Let me begin by saying that there is no Spanish equivalent for the word "awkward." Though there are similar terms meaning "clumsy," "uncomfortable," and the like, there is nothing to quite describe a typical awkward moment. This is made most devastating in interactions with the fine young men of Cuba, who never seem to disappoint in their awkwardness, or our awkwardness with them. Examples abound.
1. One day at the dinner table Courtney got a chill, and visibly shivered. Chino saw that, and (in Spanish) said to her, "Oh, there are dead people talking about you." This is presumably the equivalent of our superstitions involving burning ears or itching noses. What was truly awkward about this was Courtney's reply, in monotone, grave Spanish, "ME. HAN. ENCONTRADO." Instead of jokingly replying "Oh, they found me!" she made it sound like the dead spirits had searched her out, found her, and are now going to carry her away into a pit of despair. Chino was unsure how to respond, and stared at her silently before walking away.
2. We were out dancing the other night, and one of the Cuban guys that we hang out with, Ruben, once again felt the need to try to teach me to dance (I'm beginning to think that the Cubans don't appreciate the robot, the hula-hoop, and the shopping cart dance moves...). I've met Ruben several times, and know Ruben's name, but because Ruben is Cuban, he has been unable to remember my name. So, while we were dancing (and he was becoming increasingly frustrated with my incompetence at a simple two-step) he asked me my name. The conversation went as follows:
Ruben: ¿Cómo te llamas? What is your name?
Me: Megan.
Ruben: Megawerjktn?
Me: Meh-gahn
Ruben: Meh-gahn
Me: Sí.
Ruben: Me llamo Ruben. My name's Ruben.
Me: Sí.
Ruben: Solo amigos. Only friends.
Me: Erm, sí. [I was unaware that introducing oneself implied that we were to become more than friends.]
Ruben: No hay problemas porque somos solo amigos. There aren't any problems because we're only friends.
Me: Oh, um, sí!
Ruben: No problemas, solo amigos. No problems, only friends.
Me: Sí.
Ruben: ¿Hablas español? Do you speak Spanish?
Me: Un poco. A little bit. [Hoping to abruptly end this discussion.]
Such conversations as this are as bewildering as they are entertaining in retrospect. Poor Ruben apparently suffers the burden of having every girl he speaks to fall in love with him. Oddly enough, I am not one of those girls. Also slightly confusing is that after conversing in Spanish, Ruben feels the need to ask me if I know Spanish. Makes you wonder what would occur if I answered him saying, in Spanish, "Nah, I took French in High School."
3. Chino just brought Honorio somewhere to show him a possible place that his family can stay in when they visit him here, and so the two got on Chino's motorcycle. Honorio was unsure of where to hold on, so he put his hands on Chino's shoulders. This was when Chino kindly asked him to not hold onto him, as he has a reputation to uphold, and cannot be seen with a man touching him.
This is both hilarious and confusing in that he would 1. go out of his way to say this, and 2. that this would be an issue at all. Cuba is the island of bro-love, we decided about a week ago, because of the PDA shown by men all the time. Oh, Cuba.
4. Some of the girls went out with members of the national water polo team after meeting them at the beach one day. True to awkward form, each guy picked out a girl that he automatically assumed was his soul mate. The one that picked Steph was dancing with her when he asked, in Spanish, if he could kiss her. She answered, "No, gracias." And then he asked her if she understood what he was asking her. "Yes," she answered. "I'd just really rather you not."
5. Another one of the water polo boys chose Sonya to be his soul mate. They ended up going to the movies last week and saw a film. Said water polo boy generously felt the need to translate all of the words in the movie because it was in Spanish. The only problem with that was that he only knows Spanish, so ended up repeating everything every character said back to Sonya who sat there struggling to just simply watch the movie and hear what was going on, because she constantly had him talking at her. At one point, one of the characters slammed a door, and the water polo boy turned to Sonya to report, "She just slammed the door."
-
I'd continue with more of these awkward stories, but there's just not enough time in the day to write them all out. I will conclude by saying that I did my laundry today, which is very exciting. And I made my first cup of tea since being here (with fake milk, of course!).
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Mostly birdpants, and also some commentary.
