skipping, skipping

Today is August 22nd. I have been back from Havana pretty much five months now. Why do the tear works still work more than they should?

I mean, I've done everything to try and move away. I've applied for jobs, worked at old co-ops, moved, hell I've BAKED scones and casseroles in the middle of a humid Boston summer and still...I look back and I fall back and nothing is what it seems anymore. One trigger of the Yeah Yeah Yeah's song "Hysteric" lyric that goes something like "no longer, no longer...what you ask", and I automatically think about this one time with José. One trigger of Flex's "Te quiero" and I either have a muscle-adrenalin force shock of a power run...or I die of tear-dehydration in front of the speakers thinking about ordering mojitos and judging German tourists in Havana.

Just some thoughts,


Besos,

Gal is back

I got the urge today finally after two months to write again. I check this blog as often as Rhianna gets Chris Brown angry; I'm too scared. Today something tingled inside me. I went for a run along the Charles in Charge and as I was listening to some reggaeton (Nigga Flex's "Te Quiero") it clicked: I'm sad about Cuba because I was so happy there.

Now, every once in a while a gal has her moments. You know what I'm talking about. Those special little moments where you sneak into your room, pull out the box of Ho Hos, a 40 ounce and cry your night away. Like a sack of wet rice and beans it hit me that I had my moments because looking back makes me happy. They were tears of joy mixed in with a dash of pena.

So maybe I don't drink as much rum now that I'm back in the Estados Unidos, but renaming this blog to Vodka for Your Life! doesn't sound so healthy.

Stay tuned.

P.S. I know this is the gayest thing ever...but I have to share it.



There is a "Gal on the Go" Barbie!!!

The Last Mojito

First, I don't think my words can reach the potential of my dear friend Megan's. Please visit meghabana.blogspot.com
My words cannot even tickle that spot the way she has, to say about what we learned in Cuba. I'm a believer.

What I do want to say is that what I've been through in Cuba was an incredible adventure beyond what anyone can imagine. Never could I think a 23 year old Mexican from Utah be involved in such tales of adventure, irony, heartbreak, loss, anger, fragility, and moonlight stillness.

I want to highlight my top things I did in Havana.

The walks to "Opportunities"
In a country where food variety is sparse there exists a beacon of food choices at this place down the Malecon called "Opportunities". We could get chicken croquettas, chicken patties, beers, the occasional bottle of Havana Club rum, and ice cream. We would mosey down the cracked pavement, past the building with the leaky hose, sometimes in our sweats and sandals all in the name of chicken opportunities. I still can't forget the time Tara demanded we buy 50 chicken croquettes, 20 for herself. We ended up buying only 30 because, frankly, the poor guy working behind the counter didn't have 50 croquettes to sell.

There was that time I walked with Honorio in the middle of the night hoping to spot the last of the chicken. The waves from the ocean were hitting the Malecon so hard the water spilled over and Opportunities was closed. Del Mar, Opportunities' competition, was opened so we went there instead. We got two Buccaneers and two pizzas. The gal with the yellow shawl handed our pizzas in plastic bags.


Climbing up the stairs for breakfast
Honorio and me shared what we called 'the maid's chamber'. It was a room apart from the main house and we would have to go through the unlocking and locking process of 6 doors to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. This chamber had no windows so circulation and sunlight were not part of our early mornings. Everyday, we would wake up at 8:30 to a pitch black cave-like environment. One of us would crack open the door and our eyes would be fondled and violated by the sunlight. Imagine some cruel person shining a flashlight onto your frail eyeballs. Then imagine that person also throwing some hot oil, a pack of chilies, mustard, and a sizzling side of bacon onto your eyeballs. That's what it felt like coming out of our room every morning.

But we still got up for Maria's famous scrambled eggs, the intoxicating and lubricating coffee, and the sometimes soft rolls. The gals usually told stories from the night prior. What they did, who they did, where they did it. And sometimes I would throw in my own stories of JR. Although breakfast was usually the same (eggs, rolls, butter, pineapple, guava, and coffee) it always felt exciting to sit at the table. Every morning felt like something amazing was going to happen, even if it was just going class. No matter how tired or hung-over I woke up in that room it felt thrilling to start a new day in Havana.


