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.