Today the gang got carted to Cojímar, a beachside town outside of Havana. We were told that we were going to tour a "project" there, leaving us wondering if we were going to be:
1. watching people doing a project
2. doing a project ourselves
3. visiting the projects
4. doing a project in the projects
5. watching other people do a project in the projects
Turns out, we were just going to see the rural set-up for communism. The place that we visited was the town's co-op, the place where people get their rations, and other community stuff goes on. I'm still not entirely sure what they do, but they were friendly, so that was good. They also talked a real lot about these "pantapájaros" that they make, which was fascinating, of course, but also rather dull considering that I had no idea what an pantapájaro was. While we were sitting and listening to the woman describe the pantapájaro project I pulled out my notebook and wrote a note to Courtney that said: "pantapajaro?" Courtney read this, then whispered, "BIRDPANTS?!" thinking that I was pointing out someone in our vicinity who was sporting birdpants.
This provided a fantastic visual of feathery pants, (perhaps big-bird-esque?) but still didn't seem quite right. The thought of the population of Cojímar being provided with feathery, colorful birdpants by the government was as delightful as it was improbable. I then asked Honorio, and he said that they were actually saying "espantapájaro," which means scarecrow.
I took the liberty of making a rough sketch of said avian fashion pieces.
So, after the lady stopped talking we then had to watch a slideshow of snapshots from past scarecrow shindigs that they've had. This was stunningly boring, and devastatingly devoid of birdpants. People make scarecrows, name them, hang up signs with the names of the scarecrows, then, evidently, pose by their scarecrows for terrible photos that'll be added to the slideshow.
On the plus side, they gave us coconuts! For some reason, the man passing out the coconuts felt the need to give me an abnormally large one that had the fabulous feature of a hole in the bottom of it as well as a hole in the top! This led to a lap of coconut juice. (Oh, and coconut juice is a diuretic. Fun fact that we all learned through experience!)
I took some pictures of coconut time, naturally, abandoning my obese, leaky coco on the ground briefly.
A few happy coco campers, blissfully unaware of the lack of bathrooms in the area:
and one photo that I snapped before the tambor began this afternoon:
The lofted ceilings, beautiful tile floors, and ornate gates on the windows still have such an elegant feel despite the lack of upkeep. I can't even imagine what it looked like in the 50's, politics aside.
1. watching people doing a project
2. doing a project ourselves
3. visiting the projects
4. doing a project in the projects
5. watching other people do a project in the projects
Turns out, we were just going to see the rural set-up for communism. The place that we visited was the town's co-op, the place where people get their rations, and other community stuff goes on. I'm still not entirely sure what they do, but they were friendly, so that was good. They also talked a real lot about these "pantapájaros" that they make, which was fascinating, of course, but also rather dull considering that I had no idea what an pantapájaro was. While we were sitting and listening to the woman describe the pantapájaro project I pulled out my notebook and wrote a note to Courtney that said: "pantapajaro?" Courtney read this, then whispered, "BIRDPANTS?!" thinking that I was pointing out someone in our vicinity who was sporting birdpants.
This provided a fantastic visual of feathery pants, (perhaps big-bird-esque?) but still didn't seem quite right. The thought of the population of Cojímar being provided with feathery, colorful birdpants by the government was as delightful as it was improbable. I then asked Honorio, and he said that they were actually saying "espantapájaro," which means scarecrow.
I took the liberty of making a rough sketch of said avian fashion pieces.
So, after the lady stopped talking we then had to watch a slideshow of snapshots from past scarecrow shindigs that they've had. This was stunningly boring, and devastatingly devoid of birdpants. People make scarecrows, name them, hang up signs with the names of the scarecrows, then, evidently, pose by their scarecrows for terrible photos that'll be added to the slideshow.
On the plus side, they gave us coconuts! For some reason, the man passing out the coconuts felt the need to give me an abnormally large one that had the fabulous feature of a hole in the bottom of it as well as a hole in the top! This led to a lap of coconut juice. (Oh, and coconut juice is a diuretic. Fun fact that we all learned through experience!)
I took some pictures of coconut time, naturally, abandoning my obese, leaky coco on the ground briefly.
A few happy coco campers, blissfully unaware of the lack of bathrooms in the area:
and one photo that I snapped before the tambor began this afternoon:
The lofted ceilings, beautiful tile floors, and ornate gates on the windows still have such an elegant feel despite the lack of upkeep. I can't even imagine what it looked like in the 50's, politics aside.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Deliciosos Del Mar
At lunch at the restaurant Deliciosos Del Mar I decided to take a picture of the absolutely DELICIOUS commie pizza that only exists in Cuba. The cheese is plastic, and the sauce tastes oddly like barbecue sauce.
And Danny got some fish & rice:
YUM.
