Love of Food=Love of Cooking?

I love food. I mean, who doesn't? I miss living at home because there is nothing like walking into the house and having the delicious scents of home-cooking fill your nostrils. I appreciate fine dining as well of course, but as those experiences are few and far between, I long instead for the homemade victories of my mom and family members that make you feel like you just as well could be sitting at a dark wood table surrounded by candlelight and waiters in white.
Ever since I started college my daily dining experience has significantly diminuished in enjoyment. It started with night after night of cafeteria dining which, admittedly, was much better than expected, but since it is incredibly overpriced, I am now left to my own devices. I used to love cooking. I even prepared, rather successfully, the whole Christmas dinner in my junior year of high school. When I had more time and a full fridge and pantry of ingredients, I was much more likely to get creative in the kitchen, or to get in the kitchen at all. A full schedule, limited equipment, and having to buy my own groceries, has made me less inspired. I instead turn to quick easy food which results in me eating a lot of eggs, canned soup, or fast food. The problem with this is I get bored, eat unhealthily, or spend way more than necessary.
Trips home or to the cousins' fill me up with delicious food and a little bit of inspiration. The love of cooking that my mom and family possess is contagious. I see them getting excited about recipes, trying new things, and loving the appreciation of the guests' full stomachs. After my weekend home for Thanksgiving that included treasures such as a banana pumpkin tart, orange sweet potato pie, and a bake-off with caramel for its star ingredient, I felt it was about time I get my groove on in the kitchen. I headed back to my humble dorm kitchen with a couple more ideas and recipe books.
Last night I was ready to get back into the spirit of cooking and stopped at the grocery store on my way home to stock up on some staple items as well as the ingredients for my recipe for stove-top chili. I get home only to realize I have no pot large enough to cook my proposed concoction. After a friend came to the rescue with a hefty pot, I was ready to go. I prepared all the ingredients and started browning the beef. It smelled delicious. After chopping all the onions and garlic, I added them to the pot. Tears streaming down my face from the sizzling onion juices, I started opening cans of beans and tomatoes. Mid-crank of the last can my three dollar can-opener decided it had had enough. Being resourceful and needing those diced tomatoes, I attempted to open the can using the pointy end intended for chicken stock and juice cans. Bad idea. As I was prying at the now-jagged edges of the can to make a hole big enough to squeeze out the juicy tomatoes, I made a jab a little too strong and sliced my finger wide open. Swear words streaming at the same rate of the blood, I held my hand under cold water, still attempting to get the tomatoes from the can without burning my chili that was bubbling on the stove. One hand under the faucet, the other shaking the can relentlessly and hopelessly over the pot, I somehow managed to get the tomatoes into the pot with limited bloodshed.
Not a grand return to the culinary world.
Three hours later, I had one amazing chili stewing in the pot. I dont know if it was karma or the blood and tears that went into it, but I have never tasted anything so satisfying. I guess cooking is always an adventure. You never know what is going to happen. It could come out delicious or tasteless, burnt or cooked to perfection, success or royal fail. It follows suit to the randomness of dining experiences. But as in my sometimes hostile love towards yummy food, I have a certain love/hate relationship with cooking. Although my finger was almost severed and it was a lot more effort than expected, the end result was so worth it. I guess if you love food enough and are willing to take risks and put in the effort, cooking can be just as fun as eating the results.

Latin Passion: Where it all started...

