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. 

No Spring Chicken

It's a few hours before my 23rd birthday and I feel like I need to do something outstanding before I officially turn the big two three. I need to do something I would never do. Something to close my last year and give people something to talk about. I've thought about this all day and so far the only thing I've done remotely like this is help an old woman up the stairs, deliver a note for her six flights up, and go back down six flights with her. She kindly thanked me and invited me over for a soda any time I want. Maybe that's my big-thing to do since normally I would pretend I didn't know Spanish and run away hoping never again to run into her.

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. 

The Hipster and the Sea

Today the gals and me went to the beach just outside Havana. Originally I didn't plan on going because I just felt like sitting on my bed all day like I did yesterday. I went to the beach because it was either beach day or baseball game. I really wanted to even out my brownness and rid that awful farmer's tan I developed recently. I thought it would be a better idea going to the beach. 

I took my American Apparel duffle bag (of course) and packed my vintage iPod, some water, my cam, and some money. I was a gal on the go. 

So there I was on the beach. I lied on my back, toasted a few. Tossed over and toasted my back. I avoided the water except when I went for a walk and dipped my precious toes in, just the tip. I can't swim and I know that people don't really swim at the beach, but I'm uneasy being in natural waters anyway. 

Thrilling.
I guess it was a good day just to do nothing at all.

The Power of Wet Ones.

My “professor” while here in Cuba belongs to the Santeria religion and he sent us to his Padrino (godfather) so we can have our shells read. Basically, Padrino (Padre as I call him) does this intricate ritual where he throws a handful of seashells Sally sold him on the seashore and he determines the future. Think Turkish coffee ground remains.

So I got my shellz on and the Gods told Padre that while in Cuba I have to be very suspicious of food. I must sniff, look at the color, and cautiously nibble everything I eat outside of my residence. Padre warned that perhaps I will be invited to a gathering of sorts where I will be served bad meat and inherit a parasite that I will need to be operated for while I’m here. At the same time, I should be equally cautious of street food. This makes sense considering I’m a frequent, valued customer at the local street food joints. The question is: don’t all travelers to developing countries take their magnifying glasses everywhere they eat? Imagine that.

Furthermore, Padre said I will be involved in a tug-a-war of sorts with a woman and her boyfriend. Love triangle? Eh, nah I don’t think so. Will I be involved with the gal or the guy is another question. I actually wanted to test Padre out by being on my best behavior and not limping the wrists.

Oh yeah, I also shouldn’t seat in the front of taxi cars for I will be involved in a bloody and terrible accident.

Padre didn’t really tell me anything positive. He did say my Santeria guardian angel is Obatala, king of kings who loves to don all white (even after labor day). In an effort to avoid loosing a limb or pooping my guts out I should bathe in water infused with cotton plant leaves four nights in a row. There I was last night, drunkenly cotton-fusing my water and bathing.

Our pal Megan was said to have negative vibes. In order to bring positive forces to her she needed to light a candle and offer three candies to her God. So right after she got her shellz on Padre lit the candle, offered the candies and waited for the candle to burn. All the way. There we were, all chillin’ at the Padre’s living room watching this candle burn.

It took about an hour and a half for the candle to burn a quarter of the way.

I can’t really say if I believe any of this, mostly because I don’t entertain the idea of religion anymore. My mother is a prime example of why I see religion as a crouching evil. I’m still going along with the rituals until I’m cleansed. Why not? It’s something spiritual and maybe it's about time I need to be pouring myself with cotton leaves. Unless I develop a rash, what harm can it do?

Yes, We Did.

In Havana there were twelve American students who eagerly anticipated the beginning of Obamarama. They began their day by eating a stick-to-your-hips breakfast of cheese, bread, eggs, butter, and coffee. At 10:30AM they marched to Casa de las Americas like they do everyday for classes. This day, however, the students were granted a recess in the middle of classes for Obamarama.

At 11:20, the twelve students sprinted with glee down the street to El Presidente hotel where they huddled around the pool bar. Some ordered mojitos, and some ordered piña coladas. This was a celebration; one that is so beyond unique and ironic that fiction could never have dreamt of it: Americans, mojitos, Cuba, the Presidential Inauguration, El Presidente Hotel, classtime, CNN en español. 

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. 

Skinny Beans

I had the best breakfast today. As I stepped into the dinning room I saw bright pink and lukewarm yellow. I immediately knew I was going to have guava and scrambled eggs for breakfast. Surprisingly I wasn't hung over or disoriented like every other morning I've been in Cuba so I devoured my food with quick grace. 

After I cleaned the table I ran outside to check on my laundry I dutifully cleaned the night before. There in the Havana sun lay all my hipster American Apparel tees swinging on wire with clothes pins. I've never done laundry like this before, but it felt so liberating. It reminded me of when I used to live in my uncle's bungalow in Salt Lake. We had a washer and a dryer, but the dryer gave up on life leaving the washer to do all the work. Every weekend my mom washed the clothes in the machine, hand-rung the excess water out, and clawed our clothes onto wire supported by our maple trees. I had to chuckle for a little seeing my own clothes that I washed myself floating on a Cuban rooftop. My mother would be proud. 

Our classes from 10AM to 2PM today were semi-expected. We had this Margarita woman I've become fond of teach our first class. We suspect she's daughter of the man who represented Cuba in the United Nations during the cold war. She also loves her coffee and snaps her fingers backwards. I call her Crackfingers. She's a great gal, albeit a bit liberal because she called The Nation and The Huffington Post neutral news sources. As a firm believer in Obama she whole-heartedly agrees in  Palestine and the Cuban medical scene, both of which are unfortunately currently unstable.

Then after our coffee/crack class session we had our elevator music class session. Well, it wasn't elevator music it was actually Afro-Cuban percussion music and culture, but our guest professor made it as thrilling as a ride up the Macy's department store. Although our professor was intense with his loud voice and furious facial expressions he managed to leave nothing but a subtle mark on our hungry college souls. 

Coming back from classes I had ordered a ham and mustard sandwich from a food stand next to our apartment. It amazing I can pay the equivalent of 25 American cents for lunch. While waiting for my 'wich to be toasted I saw a boy I had seen earlier in the week. He's probably in his early 20s and a total hipster with his grey tee (American Apparel?), black skinny jeans, and black wayfarers. There is no way he is from Cuba, but this is the second week I've spotted him. I'm intrigued and not in a "hey he's cute" sort of way, but in a "hey he seems like he knows my music" sort of way. Nonetheless, he's inspiring me to wear my skinny jeans in this humid weather. 

Very well, I'm off to the roof to drink a mojito box. Children in the States have their juice boxes and us gals in Cuba have our mojito boxes. God probably does exist.