And Danny got some fish & rice:
YUM.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Observe the blondey ladies in their natural habitat.
Chelsea needed to go run some errands in Havana Vieja this evening so I accompanied her (mostly for the thrilling opportunity to go up the thirteen flights of stairs for the second time today because the elevator is broken, but also because I was bored).
Most of the cab drivers we have choose to sit in morose silence, either disgusted by our use of English, or just thoroughly uninterested with our presence in their work days.
Today, however, we had a cab driver that not only knew English, but delivered us to our destination with style. (Kindly imagine the cab driver to have an accent similar to that of Borat. Yes, he's Cuban.. and no, I have no idea where this accent has come from.)
Cab driver: Where are you from?
Chelsea: The United States.
CD: Oh, we love it when Americans come to Cuba to visit! To the United States we are the enemy, but we love it when the Americans come here and see Cuba for themselves.
[Continues on this theme for some time, inserting casually the Canadian and British tourists hatred of Americans, and also referencing the 80's pop that he had playing in the cab, saying that the Cubans love American music]
CD: My first wife moved to the United States in 2000. She lives in Florida.
Ch: Oh, that's nice.
CD: My son wants to join her, but he's waiting for his visa, then they will reunite.
Me: I see.
CD: Me, I like the Americans, but I want to stay in Cuba. I get enough of American wildlife from the TV.
Ch: Wildlife?
CD: Oh, you know, the pretty blondey ladies and their husbands, and two cars, one for the men, and one for the ladies. And their two kids: boy and girl, and their two dogs: one white, one black, and the white one stays indoors and the black one stays outdoors.
[Both Chelsea and I are stunned and overwhelmingly amused, laughing. CD laughs at his own jokes]
Me: Oh yes, this is what all the Americans are like! [Making sure to convey the sarcasm] [Searching for another topic]
Me: How old is your son?
CD: 23. He is very nice looking. I know, I know - you look at me like, "Oh, I don't know," but imagine me 35 year difference. And he wear the glasses tied to the Top Gun. [I try to figure out the use of the phrase "tied to," only reaching the guess that perhaps it means "similar to that of"] You know of the Top Gun?
Me & Ch: Oh, yes! We know Top Gun!
CD: He wears the glasses tied to the Top Gun with Tom Cruise. He ride the motorseekles and have many girlfriend.
The conversation continued until we reach our destination, meandering through such topics as "the Capitalismo" and his heartbreaker son. Though the driver told us that it would cost 6 CUC to get there, he generously let us only pay 5, saying something to do with "the economies to the moneys," or something of the sort. One can only assume that he is referencing the US economy's gutter-dwelling state.
-
I have so much more to say on so many more important topics, but at the moment I don't have much energy to do so. Instead, I'll post some pictures from the past couple days, including some that I took of Steph on Tuesday evening, and some that I snapped while driving home from the Tambor this afternoon, mostly taking photos of Miramar, the ritzy (for lack of a better term) suburb outside of Havana.
Steph:
Gerardo: Casa employee, entertaining tourguide, and best person ever:
Various snaps out the window:
Most of the cab drivers we have choose to sit in morose silence, either disgusted by our use of English, or just thoroughly uninterested with our presence in their work days.
Today, however, we had a cab driver that not only knew English, but delivered us to our destination with style. (Kindly imagine the cab driver to have an accent similar to that of Borat. Yes, he's Cuban.. and no, I have no idea where this accent has come from.)
Cab driver: Where are you from?
Chelsea: The United States.
CD: Oh, we love it when Americans come to Cuba to visit! To the United States we are the enemy, but we love it when the Americans come here and see Cuba for themselves.
[Continues on this theme for some time, inserting casually the Canadian and British tourists hatred of Americans, and also referencing the 80's pop that he had playing in the cab, saying that the Cubans love American music]
CD: My first wife moved to the United States in 2000. She lives in Florida.
Ch: Oh, that's nice.
CD: My son wants to join her, but he's waiting for his visa, then they will reunite.
Me: I see.
CD: Me, I like the Americans, but I want to stay in Cuba. I get enough of American wildlife from the TV.
Ch: Wildlife?
CD: Oh, you know, the pretty blondey ladies and their husbands, and two cars, one for the men, and one for the ladies. And their two kids: boy and girl, and their two dogs: one white, one black, and the white one stays indoors and the black one stays outdoors.
