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.

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. 

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. 

Oh, Look at that Rock...

Today we went to the botantical gardens of Cuba. I've come to realize that everywhere I travel I always go to some form of a garden where I pay a fee to look at nature. For instance, when I went to Chicago I went with my boss and my fellow editor to the botanical gardens near Deerfield, Illinois. Then when I went to Israel we took a pleasant jeep trip treading some high mountains filled with pine trees and sage. 

Now I am here in Cuba, tip-toeing on palm trees and odd-shaped skeleton rocks

Afterwards, we went to a purely vegetarian restaurant in the park. It was one of the most exciting meals I've had yet. Pizza, pasta, hibiscus, spinach, potatoes, grits, boniato, lettuce, mustard, beets, vinegar, pineapple, guava juice, edible flowers...

We realized that at every meal we talk about eating. We wonder what we're going to have for dinner, foods we miss from home, what condiments would go perfectly with what we're eating at the time, which cheese is the best. We're such fatties. 

Some Fun

The other day we went to an opening for a kinetic art gallery at Casa de las Americas where we take our classes. Initially I though it wouldn't be so much of a scene, but when I stepped into the doors I noticed it was a hip-hopping, club-bopping, pimple-popping, floor-mopping, pizza-topping, donkey flopping,  kind of place. The first floor was full of established professors and artsy hipsters mingling with a glass of red wine and taking pictures with their digital SLR cameras. The art was ok. The wine: intoxicating. 

The rest of the night followed us with more red wine, including three bottles at the dinner table, and some rum boxes before heading to the bar. We had some special moments at the bar where some of us remember specifics more than others. I think they played an ABBA song on the dance floor? Either way it was a night off well deserved after intense four classes all week about ¿AfroCuban? slavery.

Today we went to a Santeria dance-a-thon in an artistic alley. It was great and all if you are into watching sweaty people dance. The scene was actually pretty fascinating because at one corner there was a woman who resembled Cindy McCain while on the other corner there was someone who resembled a Cuban Johnny Depp. The really cool part came when we took an "egg car" taxi home. It was incredible. Imagine being in a real life Mario Kart adventure. I felt so alive. 

Foto courtesy of Miss Steph Jones.