And if you were a country, would you choose to trade with the tiny island of Cuba, or the largest consumer nation in the world?
4. The US claims to be "fairly generous on the humanitarian side," though gives "no direct assistance to the government." If the American government were such humanitarians, why wouldn't they lift the embargo and let these people get the medicine and food that they need?
5. During the Special Period (the time after the Soviet Union fell and the Cubans had nothing... they were living on practically cole slaw for a few years) the US decided to tighten the embargo in order to try to kill off the Castro regime. Yes, the Americans starved the Cuban people (even more than they usually have over the past fifty years) when they knew that they had barely any food supply. Oh, such humanitarians they are.

Slightly shell-shocked from all this, we decided to drown our sorrows in french fries and rather-edible pizza at Tal Vez.

Then we met up with Casa worker Felix (the cat) and had a tour of the University of Havana. That was fun.

Then Steph and I decided to explore the area on our own, and we saw a fantastic student group that required all of them to wear these lime green trucker hats. We wanted these trucker hats. We could not have these trucker hats. We were sad.

About to leave the campus, we talked to a skinny little man who is a professor of English at the university; he heard us speaking in English and ran over. He asked us what a lug-nut was, saying that the word occurred several times in a novel he was reading, and he could not find a definition for it anywhere. After giving him a vague explanation, he thanked us, saying that previously he was almost positive that it was an article of clothing.

Still grieving the trucker hat incident, Steph and I found ourselves back at Tal Vez for milkshakes (well, I got a milkshake and she got a lima limón). After receiving our beverages, two young men walked in and sat down at a nearby table. Obviously tourists from the attached hotel, they Both got cokes, and one of them slumped down on the table. This same one walked to the bathroom, reaching to remove his t-shirt even before getting to the door.

Fast forward an hour, and Steph and I had enjoyed a spectacle of five security officers, six or so restaurant workers, a maid, and a nurse running in and out of the bathroom in varied states of frenzy, amusement, and disgust. At one point, one of the waiters came out to the bar to get a glass of water to bring to the crime scene. He soon returned from the bathroom, shaking his head, and got out a bottle of water from the fridge. Apparently Mr. No-Shirt doesn't like his water non-bottled. Then the waiter returned AGAIN from the bathroom with the bottle, this time switching it with another one which was not in the fridge, and therefore was not cold. Mr. No-Shirt's tummy apparently could not handle cold water.

After around an hour, the restaurant workers called an ambulance. The EMTs strolled into the bathroom with a stretcher, and ten minutes later came back with the young man laying there, his shirt removed (obviously), his cargo shorts on, but, most peculiarly, no shoes or socks on. Our waitress started chatting with the table next to us, and then when she brought us the check, I asked her if we could inquire. "Of course!" she said with a laugh. All of the restaurant workers knew that we were watching the shenanigans, and a couple of them laughed with us about it. She told us that he was feeling a little tired, and wasn't feeling well ("because of too much sugar," she said, making that sound like it was his explanation, "or too much rum," she said, this seeming to be the explanation the rest of the crew had reached).

We left her a 30% tip on the table, and left Tal Vez, the whole restaurant crew at the bar waving good bye to us and laughing. Just as we were about to cross the street, the ambulance finally sped away.

TO BE CONTINUED.

The Gang Goes to Cienfuegos

The gang went to the province of Cienfuegos this past weekend. Like all trips organized by Cornelius Fudge, there was the usual frustration, hilarity, and not-so-interesting surprises. I'd fill you all in on everything (like I did for Matanzas) but I just don't have the energy. Plus, there are only so many times you can say "he lied to us here" or "he was incompetent here" without boring everyone.

One incident worth recalling happened Saturday evening. After it occurred, I immediately went to my computer and wrote everything down before I forgot any of the details.

After a long day of touring Trinidad and La Valle de los Ingenios, Steph, Courtney, and I were looking forward to taking a quick swim at the beach by the hotel. Walking from our rooms down to the beach area, the usual obnoxious stares from various obnoxious men accompanied us. We soon forgot about that enough to enjoy our swim, and afterward were sitting on our towels watching the sunset, chatting.