I'm not sure how apparent this is in my blog, but if you know me, you know that I love Latin culture. Everything about it, the people, the music, the food, the values, the art, the dance. Many people probably think I am crazy or weird maybe because I love it so much and it is not my own. I myself often wonder where this passion came from. I have no Latin blood, no close family that I know of that has been to Latin America for more than a short trip, no connections really whatsoever. But somewhere along my life experiences, I had a feeling that I would like to go to Latin America. When I started Spanish classes in junior high, I loved it. I went to Spain to get closer to the language, but I didn't feel it, there was no connection. I still looked towards the south and searched for a way to buy a ticket to that unknown place that I felt would suit me.
Then I decided to go to Ecuador on a brief piece of advice from a friend. I had never thought of it before but what the hell? It ended up to be a three-week long life-changing experience that confirmed my belief that Latin America was in my heart and when I left, part of my heart stayed there.
Another trip, this time to Cuba for three months, and I knew that I would never be able to get it out of my system. I have never felt so happy or alive in a place. Everyday was exciting, everyday I was happy to wake up, no matter how tired I was. Every person I met treated me like a friend, and friends were like family. The music has so much feeling, the dance is lively, and the air hums with passion, love, struggle, and memories.
No matter where I am, my mind and heart are in Latin America. I try to immerse myself in it no matter where I am. I listen to the music, cook the food, dance the dance, and try to feel the warmth and liveliness wherever I go.

New Yorkers are Actually Nice!: A Weekend in Spanish Harlem

Groggy from a too-short nap at 5:30am, and sore from the awkward sleeping position, I awoke to the brightening skyline of NYC. I hadn’t been to NYC for at least five years and it felt completely new, like I was driving into another world. In the early morning light, everything seemed even bigger. After being greeted by our first friendly stranger, we set off into the large maze of buildings. Times Square, although eerily quiet, busy only with workers cleaning and preparing for the day of hustle and bustle of millions of feet, was still overwhelming. I stared up and around me, trying to soak it all in, trying to fathom the size of the cell phone on the billboard, the wattage of the McDonald’s sign, the pristine shop windows of 5th Avenue. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guiltiness, of queasiness that the abundance, richness, and gaudiness invoked in me. It made me realize the incredible amount of unnecessary indulgence that is such a huge part of our culture. It was beautiful and eye-opening, but sickening.

Eager to get to our hostel to drop off our bags and settle down a bit before embarking on the day, we made our way to our hostel, which the website had described as being an eight minute walk from Times Square. So we reached Central Park and looked for our road. Being completely unfamiliar with NYC, we were clueless and stopped in to ask an extremely friendly bellhop whose face turned when we gave him the address of our hostel, “OH, that’s not a great part of town, you’re up near Harlem”. Harlem? That’s kinda more than an eight-minute walk from Times Square. Again, not familiar or completely comfortable in this city, and going off our preconceptions of Harlem, we weren’t exactly thrilled as we traveled twenty minutes away from Times Square to E 103rd St. and Lexington on the 6 train. We stepped out into Spanish Harlem, on a quiet block across from a mural of Pedro Pietro and El Paso Taqueria. For Rafaella and I this was more exciting than intimidating. But we kept in mind what we had heard about the area and still felt hesitant. After traveling back to Times Square, searching for a possibly safer hostel, being unsuccessful in anything but making our backs sorer, we decided to head back to what ended up becoming what we affectionately called our “hood”.

After dumping our bags in the cozy third floor apartment, we headed out to explore. We strolled past Mexican restaurant after Puerto Rican restaurant, after barber shop, after Mexican restaurant. We got stared at quite often as we were some of the only gringas, and probably obviously looked like tourists. But we all felt at home in a way as we were reminded by the smells, sounds, and sights of our Latin American travels, friends, and memories. After working up an appetite we were enticed by the window of a particular restaurant, Cuchifritos. The hard-to-ignore window was lined with rows of empanadas, juicy carne, blood sausage, papas, arroz y frijoles, platanos, and other fried treasures. The guys behind the counter didn’t really know what to think of us as we ordered multiple plates of deliciousness with an amount of confidence. Our eyes were a little bit bigger than our stomachs, but we enjoyed every bite we could fit and washed it down with horchata. Amazing.