[Both Chelsea and I are stunned and overwhelmingly amused, laughing. CD laughs at his own jokes]
Me: Oh yes, this is what all the Americans are like! [Making sure to convey the sarcasm] [Searching for another topic]
Me: How old is your son?
CD: 23. He is very nice looking. I know, I know - you look at me like, "Oh, I don't know," but imagine me 35 year difference. And he wear the glasses tied to the Top Gun. [I try to figure out the use of the phrase "tied to," only reaching the guess that perhaps it means "similar to that of"] You know of the Top Gun?
Me & Ch: Oh, yes! We know Top Gun!
CD: He wears the glasses tied to the Top Gun with Tom Cruise. He ride the motorseekles and have many girlfriend.
The conversation continued until we reach our destination, meandering through such topics as "the Capitalismo" and his heartbreaker son. Though the driver told us that it would cost 6 CUC to get there, he generously let us only pay 5, saying something to do with "the economies to the moneys," or something of the sort. One can only assume that he is referencing the US economy's gutter-dwelling state.
-
I have so much more to say on so many more important topics, but at the moment I don't have much energy to do so. Instead, I'll post some pictures from the past couple days, including some that I took of Steph on Tuesday evening, and some that I snapped while driving home from the Tambor this afternoon, mostly taking photos of Miramar, the ritzy (for lack of a better term) suburb outside of Havana.
Steph:
Gerardo: Casa employee, entertaining tourguide, and best person ever:
Various snaps out the window:
Sunday, January 25, 2009
A Sunday Stroll
Today was the first day I felt up to going outside and doing something, so we ended up heading over to Havana Vieja for a bit.
Here are some photos from the day:
Danny, Chelsea, Honorio, Me, and Tara
proof that Sunday is the universal laundry day :)
Here are some photos from the day:
Danny, Chelsea, Honorio, Me, and Tara
proof that Sunday is the universal laundry day :)
Friday, January 23, 2009
Messiah Doctors, Flying Nurses, and Killin' Amoebas
Listening to Elliott Smith, watching the room slowly cleanse itself in warm, orange light, darkening elegantly into a subtle rose wash.
I'm just a waxing-emo-poetic. (Have I mentioned that I didn't pack my skinny jeans?) I'll just blame it on the lack of food today. Why lacking food? Oh, let me tell you.
Early this morning I was awakened by my delightful digestive system, which is far from unusual as of late. This morning, however, the enthusiasm of said system was notably increased, and it was at this moment that I promised myself that I would visit the friendly commie hospital today.
Being such a wonderful, steadfast person, I did not break this promise to myself. The adventure known as Clínica Centra Cira García was about to begin.
Immediately upon walking in the entrance, I felt like the sliding doors which had allowed our arrival acted secondly as a time machine. The nurses all had skirts on, tights, white shoes, and.. most notably... WHITE FUNNY HATS. I was reminded of Mom's nursing school picture. Okay, I can't remember if there actually was such a picture, but that is how I imagine such a photograph to look.
Quickly recovering from the shock of the hats (and chuckling when Chelsea turned to me and whispered, "are those hats what your mom wears at work?") we went up to the registration desk. The girl was very much the Cuban version of Mariah... perfectly coifed hair, meticulously accessorized outfit, very professional. Not kidding, I thought about how you'd fit right in, Ry (except for the whole flaming-ginger thing, of course). Anyway, some nurse asked me about my complaints, and then we sat down in the waiting room. (The waiting room had a ginormous cloudy fish tank with two goldfish that were the size of cats.) A few minutes later a man came up to me, handed me a plastic container with a top on it, and told me to go to the bathroom and produce a present. I found this kind notably lacking in subtly, but that's okay. I went to the bathroom (which had not only toilet seats, but TOILET PAPER, AAAND SOAP!) but sadly couldn't live up to his expectations.
After such a disappointing performance, I got called in to talk to Dr. Jesús González. He was a wonderful old man. His office was a strange combination: his desk with paperwork and chairs, the examination table right behind, a sink, and all other amenities. "Stick a toilet in here, and you'd never have to leave," Chelsea said. He examined me, saw nothing wrong, sent me off to have my blood drawn, then said that he'd give me some time to chill in the hospital area with the hopes of delivering. So then Chelsea, Honorio and I went to the hospital cafetería where I had two ice creams and café con leche in hopes of agitating my digestive system enough for it to cooperate. No luck. Instead all I got was a wicked stomachache. C'est la vie. We returned to the ER waiting room again, where the same man who had handed me the container originally looked very excited to see me, then immediately walked away. A few minutes later, Jesús came out to call me back into the office. Despite my incompetence, he gave me some meds for amoebas, some electrolyte packets to put in some water (no gatorade here!), and a scrip for peptobismol. (No joke, that's what he called it - with a thick Cuban accent, of course. That name's not on the bottle, but that really made me laugh that he called it that.) So yes, we went to the farmacía to get the meds, looked around to see what else they were selling, got a little depressed that Listerine cost around $8, then ended up getting handed the bill for 35 CUC for my loot.