An older man, a boy of about 13, and a younger man of about 30 walked by us once, the 30-year-old man staring at us for quite a long time, even turning back to stare as he walked away.

A few minutes later, a young man approached us, and began to talk to us despite Courtney telling him repeatedly to leave us alone. He asked her to dance, and she said no. He continued to harass until finally giving up and walking back to his group of friends. That was when I noticed one of the earlier starers in the group. Ugh.

A group formed behind us as well, these ones including the boy and 30-year-old, a teenager with a camera, and several other men. The best part? The older man was now wielding a video camera and was recording us. RECORDING US. We told him to stop. He did not.

Our friend who had come up to us previously returned, this time with another friend. They continued to harass us. We continued to tell them to leave us alone. I began to lose my temper, and swore at them in English. They didn't understand me, which may have been for the better.

They finally leave, all of them, a while after this. The whole group decided to stand at the top of the stairs leading up to the hotel area from the beach, and there they waited until we had to walk through there.

As we walked up the stairs, the 30-year-old was then filming us with the camera. We told him to stop. He did not. Then all of the other men joined him in cat-calling us as we went up the stairs. As I started walking faster, I heard one of them yell behind me, "LA RUBIA!" (Which means "the blonde.") By that point I was shaking I was so angry, but there was really nothing we could do.

As we walked by the bar, we went up to two men in security uniforms and told them how we had been harassed for about a half an hour by those men (pointing to them as they started to walk closer to the area) after repeatedly asking them to stop. The security men nodded and said that they'd take care of it, making us feel slightly assured.

Walking down the path toward our rooms, we looked back to see the group of men standing there, laughing loudly at us. The security men were still leaning against the bar, completely unconcerned with the whole thing.

The group of men on the beach disrespected us, and harassed us repeatedly. This made me angry, but not nearly as angry as the security guards' disinterest in helping us. Beginning as a group of individuals who acted disgustingly, the security guards' passive support of its occurrence turned the harassment into something supported by multiple facets of society, even that of the official.

I told Chino about this a few days later, and he said that it was probably just because we're extranjeras. That sort of thing doesn't happen to Cuban women. I understand their hatred of foreigners, but I still can't be content with that as an explanation (and as such, will have no explanation to be content with).

The whistling, hissing, and yelling on the street is one thing, but harassment is another. Some days, walking to school is interrupted by a man standing on the sidewalk blocking our way, asking us repeatedly what our names are. This is inexcusable. The worst part is the group of people standing close by who feel no need to do anything about it.

Anyway, sorry for the long, borderline-angry-feminist rant. I promise I won't be burning my bras any time soon.

Here are some photos from the weekend:

A dramatic series of events followed the discovery of a frog in our toilet the first night of arrival:
(Various photos courtesy of Steph)
Steph finally caught him. We released him into the Cuban wild where currently he is enjoying an amphibious life of tropical debauchery.

On the Go, and Getting into Trouble

Since Saturday the gang's been involved in several adventures, all involving some sort of water and some sort of transportation.

1. Soroa

A few of us decided to get gutsy, and we rented a car for a day in order to have a roadtrip to Soroa in the western province of Pinar del Rio. Guidebooks made mention of waterfall swimmin', and that's one thing I just can't turn down.

The car situation was interesting. Four to the backseat meant for close quarters, but we managed. A trip that should take approximately 45 minutes ended up taking four hours because of the lack of signs around the city. It took two hours to finally get on the highway leading out of Havana.
Finally reaching our destination, the swimming was great fun, and it was really neat to see another part of the country. All in all, it was a successful roadtrip.and a photo taken by tara of chelsea, steph, and me:
2. Beach day.

On Sunday the gang decided to head out to the beach for the afternoon, as all of us were distracted by the all-too-lovely sunshine outside. After breakfast set out in search of a cab.

