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):

John Adams, meet Carlos Marx.

Yesterday as we were about to catch a cab to the book fair, I received the pleasant news that I had mail. I opened the envelope quickly, and to my surprise and delight, it was a letter and present from Chessie Monks. Chessie works in the rare books department at the Boston Public Library, and is working on a project promoting a traveling collection on John Adams through having John Adams bookmarks travel around the world. ( Check it out here! ) Tucking my own personal patriot into my purse, we went to the fair, and I couldn't help but take some pictures of him there.

The book fair was incredible. There were so many books there, and so so so many people there eager to see what was offered. It was an amazing thing to see - people of all ages enthusiastic about books. A lot of the ones that were sold in Moneda Nacional were second-hand so that they were affordable for everyone. I wish Americans could get that excited about books, but I feel like the whole country is so saturated in consumerism and hyperstimulation that most just simply aren't interested.

And now for the John Adams pictures!

Eager to be a part of the action:
Getting cozy with some of the books:Surveying the Havana skyline at the end of an exciting day:And another photo (without John) solely for its intellectual value:

Love the smell of pesticides in the morning.

Walking down the stairs yesterday morning to go to the art museum, there seemed to be a cloud of chemical-smelling smoke that increased in density with every flight. By the time we reached the sixth or seventh floor, we were sprinting to get to the bottom to breathe the outside air. We were dizzy, nauseous, and our eyes were burning.

Several hours later we were informed that they had been fumigating the building. So yes, we walked through a thick haze of pesticide to start our day. You'd think that'd be a bit of info that we would be informed of, but apparently here that isn't so important. Morning poisoning? No big.

-

This weekend is the Jazz festival in Havana. Being the intellectual that I am, I can't hear jazz music featuring saxophones without feeling like I'm perusing the cereal aisle at Market Basket, but I still really enjoyed myself.

On Thursday evening we went to see Chucho Valdés who was absolutely wonderful. As he walked on stage, the entire audience greeted him with a standing ovation. I immediately began to feel guilty for sitting in such good seats, and not being excited enough to defecate in my knickers, which was exactly what the majority of the Cubans looked like they were excited enough to do. Events like this have different tickets that are of different costs depending on what you are (student, Cuban resident, foreigner, all that). We had bought ours in CUC (though we had a student discount) but found ourselves in the seating section with all of the elderly pasty Europeans (in the best spot of the theater). I felt a little self-conscious, but of course there was nothing we could do. The best part of the concert though was Omara Portuando's performance. In a country where women are daily reduced to mere objects, Omara held her own on a stage filled with talented Cuban men. She was sassy, she was stylin', and damn could she sing.
Last night we went to see the Buena Vista Social Club, which was very good too. Apparently the majority of the original members have kicked the bucket, so this is the new group. Almost like a Danity Kane situation, it seemed slightly artificial, but they were still very talented. A trend in jazz groups seems to be the token female in sexy clothing that plays one of those gourd instrument things that we used to rock in 1st-grade music class, though her main job is to swivel her hips and look pretty.
Today is the book fair which I'm rather excited about. It's also Valentine's Day, which, to my dismay, is celebrated here with even more enthusiasm than it is in the US. I was crossing my fingers that Cubans hadn't heard of it, but no no, they love their mushy, romantic, chivalrous holidays as much as Americans love their commercialized ones. Machismo is Cuba's Hallmark. Let the fun begin!


Here are a couple shots I took last night when we got home from the concert. The moon was lovely, and if you look closely in the second shot, you can see the stars. One thing that's amazing about this city is that even though it's the capital of the country and has 2 million residents, you can still see all of the stars at night. These weren't photoshopped or altered in any way.

Magic Dioxide: A Love Story.

Recently, among the ruins and desolation of this sad little island, I have found love. And I have found nutrition. Who is my love interest, you may ask? His name is Magic Dioxide.

On an ordinary evening stroll through the local grocery store (lovingly called the Galeria) I casually perused the cookie section, sadly unable to find the tea biscuits I was craving. My grief for said biscuits was much like Romeo's regarding his loss of Rosalind, and much like him, I was unaware of the great love which was soon to entire my life. Quite unexpectedly, I spied my Juliet: a purple and yellow box adorned with flying bumble bees in pointy hats, and the word GRATIS displayed in red across the top. Intrigued, I examined the box more closely. "Magic O's," I thought to myself, and was reminded of the good ol' days when we used to eat E.L. Fudge cookies after school. I snatched a box up, and paid some ungodly amount of CUCs to bring them home with me.
Once at the humble abode, I examined the box closer, noticing several important things:
1. These were not Magic O's. These were Magic O_2, as in two oxygen molecules, as in dioxide!
2. These chocolatey morsels contained vitaminas y minerales!