Completely satisfied we finished off the afternoon browsing the little stores, dancing to the salsa playing in the music store, talking with some people about the best place to go dancing, and finishing it off with churros. Let me just say that if you haven’t tried churros, you need to. They are long cinnamon sticks of dough, fried and sprinkled with sugar. Heaven. So much better than a donut. And we got “Cinco por dos pesos, disculpe, dolares”. Such a deal, no matter what currency we’re talking. Full and happy, we headed back to the crib and napped.

We departed with Heleen at that point, and we were all sad because it had been so great seeing her again and it was as if we had seen each other just the other week. It was great to reminisce about Ecuador, the friends and experiences there, and tell each other about our lives since then. And who knows when we will see each other again, that's the weird thing about cross-country friendships and traveling. You meet such great people and then may never see them again or if you do it will most likely be for a short time. But I guess you never really know what will happen or when you'll run into them or where.

The night proved to be not as eventful as we had hoped, but still a success. Everyone had told us that against our expectations, there were no great salsa spots in El Barrio. And basically all the good dancing places are expensive or 21+. But we were determined and headed out in no particular direction, mostly excited to see more of the city. We walked up and down various streets of the Lower East Side, past hopping bars, fancy restaurants, and lots of people. Unfortunately we had neither the pocket change or IDs and after awhile, pretty much gave up. Until the lights from la Pinche Taqueria caught our eyes. Our hearts must be South of the border because even after passing all the ritzy, swank places, this was the most exciting thing we saw all night. It was small and colorful with Frida watching over us from the wall and meringue playing in the background. We recapped the day, observed some underground shoe deals, and enjoyed our tacos and yucca fries. In the end, not a bad night.

Day 2 we found it extremely hard to wake up and although we had been ambitious the night before about what to do on Sunday, the sleep deprivation forced us to stay in bed all morning. We were both already reluctant to leave so instead of heading downtown we decided stay awhile to enjoy the warmth and the neighborhood. We grabbed snacks from the corner bodega and sat on the wall outside El Jardin de Modesto Flores. Musica romantica played from the garden, a couple sitting on a bench singing along, and a group of older Puerto Rican men bantered loudly about life, money, women, and whatever else came up. They were very entertaining and charming, especially “Maduro” the tiny old man who shot us the brightest smile I’ve seen in awhile. Our day continued on from there, heading to Port Authority to catch our bus from one of the 500 gates, and riding 5 hours back to Boston, but all that is just a blur now and the best memories of the day were sitting on that brick wall. We eventually made friends with one of the guys because he couldn’t resist asking to have his picture taken. He told us about his life, his family, his barrio, and let us in on some of the key sights to see. We were complete strangers, but this guy felt like an abuelo with his warmth and kindness. Who ever said New Yorkers aren’t nice? In my very short 30 hours in New York City, we randomly talked to and had conversations with about ten or more strangers, each eager to help us, learn more about us, and tell us about them. It was a welcome and unexpected experience and makes me want to go back. As for those sightseeing tips, abuelo, I’ll keep them in mind for next time.

I'm sure you all know I am a huge fan of Cuban music...be it reggaeton, salsa, hip-hop, Afrocuban, or a unique mix of all the genres. I just discovered Madera Limpia, a group who does just that. An inspiring mix of all of the above and more is really original and with provoking lyrics about real life in Cuba. Listen to some of their tracks and you'll see what I mean...here's their myspace page:

http://www.myspace.com/maderalimpia

Enjoy!

Words to live by...

http://www.wimp.com/liveadvice/

Love and Peace Without Borders: Back Home

I can’t really describe the way I felt leaving Cuba on Monday morning. I was still on the rush of being there in the first place, but then it hit me that I had to turn around again so soon. It was an incredible few days and I wanted nothing more than to stay for, well, forever basically. I had returned with all my questions from the past six months, none really of which were answered, and I didn’t want to leave again and have to start missing it all over again. At the same time, it wasn’t quite as traumatizing as before because I barely had time to blink before I was heading back to reality. Although, which is reality? The life that I am living in the states because that’s my life by default, or the life I live in Cuba, that makes me feel the most alive? Heading back to Jose Marti airport, hand in hand with that guy I love, chatting to the taxi driver about the weather, the concert, the people heading to work, etc, I just wanted to tell him to turn around. It was a weekend that, as short as it was, was worth every penny. And every moment I was there, every sight that was refreshed in my mind, every hug from a friend, all reinforced the roots my heart has in that island.