That was when we ran into a man driving a "cab," a coche particular (privately owned car) which he uses to make extra money on the side. True to the communist mentality, such side enterprises are illegal in Cuba. All official (and legal) taxis in Cuba are monitored by the government (cab drivers must keep a log of all of their clients and trips and profits) and all of the money is turned over. Anyway, we all jumped in (two in the front seat, four in the back) and took off for the beach.

The driver, Emilio, chatted with us a bit, and then informed Emma (who was sitting next to me in the front seat) that when we went by check points she should duck down. Oh dear.

So the first check point went fine, but the second wasn't so lucky, as Emma thought that Emilio told her she could sit up again, but it was too early, and immediately the police pulled us over. Emilio got out, got fined, and then we were on the road again. Great.

Then as we were cruisin' down the highway, a truck with several men in the back began to yell at us to pull over. This is rather common in Cuba, as there's always cars falling apart on the road, and everyone's looking out for each other. So, we pulled over to find that the screws had fallen off of the back right tire. Emilio got out the jack, and as soon as the car was raised a bit off the ground the tire fell off without hesitation. After some switching around of the screws from the other tires (in true socialist fashion) we got back in the car, this time with one in the front seat, and five of us in the back. For whatever reason, this was better weight distribution for the tires. Ookay.

A couple photos courtesy of Danny. The first is of us standing on the side of the road as Emilio fixed the tire. The second is of us all in the backseat (and I look a little... special).
Feeling a tad bit anxious but trying to play it cool, we were back on the highway again. Approximately five minutes after we were up to normal speed, we passed another police check point, at which time we were pulled over again, and Emilio was fined again. Great.

So then we finally made it to the beach (all safe and unharmed) and Emilio still made a large profit from driving us there despite the fines because they are in moneda nacional, so they barely detract from our payment in CUC. We were saying after how in the US if that sort of thing happened, we'd want to get the ride for free.. but in Cuba, we almost feel the need to pay the driver extra just for going through all of that for us.

3. The Flood of '09

Monday morning we were all walking to school down tercera, admiring the water which had reached our street thanks to the overactive malecón. The sidewalks were dry, so we were happily traipsing down them, remarking on the Venice-esque dynamics of our neighborhood. After a block, however, we reached the corner of tercera and B street to see a knee-high river running down the street that we needed to cross. The current was formidable, and we were slightly unmotivated, so we then turned around to head home. This was when we realized that the water had raised onto the sidewalk, and we had no choice but to wade through the water. Taking off my sneakers and socks and rolling up my jeans, I tried to think of other things besides the floating dog poop that accompanied us on our stroll.

So we made it back to the building, then sat around outside for a while, playing in the water (which was infinitely cleaner when closer to the malecón) until the Casa bus came to cart us to school. It was fun while it lasted.

Geovani carrying a woman from our building across the street:Horse and carriage:A man walking his dog and drinking a beer at 10 am:
Oh, Cuba.

How I Learned to Dance the Ola

In class yesterday morning a very hyperactive woman came to talk to us about Cuban architecture. Included in her presentation was the mention of the Escuelas Nacionales del Arte which are located in Miramar. From the pictures she showed us, the campus was absolutely insane - before the revolution the area was a golf course, and (per Che's request) architects were hired to design a structure which organically integrated a structure into its surroundings.

Here's an aerial picture that I found online which shows a bit of it:There are several parts for theater, ballet, modern dance, fine arts, and music.

So we had a couple free hours yesterday afternoon and figured we'd go check it out. Six of us jumped in a cab, and we got dropped off in front of the main entrance to the campus.

About a half hour later, we had tried to enter via two different gates, having asked two different security guards if we could go in. Turns out that only students of the school are allowed to enter (not even their parents can visit without permission) and international visitors like us need a guided tour. Apparently a casual stroll through a school's campus is not allowed. As one kid was about to enter (with a music case in hand) we asked him if he knew how to get us in. He was about to conspire with us when the security guard started waving his finger at him to shut him up. Oh well.

