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.