Half hour later, the insurance situation got figured out. Turns out they just automatically assumed that I was uninsured, and treated me as such. Poor Jesús had to go through and fill out a whole new set of papers once I was counted as insured.
In conclusion, I ended up paying nothing but the cab fare both ways (5 CUC total which isn't so bad considering the clinic's out in Míramar). I have two rounds of amoeba killers (parasites, of course, but I like how he used the word amoeba) to take, some other pills that have some other purpose that I need to figure out before taking, and some pink shiny peptobismol to boot. Oh, and some coco flavored electrolyte packets. Yess.
This was a very exciting Friday, as I'm sure you'll agree. Today proved to be yet another reminder of how difficult my name is for Cuban people to pronounce. Everyone gets it the first time, repeating after me, sounding it out, but then immediately they forget it. I think it's because they can't visualize how to spell it. I've taken to saying "MEH-gahn" when I think to do so, but sometimes it's hard to remember to say my name incorrectly when someone asks me. After twenty years of pronouncing my name the same way, it's kind of hard to change now.
Anyway. It's now dark in the room, and I have yet to turn a light on. Dinner's in a half hour!
Love you and miss you all!
I'm just a waxing-emo-poetic. (Have I mentioned that I didn't pack my skinny jeans?) I'll just blame it on the lack of food today. Why lacking food? Oh, let me tell you.
Early this morning I was awakened by my delightful digestive system, which is far from unusual as of late. This morning, however, the enthusiasm of said system was notably increased, and it was at this moment that I promised myself that I would visit the friendly commie hospital today.
Being such a wonderful, steadfast person, I did not break this promise to myself. The adventure known as Clínica Centra Cira García was about to begin.
Immediately upon walking in the entrance, I felt like the sliding doors which had allowed our arrival acted secondly as a time machine. The nurses all had skirts on, tights, white shoes, and.. most notably... WHITE FUNNY HATS. I was reminded of Mom's nursing school picture. Okay, I can't remember if there actually was such a picture, but that is how I imagine such a photograph to look.
Quickly recovering from the shock of the hats (and chuckling when Chelsea turned to me and whispered, "are those hats what your mom wears at work?") we went up to the registration desk. The girl was very much the Cuban version of Mariah... perfectly coifed hair, meticulously accessorized outfit, very professional. Not kidding, I thought about how you'd fit right in, Ry (except for the whole flaming-ginger thing, of course). Anyway, some nurse asked me about my complaints, and then we sat down in the waiting room. (The waiting room had a ginormous cloudy fish tank with two goldfish that were the size of cats.) A few minutes later a man came up to me, handed me a plastic container with a top on it, and told me to go to the bathroom and produce a present. I found this kind notably lacking in subtly, but that's okay. I went to the bathroom (which had not only toilet seats, but TOILET PAPER, AAAND SOAP!) but sadly couldn't live up to his expectations.
After such a disappointing performance, I got called in to talk to Dr. Jesús González. He was a wonderful old man. His office was a strange combination: his desk with paperwork and chairs, the examination table right behind, a sink, and all other amenities. "Stick a toilet in here, and you'd never have to leave," Chelsea said. He examined me, saw nothing wrong, sent me off to have my blood drawn, then said that he'd give me some time to chill in the hospital area with the hopes of delivering. So then Chelsea, Honorio and I went to the hospital cafetería where I had two ice creams and café con leche in hopes of agitating my digestive system enough for it to cooperate. No luck. Instead all I got was a wicked stomachache. C'est la vie. We returned to the ER waiting room again, where the same man who had handed me the container originally looked very excited to see me, then immediately walked away. A few minutes later, Jesús came out to call me back into the office. Despite my incompetence, he gave me some meds for amoebas, some electrolyte packets to put in some water (no gatorade here!), and a scrip for peptobismol. (No joke, that's what he called it - with a thick Cuban accent, of course. That name's not on the bottle, but that really made me laugh that he called it that.) So yes, we went to the farmacía to get the meds, looked around to see what else they were selling, got a little depressed that Listerine cost around $8, then ended up getting handed the bill for 35 CUC for my loot.