I was enchanted. And, after trying one, I was amazed to find that they did, indeed, taste like E.L. Fudge cookies. Visions of second-grade afternoons danced through my head, and vitamins and minerals were absorbed in my body. Score.

Since this special day, the Magic Dioxides and I have been inseparable. They come with me everywhere: class, walks, just relaxing at home. They are love.



In other news, I've attended a couple concerts that are part of the International Jazz Festival that's going on right now, so I'll have to share some photos from those. I've also redone the blog (as I'm sure you noticed) to something a little more funkay and personalz. You know how I do.

Putting the "Mata" in Matanzas: Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

I realized that in my haste to chronicle the many adventures of the weekend, I completely forgot to mention the handmade book-making place that we visited on Friday. It was beautiful, and the books were lovely. I ended up buying one that had an Emily Dickinson poem together with a Spanish translation for it. The old house that it was in was a work of art in itself, so I took a lot of photos.

I also forgot to mention that Professor Leonard Brown has joined us as of about a week ago. Our class with him starts next week. He is absolutely wonderful, and kind, and intelligent, and very level-headed. It's quite refreshing, and we're all so, so happy to have him here.
Dr. Brown with Tara & Chelsea:

Now back to the narration.

On Sunday we had breakfast and checked out and then headed for Varadero, the resort town in Matanzas. There are over 50 resorts there that have been built mostly since the fall of the Soviet Union. Before that, tourism was not allowed, but after the Soviets crumbled they were so desperate for money they started to allow foreigners in. (Sounds a bit like the Fulgencio Bautista days, no?) So we got dropped off at a random resort, straight in the middle of a very strange shopping mall that was blasting techno. After a brief dance session in the middle of the place with a couple of us and Dr. Brown, we were let loose for a few hours.

Sonya, Emma, Whitney, Courtney, and I went off in search of a place to camp out for the day that had food and drinks and other such lovely things. It was rather chilly at that point, so we just wanted a place to rest. Walking down the beach, we came across a resort with a couple pools and a bar. We got beverages, and upon asking how much they cost, the bartender woman told us that it was all included as guests at the resort. We didn't have bracelets, and she knew this, so she just let us have them for free. We tipped her, dance around to some reggaeton they had playing there, and made ourselves at home. Later we were given free lunch and french fries. So yes, we were given access to the pool, free drinks, and free food, all courtesy of the lovely bartenders that danced throughout their workday. It was a refreshing change of luck for us.

We then went swimming down at the beach when it got warmer, and then made our way back to the meeting spot. Getting some pizza to go (with REAL CHEESE) we jumped on the bus and headed back to the lovely abode in Havana.

And thus concludes the ordeal that was Matanzas. We were all exhausted and irritable when we got home, but still managed to laugh together at the dinner table about all that we went through this weekend. Maria told us this morning that we really should have had today off from classes because we all looked so tired and drained from our trip.

Oh, and I did laundry today! I officially know how to do the whole process by myself. Very exciting.

Putting the "Mata" in Matanzas: Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

On Friday evening I said to Steph, "Today was so bad, tomorrow can't possibly be worse." Oh, how wrong I was. Our Saturday began with no wake-up call, but Professor Brown knocked on our door around 8:30 to make sure we were up. I found out later from Sonya that the discussion around the breakfast table went as follows:

Sonya: None of us got wake-up calls, just letting you know. Looks like Steph and Meg aren't here yet.
Grapefruit Tour guide: Well, I got a wake-up call.
Cornelius: No, I saw Meg when I was walking here. She's outside.
Sonya: No, she's not. She is not outside.
Cornelius: No, I definitely saw her.
Professor Brown: Well, I'll just run over to their room and make sure that they're up so they can still have breakfast before we have to go.

No, I was not outside. And no, the tour guide's wake-up call did not miraculously mean that the rest of us got them.

After breakfast, we all loaded into the bus with a renewed enthusiasm for the frigid day ahead of us. Driving down the highway, I saw some birds flying around an area. Upon looking closer I realized that there was a pack of vultures eating a dead dog which was laying on the side of the road. There are some things that I've tried to get used to in Cuba, and seeing dead dogs is one thing that I cannot. It is simply horrifying.