Rather disheartened, we walked away, looking for the magical supermarket or a park in the area where we could enjoy the sunshine and try to salvage our disappointing afternoon. While walking past a gas station, we heard a guy yell, "Hey, want a ride?" He was standing next to an old school bus which was getting filled up. Presumably just a pass at us, we ignored him at first, until we thought about the possibilities of taking him up on his offer. "Yeah!" we yelled, and he ran over, saying that he was just joking, that they were a group of students so they really didn't have room for extras. We chatted for a bit, and he told us that they were headed somewhere outside the city. He also asked us where we're from, and when we said the United States, he made an odd noise like "Ayee-eeee!" which was notable. Anyway, after telling him that we live in Vedado, he sprinted back to the bus, chatted with the driver and one of the teachers, and sprinted back, reporting that if we paid a dollar each we could get on, and would get a ride back to Vedado.

The bus was full of kids our age who were all wearing black-and-white ensembles (or at least the majority were) and they squished over in their seats to give us room to sit. One of the girls kept turning back to her teacher to ask him what she should ask me because she wanted to talk to me, but couldn't think of anything to say. I got some interesting questions regarding my age, if I smoke or drink, the types of music I prefer, and my favorite color. I found out later that the teacher she was speaking with is actually their English teacher. His English was a bit iffy, Chelsea reported after. Turns out they were all culinary students, hence the black-and-white garb. I really wanted to tell them how terrible Cuban food is, but I didn't have the heart to mention anything of the sort. The kid who had originally yelled to us is the English teacher's best student (which we could easily believe, as his English was much, much better than the teacher's).

But then, a guitar case was passed from the back of the bus to the front. The kid that had originally yelled to us at the gas station was given the guitar, and everyone cheered. When he took it out of the case he saw that the bottom string was broken, paused, but decided to play anyway. That's when the entire bus started singing a Cuban pop song to us. Quite spectacularly we found that the terrible dance move known as "the wave" is a universal phenomenon, though with some variation. The fabulous gal who was sitting next to Courtney started "LA OLA!" in which one's hands are thrown in the air then swooshed down low, returning up in the air again. We all started doing it, and one kid leaned over to me to tell me that I wasn't putting my hands high enough in the air. With increased enthusiasm, I mastered La Ola to his standards.

Emma's on the left:

The woman on the right (who I assume is a teacher) does not like the music. The gal on the left is an example of a perfectly fabulous Cuban chica:
So in the end, our afternoon was completely unlike anything we could have considered planning, but it was spectacular. After the bus ride, the entire trip to Miramar was worth it.

Downpours, etc.

Walking home from class the other day, it quite unexpectedly began to rain so hard that we all were drenched within a block of the school. The sidewalks became too slippery to walk on, rivers running from yards and down driveways onto the pavement, and we all had to move to the street so that we could walk without slipping. The group of us were trudging along, desperately trying to cover our notebooks and valuables while our jeans absorbed the rain up to our knees and our shirts bound themselves to our skin under the weight of the water.

"Life in Cuba is like that song 'Build Me Up Buttercup,'" Courtney said. And as we walked down Tercera, in the middle of the road, wet hair slipping into our eyes, we all sang:

Why do you build me up
Buttercup, baby
Just to let me down
And mess me around
And then worst of all
You never call, baby
When you say you will
But I love you still
I need you more than anyone, darlin'
You know that I have from the start
So build me up Buttercup,
Don't break my heart

And just as we reached our building, the rain began to stop and the sun was already visible in the distance.

Life in Cuba is an emotional roller-coaster every single day, and (usually) not because of the weather. Imagine being in the most beautiful place with the most amazing, hard-working people who are drowning in conditions beyond their control. That their country's dream, all of their dreams, are trying to survive, but are suffocating before their eyes. There's no one to get mad at, but everything to get mad about. There's nothing to love you, but so many inconceivably lovely things to build you up each day. It's raw, and it'll break your heart, but it's all they've got and it's worth fighting for.