All those times on the Malecon
Through sun, wind, day, or night we were always on the Malecon. The Malecon is this massive levee type situation where all of Havana goes to sit on when the temperatures are toasty. You can sit on it and look onto the ocean. I swear I could almost see Miami at night and I swear I also saw the famous golden arches once too. Sometimes we would sit on the Malecon and have a drink or 3. Sometimes we would sit quietly on a cloudy day and listen to our iPods. Sometimes we (Tara and me) would slip and fall on a wet day. Sometimes we would have rendezvous at night with our partners in crime. The special thing about the Malecon is if you sat facing the Havana streets and the Vedado high-rises you could watch life happen. If you sat facing the ocean you could totally tune out everything around you; time stops. If you were lucky, sometimes all of Havana would come out and sit with you on the Malecon at night. The street musicians swoon the oblivious tourists while Cuban men bear-hug their gals. I would stare at the Cuban women with their confident, primary-color fashions and the shirtless fishermen rolling in dinner.

I promised someone in Havana that someday I will write about Cuba. There are of course a dozen more things I want to write about that I loved like the coffee gal, the 50 cent hot dogs on 23rd, Maria screaming gals names when they had a phone call, doing laundry al fresco. I could write about all that on here, but as a true gal on the go... I have to go for now. Stay tuned for

Cuba: The Novel, Cuba: The Movie, and then watch out for Cuba: The Ride.

Adios chicas,

Attention Shoppers: I am Freaking Out

I've been back in the "You Is of Hay" for a little more than a week now and the transaction is still beyond a healthy one. The day after I landed in Boston I went to Trader Joe's where I bought some peanut butter, bread, ham, and cheese. The lighting in that store alone was enough to bring me to a chaotic freak-out sessh. There I was, standing in front of the peanut butter section staring at four different kinds of P butter. There was salty creamy, unsalted creamy, salted chunky, unsalted chunky, and the mysterious "Better Than Peanut Butter" situation.

"WHY?!?!?!?", I thought as I gave the side-eye to a fellow shopper who took her time picking out cereals.

For the last three months I've been used to having no peanut butter and shopping in a store where the lighting was concrete florecent and the cookie selection sparse. And I loved it.


Now I sit in my South End apartment and breathe heavily when I look inside my fridge. I see the old dijon mustard I bought at Whole Foods next to the four remaining rum boxes I brought back from Havana. I see the Coke Zero can next to the pot of black beans I tried cooking the night before, an inspiration from Milady (one of the best gal cooks on the planet).

I look outside my kitchen window and I axe Lord Jesus himself "what am I doing here?".


Then I axe Jesus Cristo what Maria is doing, what Chino is doing, what Milady is doing, what Jose Raul is doing. In the midst of my conversation with the big J the television blares a commercial for Empire Carpets. The gal in it exclaims "I paid for this much carpet, when I got T H I S much carpet". I think about how much money my Cuban friends make in one month. That's when I turn around and break open a bottle of the cheapest wine.

La ultima pena

Tonight is my last night in Cuba. I've done almost everything I've wanted to while I was here. And the most amazing part is I've done everything I never expected to in my life. I stood in the kitchen tonight talking to Emma and we both fully, completely, absolutely realized how no one will ever understand our experience here in Havana. People will ask us how Cuba was and what do I say? "Oh it was great" would be the approachable, predictable answer. What I really want and should say is "Cuba is the most tragic, and beautiful place on Earth." Then I'll give them the link to this blog.

I glared at my room tonight after some packing and I just sat on my bed looking at the cozy, windowless room I've called home for the last three months...

Next time I write I'll probably be back in American society. 

And there I was...

There's this store down the street on 1st that we call the Galeria. The store sells no produce, peanuts are worth half a Cuban month's salary, and all the store clerk gals wear killer lace tights. We usually run there to stand in line to buy $5 rum along with Cubans who stand in line to buy chorizo-flavored powder for soups and such. 