The first town we got to was a "typical Cuban town." I do not know the name of said town. They let us free for 15 minutes, during which time Chelsea and I found shampoo for 1.50, and I made friends with the bag-check woman by the store. "Where are you from?" she asked me (in Spanish, though once again I'm too lazy to translate).
"The United States."
"Oh, really? Americana!"
"Yep!"
"What do you think of Cuba?"
"It's nice! It's very different from home."
"Is it what you expected from reading about Cuba?"
"Well, I don't know. It's certainly an adventure, whatever it is."
It's true. The more I think about it, the less I understand about Cuba, never mind what my opinion is regarding it. Standing on the sidewalk, I was approached by an old man with vacant eyes who could barely whisper to me. Clutching a tube of toothpaste (invaluable to those who don't have it readily available) he asked me if I could spare a peso so that he could get something to eat. (One peso = 4 cents CUC, so about 6 cents USD.) I gave him three pesos, and he looked so grateful, it nearly broke my heart.

We then went to a different town, where we proceeded to stand around on the sidewalk for a very long time, and Sonya then began to use her pen as a microphone, acting as a tour guide for our surroundings. Adopting the same level of intellect that grapefruit had, she told us about the different color houses, how some are green, but some are different color green, and how we were in a town. She interviewed grapefruit in order to get the real info from him. Surprisingly, the only thing he knew was the name of the town. I have now forgotten this name. I'm not concerned enough to try to remember it.
"So what are we doing here?" Sonya asked.
"Well, before we were in the north of Matanzas, and now we're in the south."
"Oh, okay."

After concluding this all-important sidewalk-standing session, we walked into a "museum." The man who worked there informed us that it wasn't actually a museum, but is going to be a museum in the future after they get the funding to build it. So we stood in an empty area while the man told us what will be there some day. Fascinating.

For lunch, we were eyeing a hotdog stand that had cheap food that we could get quickly, hoping to avoid the 2-hour-bloody-chicken fiasco of the day before. When Courtney asked Cornelius Fudge if this were possible, he brushed it off, refusing to listen. Instead, we had another meal of the same quality as the day before. Yum.

One thing I've learned: if you let your guard down, Cuba will break your heart. Cuba has the ability to draw you in, make you want to do anything within your power to help someone, then completely frustrate you with the fact that you are completely and utterly powerless. This brings me to the next part of my Saturday.

While standing in the town square staring at yet another José Martí statue and waiting for Fudge to figure out our next disaster, a little stray puppy came up to us. She was dirty, had fleas, was skin-and-bones, and had the prettiest slate-blue eyes you've ever seen. She also was very friendly. Being the sucker I am, I picked her up, and she immediately snuggled into my chest. Her shivering stopped, and she began to calm down. For the next two hours, she slept soundly in my arms, curled up into my sweater. I wish I were exaggerating, but that was truly how lovely she was.

While I spent time with the lil Chiquita, we went to an Erotic Art Museum. I decided to stay outside on the sidewalk, unsure of the sophisticated establishment's rules regarding animals.

Then we went and toured a children's library which was funded by UNICEF. That was really neat, and I'm glad I got to see it. And Chiquita accompanied us. She also came with us as we walked to the local Catholic church, sat there for a couple minutes, then left. Yet another thrilling tour.

Then it was time to get on the bus, and time to make a decision regarding Chiquita. The last thing I wanted to do was leave her on the street to start shivering again, or get hit by a car, or get eaten by vultures. The other dogs running around that town were not in any better condition, and they had the advantage of being fully grown. Talking to Professor Brown, we weighed the options.
1. I keep her. I take her home with me to the hotel then to the residencia, where I will have a puppy to potty train on the 12th floor of a building that doesn't have a working elevator. I then have to abandon her because I can't bring her through customs with me.
2. I keep her, and find a home for her. This seemed to be the best scenario until I realized that no one in Cuba can afford to feed themselves, never mind a dog. This was why there were so many dogs on the streets.
3. I put her back on the street and try my darndest not to cry in front of everyone.

Option 3.

And I tried my darndest not to cry in front of everyone, though it was hard. And when I set her down on the ground she woke up and tried to follow me. See? Cuba can break your heart if you let it. And I'm not really sure why, but this time I let it.

We then went back to the hotel, then got dinner at a restaurant that we went to the night before that had decent pizza, though that night they were out of pizza so we had really gross spaghetti that I'm embarrassed to admit I ate all of.

And thus concludes Saturday.

TO BE CONTINUED.