Photographs of Recent

I felt that a photo update was needed.

Here's Chelsea and Honorio exploring the building in which there's a paladar restaurant in Central Havana. The building's been used for fashion shoots, and the photos are displayed in the paladar. Lots of families live there too, of course, as all of the mansions have been turned into multi-family homes since the revolution. It's such an eloquent demonstration of what the revolution was trying to do.
Swimming off the malecón:



Going for a walk:
Playing soccer. This shot was entirely accidental, as I was taking a picture of the buildings and José ran into the frame. I really like it though.

At the beach:


The storm that came in yesterday, causing Danny and I to get creative with our laundry:

And now I'm off to class!

Boys Will Be Girls, and Supermarkets Will Be Fun

As fantastic as being harassed by every male within a 10-foot radius is, last night we were looking for a change of pace. The gals had gone to a drag show out at Parque Lenin last weekend and had a grand time (and one even found himself a boy toy) so it only seemed natural to go back there again.

We walked to the beloved corner of 23rd street which has our favorite restaurant, Tal Vez, and the famous ice cream place Coppelia. This is where the "taxis" are lined up, and you can ask them to take ya where partay is at. For fifteen years there's been a drag show tradition within the Havana gay community, but it changes locations rather often to avoid the attention of the police or government. By ways I'm not entirely sure of, the drivers of these cars lined up on 23rd know where to go.

We arrived at Parque Lenin after an interesting ride of techno blasting from the old car's brand new sound system, tumbling out into the unpaved parking lot, feeling a bit disoriented. We then walked down a long corridor adorned by photos of various celebrities of different talents and time periods. Most notably, there was an alter of sorts devoted to David Beckham.

Chelsea and Sonya paid their respects:

I was a bit unsure of what we were in store for.

But oh my goodness, where those ladies fierce. There were Spanish songs, there were American songs... and there was even Toni Braxton's "Unbreak my Heart" sung in French. Why? Not entirely sure, but moments like those are too magical to question. Them gals strutted their stuff in the best outfits I've ever seen.. from glamorous evening gowns to sparkly leotards to mesh flouncy robes. Needless to say, us biological females were a bit intimidated.

It was refreshing to see men hit on other men with the enthusiasm that we women have to endure. Only they appreciate it from each other, so it's all good - makes machismo a little more tolerable when both parties involved are men. There was one individual in a skin-tight armani t-shirt and frosted-tip hair that kept giving me sly looks from the bar. He winked, he waved, and I'm pretty sure I got a kissy face at one point. Normally annoyed at all this, this time I could sit back and delight in the fact that I was not, am not, nor will I ever, ever be his type.

Just as a Spanish rendition of "Mein Herr" had begun, a cute little man in very non-Cuban looking clothing approached us. "Do you speak English?" he asked.
"Yes we do," Steph and I answered.
"Are you Canadian?"
"American."
"Oh wow," he said. "See this is the first country I've been to where I hear our accent and assume that the person is Canadian. Anywhere else I assume that they're American."

We chatted with him and his (slightly silent) boyfriend for a little while. They are here for a week on vacation, and just had to check out the illegal scandalous drag show for an evening. Topics of discussion included Havana Vieja vs. Vedado, where to find good vegetarian food, where to find ANY good food, and the tragedy that is tourists who never leave their resorts to see the real Cuba.

"But," I said, motioning to the stage, "these girls are the most fabulous things I've ever seen."
"Hey, y'know what they say," the little Canadian replied. "Boys will be girls!"

-

Today, after napping for a large part of the afternoon, we decided to check out the super fantastic fancy supermarket that's in Miramar. There were rumors of peanut-butter there, so we felt that a saturday afternoon expedition was appropriate.

The supermarket was bigger than the one at the galeria, but mostly it had the same exact stuff, just in larger quantities. Oh, and there were pool floaties.