I’ve been back in the states again for a week, and my mind remains in Cuba. It was still there six months after leaving the first time, which I think is why it felt normal to be there. My mind and heart are always there. And coming back wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be. I felt culture shock as soon as I stepped into the touristy, US terminal in Nassau, as I got onto the American-bound plane, as I headed to work on the T the next day. It was a whirlwind of missing Cuba, feeling guilty of what I have here, and feeling utterly confused by everything. No matter how hard I try or how many times I go over in my head the many things about Cuba and my relationship that confuse me, I know I will never figure either of them out completely. I don’t know that it’s possible honestly. I despise the system that makes life hard for the Cubans I know and love, that takes away their opportunities for freedom and their hopes for a future. And yet I am constantly craving a life that is more Cuban. Despite the system they have to struggle through everyday, sometimes just to survive, they know how to live. They look at life positively, because that’s the only way they can stay sane, they still have so many dreams, even though they have little hope of them coming true, they value friends and family more than anything, they know how to have a good time without the presence of material things, and they love more fully than anyone I know.
And so I will continue to keep my mind and heart in Cuba so that I will never forget the important things in life, and so that I can learn, through the friends, family, and boyfriend I have found in Cuba, how to live and love as fully as I can.

Love and Peace Without Borders: Day 3

Sunday morning I woke up and already was covered in sweat, and it was still early on in the day. It was the day of the big concert, and I could feel the excitement in the air and hear the chatter of people in the street talking about Juanes and white clothing as they got ready to go or headed up to the plaza. It was an exciting day and more than half the city was planning on taking part in the historical event that was about to take place.
As anxious as we were, I don’t think that either of us felt like standing in the blazing sun for 10 hours, so we took our time. We strolled along the Malecon, stopping to photograph some boys jumping into the clear blue water, stopped for some yummy pizza in the heavenly air-conditioned Olokku, and then made our way slowly to the Plaza. I felt the tension building as we started up the hill of Paseo, every way I turned I saw groups of people in white clothing, carrying umbrellas, flags, and liters of Ciego Montero water. Everyone was ready.
When the famous monument and statue of Jose Marti was finally in view, so were the thousands and thousands of people who had come out from all over Havana, Cuba, and the world to experience this musical festival.
The concert and Juanes got so much flack for it as it was in the planning process, and I got aggravated every time I heard the news that Juanes was supporting the government or the the concert shouldn’t happen. To me, and to a lot of the Cubans, this was a chance for them to see a wonderful concert, with musicians from all over the world and from Cuba. Why should they be deprived of that just because people are against the government? Of course anything in Cuba is political, but I think it was less of a political statement and more of an opportunity for the Cuban people.
Even though it was hotter than a sauna on fire, the six-hour concert was amazing and it was incredible to be surrounded by Cubans and other people from all over the world, all dressed in white, supporting the concert theme. Olga Tanon, Miguel Bose, Victor Manuelle, Las Orishas, X Alfonso, Sylvio Rodriguez, Juanes, and Los Van Van were just some of the famous artists who participated. The crowd went crazy for every single one, throwing their arms up and dancing, taking it all in with such a joy that was contagious. There was an energy in the air that I can’t fully describe, but it was full of life, pride, and unity. The whole afternoon and evening was full of laughter, crazy people, smiling faces, amazing music, and dancing without reservation. All, of course, in true Cuban fashion.