Half hour later, the insurance situation got figured out. Turns out they just automatically assumed that I was uninsured, and treated me as such. Poor Jesús had to go through and fill out a whole new set of papers once I was counted as insured.
In conclusion, I ended up paying nothing but the cab fare both ways (5 CUC total which isn't so bad considering the clinic's out in Míramar). I have two rounds of amoeba killers (parasites, of course, but I like how he used the word amoeba) to take, some other pills that have some other purpose that I need to figure out before taking, and some pink shiny peptobismol to boot. Oh, and some coco flavored electrolyte packets. Yess.
This was a very exciting Friday, as I'm sure you'll agree. Today proved to be yet another reminder of how difficult my name is for Cuban people to pronounce. Everyone gets it the first time, repeating after me, sounding it out, but then immediately they forget it. I think it's because they can't visualize how to spell it. I've taken to saying "MEH-gahn" when I think to do so, but sometimes it's hard to remember to say my name incorrectly when someone asks me. After twenty years of pronouncing my name the same way, it's kind of hard to change now.
Anyway. It's now dark in the room, and I have yet to turn a light on. Dinner's in a half hour!
Love you and miss you all!
Thursday, January 22, 2009
A conversation this morning before leaving for class...
Chelsea: Why do you have so much aspirin?
Tara: Because Profe said that I should bring aspirin because people need it here! But what am I gonna do, shake some into their hands? So far since I've been here the only thing I've been asked for is a F*&KIN' CARAMELO and I don't have any of those! "Oh here, little boy, I don't have any candy, but I have DRUGS!"
Chelsea: Hm. Well, why do you have so many band-aids?
Tara: I have SIX HUNDRED AND TWO! That was another thing he said that they don't have a lot of here. So I have SIX HUNDRED AND TWO band-aids... y'know, just to out-do the Orishas by one.
I can now say that I know why people say this country requires a sense of humor. There are so many bizarre things about it, I think you'd go crazy if you didn't laugh.
Chelsea: Why do you have so much aspirin?
Tara: Because Profe said that I should bring aspirin because people need it here! But what am I gonna do, shake some into their hands? So far since I've been here the only thing I've been asked for is a F*&KIN' CARAMELO and I don't have any of those! "Oh here, little boy, I don't have any candy, but I have DRUGS!"
Chelsea: Hm. Well, why do you have so many band-aids?
Tara: I have SIX HUNDRED AND TWO! That was another thing he said that they don't have a lot of here. So I have SIX HUNDRED AND TWO band-aids... y'know, just to out-do the Orishas by one.
I can now say that I know why people say this country requires a sense of humor. There are so many bizarre things about it, I think you'd go crazy if you didn't laugh.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Rumba, Egg Cars, and Havana Parks
I have a lot more pictures from yesterday, so I figured I'd upload a few more.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Pirates, Guayaba, and Esperanza
Today Chelsea, Danny, Honorio, Steph, Tara, and I went to the Callejón de Hamil to the see the Rumba dancing that takes place each Sunday afternoon. Callejón de Hamil is an alley covered with various paintings and sculptures by a man named Salvador. We had gone to see this the day before, and that was when we were told about the Rumba dancing.
Soon after getting there, a chipper Cuban lad approached me, and, as all Cubans do, began to chat. Notable moments of the conversation included how surprised he was that we learn Spanish in school, because no Cuban schools offer education in English. He claimed that no Cubans knew English, which isn't entirely correct, but that's okay. He certainly knew no English at all. We also were talking about our governments, how America has so much to improve upon with Obama entering office, and how the young people have such high hopes for a lot of change in the future. A lot of Cubans are hoping for changes, too, both in American policies, and the policies of their own government. "There are a lot of issues on the pueblo level," he was saying, "Pero tenemos esperanza." That's all we can have, right?
We decided that the presidents of the United States and Cuba are like little boys fighting with each other, and it's everyone else who deals with the consequences. He was really surprised hearing that people in America are fearful of Communism. "But that's only the government," he said. "That doesn't affect relationships between people."
This deep and thought-provoking conversation was halted when we decided to hit up the closest cafetería for some amazing, amazing pizza de cebolla, leaving my nameless Cuban friend in the crowd. (Need I mention that said pizza was only 10 pesos nacionales, which roughly translates to 5 cents?)