After making some (not-so-spectacular) purchases, we decided to go over to a restaurant/bar type thing that was situated along the supermarket's parking lot. Why there was a restaurant/bar there, I do not know. There were actually four different ones, so we took our pick.

Sitting there munching on papas fritas, two kids our age came up to us, overjoyed that we spoke English. They seemed to be from a scandinavian country or something of the sort, and knew english as their second language, but knew no spanish. They were just asking for some fun places to go in Havana for the day that they're in this part of the country.

A little later a very meaty man came up to us and asked where we were from. After saying that we were American, he told us that he was from Chicago. He's on the olympic wrestling team, and is in Cuba for a competition. He's been here seven times for varying amounts of time. He had a Cuban friend with him who was also quite meaty, though oddly silent. He never approached us or said anything, possibly because we were talking in English.

A few minutes after they left, the meaty American returned, saying that his Cuban friend wanted me to have his number, but he was too afraid to talk to me himself. Then he came over and I got a long, detailed explanation of how to call the olympic training residence center, and how to reach him. I listened intently, knowing that never, ever, ever would I call. Adding the number to the part of my wallet where all the other uncalled numbers now live, we watched the meaty duo walk into the sunset.

Squirrels, Milkshakes, and The Closest I'll Ever Get to Meeting a Cinematic Cannibal

Yesterday was bright and sunny, and we had gotten out of class early. Subsequently, we were hungry and bored and had an afternoon free to cause some trouble.

The Melía Cohiba Hotel is about a block away from our building. It is a five-star hotel with a pool and several restaurants of a non-Cuban variety. We decided that we would try to infiltrate said location for an afternoon ('cause we're troublemakers like that).

Strolling into the pizzeria (which is conveniently very close to the pool) we sauntered toward the host, waiting to be seated. Then we noticed that we were the only customers in the whole place.
"We don't open until one," the host told us. It was 12:15. "Oh, okay, thank you," one of us said, and we left, our confidence unshaken by the event. We were still playing it cool.

Sauntering out to the pool area, we surveyed the astroturf-surrounded oasis and looked around for some good lounge chairs on which we could wait until one o'clock (at which time we would feast). Choosing a snazzy cabana with wooden sunchairs, we sat down and tried hard to look as five-star-hotel-guest-esque as humanly possible (even though we're just four gals between the ages 20 and 23 who have been in Cuba so long that the mere sight of olive oil makes us misty-eyed with joy, and the thought of public toilet seats and toilet paper makes us go to the bathroom even when we don't have to, just to support the cause).

Having been to the pizzeria before, we had scoped out the protocol for the pool situation. The pasty, rich Europeans in question would walk to the towel counter where they would present their room key, permitting them to have a royal blue towel which says the hotel's name upon it (vertically). Knowing the protocol did not mean that we had a plan. We were just planning on playing dumb.

Soon after assuming our sophisticated stances in the chosen chairs, a surly man in a white polo came over to us, asking if we needed towels. (Once again, this was in Spanish, but I'm too lazy to translate.)
"Oh no, we're fine," I said, attempting to look as comfortable as possible on the wooden-plank chair unadorned by terrycloth.
"Yeah, we're good," said Courtney.
"Room number and key?" white polo asked.
"Uh"
"Well"
(Steph made the genius decision to stare at her purse blankly, as if to desperately wish for a room key's appearance from within.)
"We don't have one."
"Oh no?" said white polo, visions of power trips dancing in his head.
"Look, here's the situation. We're here to have lunch, but the place isn't open yet, so we thought we could sit here for a bit until then," Courtney admitted. It was a good story, but our clearly-visible bathing suits underneath our clothes may have tipped white polo off to our malicious intent.
"The pool area is for guests only. You're going to have to leave."

He had won the battle, but we would win the war. We ended up going to a different restaurant that was directly poolside and was already open, and ate there. We befriended the waiter who was a delightful, friendly, chubby Cuban man who didn't hate us like white polo did. We decided to ask him about the whole using-the-pool-even-though-we're-not-guests situation. He went and talked to a different towel guy, then returned to the table, saying that one of us should go talk to the guy there after we're done eating.