Love and Peace Without Borders: Day 2

Starting off the weekend sleep-deprived was probably not a good idea, but even after two hours of sleep and a twelve-hour trip, I wasn’t going to stay in for my first night back in Cuba…hence the continuation of before-mentioned sleep deprivation. But such is life in Cuba. So the next morning we had to get up and ready somewhat early so that Jose could take me to the surprise he had planned for me. I had no hints at all, and no idea where he could possibly be taking me that I wouldn’t have to pay for and that I hadn’t been last time. After a refreshing cool bucket shower, we headed out into the inferno heat of the sun. We first met up with his friend, who Cubans apparently frequently mistake as an American and we had to be careful who we asked for a cab because they tried to charge him the tourist rate. Once the “Americano” found an “Americano”(the old American cars that now serve as cabs with predetermined routes) to give us a ride, we were on our way. About forty minutes, buckets of sweat, and two cabs later, we arrived in a town just outside of the city called Guanabacoa. This was our destination, a dusty town with a few of its inhabitants strolling the streets, dragging buckets of water, or playing some good Cola Loca to dance to on a hot day. We walked down the narrow potholed streets a ways until we arrived at a humble house on the corner. There we met two men who were just chilling, shirtless in the living room. We greeted them, got a tour of the house as the owner is doing some renovations. Jose introduced the balding guy with kind eyes as his padrino. He had brought me to his padrino’s house. This was way cooler than any other surprise I had tried to think up in my head. Way cooler. But I still didn’t know what we were doing there. Nothing seemed to be happening too quickly, which is typical. About half an hour later, we decide to go get food. We walk down to a little street pizza place and got pizza that had cheese that was too bitter for pizza and some amazing guava juice. I knew I missed freshly squeezed guava juice, but I hadn’t realized how much. That stuff is amazing. You have to try it.
After a couple rounds of the juice, we were hydrated and satisfied and headed back to la casa del padrino. Another good half and hour or so passed, Orishas playing on the stereo, and then the boys started to get ready for whatever it was that was coming. It was then that Jose told me that a couple of months ago, he had been initiated (not sure if that is the correct term) into the religion Palo Monte. I knew that he was kind of into it before, but now that he was a member, I was really intrigued to find out more about this religion that he so clearly believes in now. I knew a little bit about Palo, after studying it in class at Northeastern and also in the Afrocuba class in Cuba. It is a religion that was brought over from Western Africa with the slaves and has remained a part of Afrocuban culture. Unlike Santeria, Palo is a lot less known and less commercialized. It’s values are centered on the earth and the spirits of ancestors and has very unique rituals. And I was about to take part in one.
The padrino came outside and we all sat around his altar that was set up in a back patio. The altar was made up of a large wooden bucket, which I later learned is where the spirit lives, inside the bucket are sticks and other natural objects which may even include animal remains. There were other wooden bowls and rocks and other natural materials that made up the rest of the altar. Both Jose and his friend had a small wooden bowl called a lucero.
We pulled up some stumps, had a seat, and I waited to see what was going to happen.
Padrino took a stick, the palo and started reciting something in Yoruba, the African language of the religion. Jose and his friend responded in Yoruba to his phrases. Then we waited. After a few minutes, the padrino started shaking, just a little at first but then uncontrollably and what looked like, painfully. It continued for about five minutes and when he was still again, it was the spirit. The spirit then greeted all of us one by one and introduced himself to me, as we had never met. For the next two hours as he smoked about three cigars and downed a whole bottle of rum, he talked to me about my life, love, health, family, and other things that are going on in my life. He knew things about me that I had never told Jose, and some things I had never told anyone. He knew everything about me, and he gave me advice about what to do.
I have never been a religious person, but this experience got to me in a way I never would have imagined. It was spiritual, personal, surreal, and incredible. I learned a lot about myself, my relationship, and my future even, and I feel like I became friends with someone who already knew me. I will never forget it and it was a better surprise and gift than I ever could ask for.
The rest of the day I ran the experience over in my head again and again as we took the bus back and walked down Calle 23 as the sun set. That night we went to visit Maria at the Residencia. I had already been in Havana almost a day and it was all still unreal to me. I still couldn’t fully believe it was all happening, and I felt that feeling the most as I walked up to the elevator, listened for the familiar creaking sounds, cried with joy when I saw the elevator, and opened the squeaky door as if it was still my home somehow. And maybe it still is in a way. I felt like I was coming home as I rang the door bell and gave Maria the biggest hug.
Maria hasn’t changed, she is still the wise, loving, smart woman that I loved, and her coffee is just as good. We chatted about life and school and students with a Brazilian telenovela in the background, and the new students meandering around, getting ready for the night. I didn’t want to leave, I wanted to walk down the stairs to the rooms, crawl into my old bed, and stay there until the sun poured in the window from which all of Vedado and Jose’s house is visible. I would give anything to have that view everyday again.
The visit was comforting and thrilling; chatting with Maria like I had never left, going over fun memories, and seeing her affection for Jose was like coming home to my Cuban abuela.