After getting pizza, we returned to rumba-ville. Most notab
ly, I made a friend named Saule. Saule first captured my attention because of his pirate-like appearance. He looked almost exactly like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean, only without the make-up and gold teeth. He even had the strange, drunken, exaggerated movements like Depp did. He also had on a wool sweater (in direct sun), a flannel shirt, and a stethoscope which was taped to a music player that he used as headphones in order to listen to music. Genius. He also was passing around a stick of deodorant with his friends, and they all applied some in turn. Later, he motioned me over to him, and we began to chat. He knew English which was an added bonus.
The conversation with Saule went as follows:
Saule: What's your name?
Me: Megan.
S: Meh-gahn?
M: Sí.
S: Would you like to meet my friend Uribe?
M: Sure.
S: This is Uribe. He's from Santiago.
M: Hi.
S: Uribe's from Santiago, so they say hello in a different way. They kiss to say hello. [Makes some sort of gesture kissing his wrist]
M: Oh, interesting.
S: Say hi to Uribe.
M: Hi.
S: No, say hi to Uribe the Santiago way. Kiss him.
M: Uhhh.
S: You don't want t
o meet my friend? We're friends, and I'm introducing you to my friend.
M: I don't even know your name.
S: My name's Saule.
M: SAH-ooh-lay?
S: Sí, Saule. I'm a crazy boy.
M: Hm.
S: I'm a boy prostitute! [Gestures toward his pants region, indicating location of said prostitution]
M: Hmm.
S: What are you doing in Cuba?
M: Studying.
S: What are you studying?
M: Culture, history, film.
S: Film?
M: Yep, film.
S: I want to be in your film! I can be the star of your first film!
[I then realize that he thinks I'm studying to make films, not studying films that are already made]
M: Oh yeah?
S: YES. But I will only star in your film if I play a stripper! [Begins to do an odd dance, presumably demonstrating his skills for such a part]
M: [Laughing at this point] Oh yeah?
S: Yes! We are friends now, right?
M: Absolutely. [I start to go with everyone leaving]
S: We are friends!
[Exeunt]
I only share this conversation because it is a prime example of the strange, fantastic craziness that is Cuba. Only in this country would you see Jack Sparrow dancing rumba with a stethoscope in his pocket, and end up chatting with him, only to find out that he's a "boy prostitute." This place is fantastic. (And, of course, I will add that not once did I feel unsafe whilst talking to him. My friends were all within a couple feet of me, and Saule was not in any way dangerous.)
We then went in search of an amazing bakery that Steph had seen a couple days before, and I gorged on some pasteles de guayaba that is like the food of the gods. Then we walked around the Capitolio, which is beautiful.
Here are some pictures of various parts of the day:
Soon after getting there, a chipper Cuban lad approached me, and, as all Cubans do, began to chat. Notable moments of the conversation included how surprised he was that we learn Spanish in school, because no Cuban schools offer education in English. He claimed that no Cubans knew English, which isn't entirely correct, but that's okay. He certainly knew no English at all. We also were talking about our governments, how America has so much to improve upon with Obama entering office, and how the young people have such high hopes for a lot of change in the future. A lot of Cubans are hoping for changes, too, both in American policies, and the policies of their own government. "There are a lot of issues on the pueblo level," he was saying, "Pero tenemos esperanza." That's all we can have, right?
We decided that the presidents of the United States and Cuba are like little boys fighting with each other, and it's everyone else who deals with the consequences. He was really surprised hearing that people in America are fearful of Communism. "But that's only the government," he said. "That doesn't affect relationships between people."
This deep and thought-provoking conversation was halted when we decided to hit up the closest cafetería for some amazing, amazing pizza de cebolla, leaving my nameless Cuban friend in the crowd. (Need I mention that said pizza was only 10 pesos nacionales, which roughly translates to 5 cents?)
After getting pizza, we returned to rumba-ville. Most notab
ly, I made a friend named Saule. Saule first captured my attention because of his pirate-like appearance. He looked almost exactly like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean, only without the make-up and gold teeth. He even had the strange, drunken, exaggerated movements like Depp did. He also had on a wool sweater (in direct sun), a flannel shirt, and a stethoscope which was taped to a music player that he used as headphones in order to listen to music. Genius. He also was passing around a stick of deodorant with his friends, and they all applied some in turn. Later, he motioned me over to him, and we began to chat. He knew English which was an added bonus.The conversation with Saule went as follows:
Saule: What's your name?
Me: Megan.
S: Meh-gahn?