Friendly, chubby had an honest face, so we decided to trust him as an informant in our mission. Going over to talk to the other towel guy, we were playing it cool, but made sure to smile and giggle a tad. Other towel guy turned out to be a good ally - give him a "tip," and he would give us towels for the day. Done and done.

So we triumphantly found ourselves some new chairs right up by the pool, and settled in with our royal blue Melía Cohiba towels and reading assignment for class. Life was good.

A couple hours later, an eager young chap decided to strike up a conversation with the group of us. Everyone else ignored him and his annoying calls over to us, leaving me to the proverbial wolves. Awkward conversation ensued, including a discussion of Barcelona (where he and the group of [presumably ridiculously rich business]men he was with are from) and how I should really go there some time (gag). And also Boston we discussed, or really just how overjoyed he was to see SQUIRRELS CLIMB UP THE TREES there. (I've noticed this before, too: Europeans LOVE squirrels.)

"My English is not that good," he said to me in Spanish.
"Somehow I don't have trouble believing that," I answered in English and Steph laughed. Young Chap (whom I found out was named Valentine) was still eager to keep the conversation going, but I managed to ignore him after he introduced me to all the other men he was with, including a man who looked exactly like Anthony Hopkins (circa Silence of The Lambs). He introduced me to him as Anthony, and told me immediately of his similarity to Mr. Hopkins. "Yup, Hannibal Lector," I replied.

A little while later, the men when swimming, at which time they figured conversation should be attempted yet again. Anthony Hopkins had taken a liking to Emma, whom he decided to direct his catcalls toward for awhile. Anthony proved to be the most enthusiastic of the group of men, yelling things to us quite frequently after we were introduced.

When they were about to go, Anthony decided to make one final attempt at courting us/his soulmate Emma. That was when I lost my temper and I decided to say something. First I said it in English to him, which he did not understand. Then I said it in Spanish:

Me: I wish you knew English so that I would be able to tell you all the things I am thinking.
[All five men, intrigued, crowd around]
Anthony: ¿Sí?
Me: Sí. I would tell you that you lack respect for women
Anthony: No, no, no.
Me: And, I don't know the word in Spanish,
Anthony: Mmm?
Me: But I would tell you that you are disgusting.
Anthony: Eh?
Me: Repulsive.
One of them who understands suddenly: Oh, no no no.
Me: Sí, sí.
Anthony: Ah, I see the American women are prudes, eh?
Other guys: Oh, whoaaa.

(Anthony has a telephone conversation whilst the other four have a [slightly anxious] pow-wow)

Anthony: I do not lack respect for women.
Me: Oh no?
Anthony: I am merely telling a woman that she is pretty [the Spanish word for pretty is linda]. It is part of our culture. How is that lack of respect?
Me: You guys were bothering us the whole time you've been here.
Anthony: I am not bothering you if I say that you are pretty.
Me: Well..
Anthony: Yes?
Me: Well, in my mind, all humans are equal. And I would never start bothering you and your friends, harassing them, telling them that they are pretty.
Anthony: Do you know what "linda" means?
Me: Yes, of course.
Anthony: What does it mean?
Me: Pretty.
Anthony: Um, yeah, you're right.
Steph: And when you stand there HISSING at us?
Anthony: Um, well..
Valentine: C'mon, lindo, time to go.

The group of them then began to retreat to the hotel, the Cuban one turning back to us trying to apologize for the other ones' behavior, calling them crazy. Oh, but we know better. There's no doubt that he does the same exact thing to women on other occasions.

As the men ran away, we resumed our nonchalant sunbathing on our royal blue towels, reading our reading assignments, and sipping on strawberry-banana milkshakes (double the amount free, courtesy of the delightful, friendly, chubby waiter). Win.


Just an idea what kind of men were at the pool (though they weren't the ones that harassed us):