Today I went there wearing my favorite Yeah Yeah Yeahs tee, walking zombie-like after a sweaty, shopping day through the aisles. I looked through the cookie selection and eventually made my way past the hot sauce when at the corner of my eye I spot a short man in a jerzee. He looks semi-familiar and when I look back I notice his jerzee says Nash. I realize I am in this Cuban store with Steve Nash. 

I am no sports fan, but I know Nash Potatoes through the famous Nelly Furtado song "Promiscuous Gurrl". I got a little star struck. I followed him and his lady friend and the closer I got I heard Spanish coming from the Nasher himself. Does Stevie speak Spanish??

I paid for my rum and cookies and walked back home. It was almost dinner time and I was hungry.

We WikiResearched and after consulting with Chaunce and Megan we discovered that Nashiffer speaks fluent Spanish along with his wife. 

Life in Cuba just keeps getting beyond bizarre. Unfortch, I see Honorio and Chaunce packing right now so our time in Cuba is coming to an end. 

Hola Estudiantes

We had the most absurd test today in our Music of Latin America & the Caribbean. Never had I, in my five year college career, had a test like this. The AUDACITY that DR. Leonard Brown has to give us a 4 page study guide is ridiculous for a six week-long course that non of us had the option of choosing for our Cuba trip. Keep in mind, the 4 page study guide is for a week and a half of class work. 

I wanted to throw up after taking the test today.

P.S. I googled one of the songs we had to memorize the first 20 seconds of learn called "Me voy pa'l monte" and came up with the following image. 

One Moment

The gang and me went to Cienfuegos and Trinidad this past weekend. The gal cities are about 4 or 5 hours outsides Havana. It was a good trip. That is all. 

At one point we walked towards this old dock where we sat on green benches and looked at the water. I can't explain it, but it felt right being there. The sun was about to glow to bed. The water was sleepy. Some little kids were running laps around us. I tried to take a picture of them in action, but they got tired and started walking. I can't blame them. 

We were also being ironic taking artistic pictures from different angles.  I took a bunch of pictures and one that I took sums up this one moment I wanted to live in forever. There's the gals, there's the little girl in the back, and her grandma in the corner sitting alone looking towards the beyond.

Ms. Frizzle and Her Magic School Bus

The day after our beach excursion we experienced a flood on our street. We thought we were safe from going to classes down the street. Usually we walk through the mean streets of our neighborhood, past the chicken stand, the liquor stand, the sandwich stand, the drunk guy on 3rd who can't stand, but this time the streets were flooded up to our knees. In a delightful haze we decided to buy some wine and rum boxes so we can deal with our problems AND celebrate the day away. I gave Emma some money. I told her to buy me a bottle of wine and a little surprise. I was thinking more along the lines of a chocolate bar or some cute digestive cookies. Homegirl bought me a flask of aged rum. Emma I love thee. 

There we were, the gang drinking wine on the stoop of our building watching the streets flood more and more as our minds flooded in white wine. Then we see this:

It's our school bus. They had come through the flooded streets to pick us up so we won't miss a day of school. If you look closely, the door of the bus doesn't shut all the way.

We eventually made it to class... wine bottles and anger in hand.

foto thanks to miss steph jones!

Ride That Smoother Than a Limousine

I spent possibly one of the most relaxing weekends during breakfast and dinner times. There was no rush for dairy or meat goods and everyone at the table in general was in a splendid mood.

Today I was supposed to spend "all" day studying for an exam and equally as cautious about a paper due tomorrow. Instead of worrying about academics I went to the beach at Megano. In this country people can't pronounce the name Megan, but they can sure pronounce the name Megano. 

On our way to the beach Songe contracted this gentleman 

who drove a private Russian-inspired-tin sedan who could take us for about $25CUC. There we were, Courtney, Steph, Me, Songe in the back seat and Emmcicle and Megan in the front. The car was about two inches off the highway with our weight. I blame the tin of Pinocho soda crackers Emma was cradling around. 

At one point I see Emma leaning forward towards Megan's lap. I had no idea what was going on, but I was offended by the suggested position. The driver explained that Emma had to hide because in Cuba a small sedan can only legally carry 5 people. We had 7. 