M: Sí.
S: Would you like to meet my friend Uribe?
M: Sure.
S: This is Uribe. He's from Santiago.
M: Hi.
S: Uribe's from Santiago, so they say hello in a different way. They kiss to say hello. [Makes some sort of gesture kissing his wrist]
M: Oh, interesting.
S: Say hi to Uribe.
M: Hi.
S: No, say hi to Uribe the Santiago way. Kiss him.
M: Uhhh.
S: You don't want t
o meet my friend? We're friends, and I'm introducing you to my friend.M: I don't even know your name.
S: My name's Saule.
M: SAH-ooh-lay?
S: Sí, Saule. I'm a crazy boy.
M: Hm.
S: I'm a boy prostitute! [Gestures toward his pants region, indicating location of said prostitution]
M: Hmm.
S: What are you doing in Cuba?
M: Studying.
S: What are you studying?
M: Culture, history, film.
S: Film?
M: Yep, film.
S: I want to be in your film! I can be the star of your first film!
[I then realize that he thinks I'm studying to make films, not studying films that are already made]
M: Oh yeah?
S: YES. But I will only star in your film if I play a stripper! [Begins to do an odd dance, presumably demonstrating his skills for such a part]
M: [Laughing at this point] Oh yeah?
S: Yes! We are friends now, right?
M: Absolutely. [I start to go with everyone leaving]
S: We are friends!
[Exeunt]
I only share this conversation because it is a prime example of the strange, fantastic craziness that is Cuba. Only in this country would you see Jack Sparrow dancing rumba with a stethoscope in his pocket, and end up chatting with him, only to find out that he's a "boy prostitute." This place is fantastic. (And, of course, I will add that not once did I feel unsafe whilst talking to him. My friends were all within a couple feet of me, and Saule was not in any way dangerous.)
We then went in search of an amazing bakery that Steph had seen a couple days before, and I gorged on some pasteles de guayaba that is like the food of the gods. Then we walked around the Capitolio, which is beautiful.
Here are some pictures of various parts of the day:
Friday, January 16, 2009
Wind, Gusanos, and Palestine
The wind is so strong here all the windows shake. It sounds like a constant barrage against every room in the apartment. Upstairs the slat windows squeak. Every gust of wind screams, too.
But it's still warmer than home, so I'm certainly not complaining.
Yesterday we went to a pro-Palestinian rally at la Universidad de la Habana. I guess technically it was called a protest, but when it's a state-funded gathering it doesn't seem to be so rebellious. Oddly enough, the same afternoon that this pro-Palestinian rally was going on, a pro-Israeli rally was going on in Boston. After hearing Cuba's side on things, their support of Palestine makes sense. After all, the Israelis are killing a heck of a lot more people than the Palestinians are (or so they say).
It's very loud in here. There are several conversations at elevated volumes surrounding me, and the wind is screaming its own opinions.
I'm reading Catch-22 right now and it's lovely.
I'm planning a blog entry on the Cubans' views on the American gusanos. As an American, I had never thought about the opinions of Cubans regarding those who have fled the country to the states, and vice-versa.
Here are some photos from the rally:
But it's still warmer than home, so I'm certainly not complaining.
Yesterday we went to a pro-Palestinian rally at la Universidad de la Habana. I guess technically it was called a protest, but when it's a state-funded gathering it doesn't seem to be so rebellious. Oddly enough, the same afternoon that this pro-Palestinian rally was going on, a pro-Israeli rally was going on in Boston. After hearing Cuba's side on things, their support of Palestine makes sense. After all, the Israelis are killing a heck of a lot more people than the Palestinians are (or so they say).
It's very loud in here. There are several conversations at elevated volumes surrounding me, and the wind is screaming its own opinions.
I'm reading Catch-22 right now and it's lovely.
I'm planning a blog entry on the Cubans' views on the American gusanos. As an American, I had never thought about the opinions of Cubans regarding those who have fled the country to the states, and vice-versa.
Here are some photos from the rally:
Monday, January 12, 2009
Water & Sunshine: El Malecón
Considering our location, I feel the need to make an entry dedicated to the lovely malecón. The malecón is the seawall that is along the water, and is a common hangout for just about everyone. I've taken some pictures of it and on it, so I'll stick them on here.
from a cab:
walking to havana vieja:
courtney & steph:
sonya:
some bird that i don't know the name of:
from a cab:
walking to havana vieja:
courtney & steph:
sonya:
some bird that i don't know the name of:
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