So there we were all family-like in the car when the cops pull us over. The driver gets out of the car to talk to the cop. Ahem, if you do that in the US the cops will shank you. You never get out of your car when you're pulled over. Anyway, the driver ends up getting a ticket and off we go again.

Everything was dandy until this blue truck honks at us and points to the back tire. Our driver starts pulling over and as he's doing this the car starts jolting. We were like gangsters low-riding and bumping in this tiny car as we pull over. When we get to the curb the tire slants off the car. One of the bolts fell off and we were probably seconds away from three-wheeling it to death.

The driver assures us everything is going to be A Ok as he unscrews a bolt from the front tire and bolts it to the back wheel. We stand there on the side of the road watching him, unconcerned about how safe this procedure is.

When we get back into the car he tells me to sit on Courtney's lap so we can fit 5 people in the back so the front tire doesn't carry much weight. As much as I would have loved to sit on Courtney's lap I thought it would be best that Megan sit on Courtney instead. And off we go. The doors are shut. Megan, Courtney, me, Sonya, and Steph in the back-seat while lucky Emma sits in the front next to the driver who at one point rub hers knee, for good luck I'm sure. 

In a matter of minutes the car gets pulled over again for the same reason, but it's cool because we already got one ticket and apparently we can't get another. Eventually we make it to the beach after about 45 minutes of car drama. That's the thing about Cuba. You think you'll have a simple car ride to the beach, but you never know what's going to happen. We gals are living on the edge. 

What's Better Than a $5 Footlong?

A $1 haircut.

I desperately needed a haircut, but I was a bit apprehensive about finding someone in Cuba mostly because I'm loyal to my sassy stylist Phillipo back in Boston. Finding someone new to play with my brown locks is flirting with disaster. 

So in a drunken haze last night I axed Chino where he gets his hair done. Basically I made drunk plans. I hate drunk plans because I never follow up the next day. The next day you wake up at 12:30 still drunk stumbling your way to the bathroom where you see an empty box of Chinese take-out. The drunk plans you made the night before are over and you feel bad because you slept in. So you check your phone that has no missed calls or texts. Your friend is probably still passed out and you two never bring up the drunk plans ever again to avoid the awkwardness. 

Anyhow, my dream is to ride a motorcycle with a leather helmet, glass goggles, and a scarlet scarf. Think Amelia Earhart. Today I got to almost do that except I rode on Chino's bike with a plastic helmet and my legs dangling off the bike. I never felt so alive. There have been more than enough occasions in Cuba where I thought "okay this is it. Jesus Lord take me now." Today was another one of those. I was holding on to dear life on a motorcycle and one of the only reasons was because I thought it would be a little awkward holding on to a grown, straight man's torso while he escorted me to his fave hair stylist. 

In the end my hair turned out cute and sassy. It makes me reevaluate why I feel the need to pay $45 for a healthy hair cut in the States. That's not even a two month salary for decent-off Cubans. 

I was held hostage in some strange woman's bedroom

Only in Cuba.

So before I begin to explain the title I have to fill in on some background. 

Last week the gals and me went on a little adventure to a drag show slash gay dance club right outside Havana near a park dedicated to Señor Lenin. In order to get to this outdoors-drag-dance-destination one must walk to the Yara Theater and axe a cab driver to take you to "la fiesta". The cabbies are savvy and they know exactly what you be talking about. This is what Honorio, Emmsicle, Songe, and me did. 

The ride to such parties is about half an hour. I was sitting next to Emma who was sitting next to Songe who was sitting next to a strange man we met at a smokey gay café. Typical. At one point I gave Emma the side-eye and saw that she was sleeping in the cab. "What are we doing with our lives?", I thought.

The party was a blast. There I met someone and his name is José Raúl Yopíz. His name is full of accents and his character is beyond normal. I've been seeing him for a week and so far I've been to the emergency room with him due to his heart problems, talked to his grandmother over the phone various times, found out he was diabetic after feeding him rum on his 28th birthday, and been told via Chelz that he's in love with me. He also calls me at least twice a day and demands to see me every night. Don't worry, this is all very traditional Cuban dating behavior. 

Last night our plans were to find a room for the night and braid each other's hair. There we were walking around Havana ringing on his friend's door bells and asking if there was a room available. Eight doors later we still couldn't find a room. Why couldn't we go to his place you axe? There is currently a crime investigation in his building and everyone of his neighbors is on the look-out for strangers. 

After taking a 30 minute bus ride to some beach town with no luck again we made it back to Havana near the capitolio. José knocked on some gal's door and she answered in her PJs. By this time the sun was already up. Her place was tiny, think loft minus the chic factor. On the floor was the woman's son sleeping with his girlfriend (?) and on the loft there were two beds. One for the gal and one for us. I was so exhausted I didn't even think about the fact that this gal was going to sleep with us. Originally I was going to sleep in my shirt and jeans until the gal told me not to be shy and take my shirt off so I can be comfortable. Of course, because the only awkward and horribly uncomfortable part of this nap was having my shirt on.  

And there I slept in this tiny loft with no windows with some strange woman to my right and José to my left. After sleeping until noon I needed to get up and leave. Not only were my feet bleeding and bloated from walking so much, but I smelled and had to poop. I couldn't find my keys and realized José had them. I tried to wake him up and get my keys, but he ignored me. I shook him, held his nostrils shut, poked his ear, anything to wake him and get my keys. After two hours of this nonsense he got sick of my poking and said he wasn't going to give me my keys back. That's when he spider-monkeyed me. The only way I can describe this is a sort of aggressive cuddle. This man was holding me hostage and his weapon of choice was cuddling. I never felt so trapped. 

Eventually he let loose and we left the gal's loft around 4PM. In the end, we did not braid each other's hair. 

The Cheese Ain't Right

So there's this joke my new Cuban friend José Raul told me last night. 

Ahem: Putin, Bush, and Fidel end up in hell where there is only one phone and the devil tells them they can make calls, but it will cost them. Putin steps up and makes a call to Moscow. The devil then tells him "you owe me 80 rubles for the call". Putin pays up and behind him comes Bush who makes a call to Washington D.C. He talks for a little longer than Putin so let's say the devil charges Bush $200. Now it's Fidel's turn to make a call. So there's Fidel making an even longer call to Havana. "How much do I owe you?", axes Fidel. The devil looks at him and says "nothing, that was a local call and local calls are free".

The joke made me think of the day the gals and me went to the Zoo and saw this...

Behold, a fat clown guarding the gates to an abandoned playground. The thought of it alone is as hellish as the cheese in this country. 

Is It Done Cooking?

Today is one day after my bee day and I still feel like an innocent 22 year old. Granted, I have a few more silver hairs going on. I'd like to think that when I reach my thirties I will be a handsome fox like Mr. Cooper from See En En. 

Anyway, this weekend we returned from a trip outside of Havana in a place called Matazanas. I won't even tell the whole story because there is way too much turmoil and strife to report. All I will say is that I lost $100 US dolls, ate bleeding chicken for lunch, and developed a bus drinking problem. The following pictures describe (perfectly) our weekend. 

When we came back from Matanzas it was time to get down to business: my birthday. The gals bought me my people's drank (tequila) along with my real drank (vodka) and some of my adoptive drank (rum). Basically we could have made a Long Island drank with all the provisions I got for my birthday. We also had cake. Real cake. With c h o c o l a t e. Until one goes to Cuba one does not know what it means to go without real chocolate. Usually the stuff here tastes like condensed cocoa powder left to dry in the back of a 7 11 warehouse. 

Once we did the routine (and genuinely heartfelt) happy birthday sing-a-long dedicated to me, we devoured the cake, drank some drank, had some laughs and went out. Normally for a birthday I would have liked to go out to a bar/club, danced the night away, but no...this is Cuba. Instead of club-hopping, pimple-poppin, we went to a stand on 23rd street where they sell the best hot dogs in Cuba. Before we even fully inhaled our 'dogs we stumbled over to Tal Vez, the best restaurant in all Havana. There we ate pizza with real cheese, slurped milk shakes with real chocolate, and dipped fries into real mustard. In the most surreal and bright manner, it was one of the most satisfying birthdays I've had since my Batman themed party in 2nd grade. 

Fotos thanks to Meg and Tara respectively.