Love and Peace Without Borders: Day 1

It was pouring when we touched down on the pavement at Jose Marti International airport. Pouring so hard that even the workers who tried to get shelter under the plane’s wings were soaked through. But I didn’t care. Yes I had straightened my hair and done my makeup for the occasion but at that point I didn’t care about any of that. I was in La Habana again.

It was a refreshing, nostalgic, and strange feeling I had as I saw the familiar yellow airport signs and the rapid garbled sounds of Cuban Spanish hit my ears. I couldn’t suppress my smile, the joy I felt to be on the island again. And I knew, as unbelievable as it felt, that soon I would be seeing Jose again.

I got into the taxi and we were headed to my destination…the corner of Quinta y A. As we drove away from the crowded aiport and into the busy streets filled with old trucks, noisy cars, and clouds of diesel fumes, the taxi driver started playing some Ludacris. Turns out, “What’s Your Fantasy” is considered appropriate cab music in Cuba. So as the driver jammed to Luda’s insightful lyrics, I soaked in everything I saw as if I was either in a crazy good dream or just waking up from a bad one. We passed the billboards that basically labeled Bush a terrorist, the ones promoting socialism, calling for the libertad of the Cuban 5, etc. People stood waiting for the infrequent buses along the roadside, passing cars honked at the women strutting by. I could already feel the heat seeping into my skin, despite the cloudy skies and I tried to prepare myself for what was coming. What will it be like, will I cry, will I know what to say? I had no idea what to expect. As we got closer and then entered into Vedado, my heart was racing. I felt like I was coming home and every familiar sight made my heart beat with life and a pure joy to be seeing them again for real, not just in my mind. We pulled up to Jose’s house and as I looked up and saw him waiting on his balcony, I felt my stomach turn with anticipation, nervousness, and butterflies. And then I was in his arms. Finally in his arms.

That evening and night was surreal to say the least. I was seeing everything and none of it had changed. I was once again with Jose and it all felt completely normal, but at the same time I didn’t believe it was happening. But either way, I couldn’t stop smiling; as I met Jose at the salon, a place I have dreamt about and all the memories that the whole group had there, as we met up with Jose’s friends Ruben and Alex, as we ate at Sol y Mar and walked along the Malecon, as we danced the night away under the stars of Havana’s clear sky. Every moment was an adventure that night, and the whole weekend.

Adventures with a Cuban Boy: Que dijiste?! Cultural Misunderstandings and Language Barriers

I have always been open to interracial, intercultural, intersocial, inter-whatever relations. The differences between two people can be fun, interesting, and make for a good strong relationship. But even in the best of relationships that involve a variety of differences, there will inevitably be misunderstandings and obstacles. I had never really thought about all that though until I was in this type of relationship. I must throw in that it is my first relationship so I'm also learning about all the relationship basics at the same time. Oy.
I think that in a lot of ways our relationship started off because of our differences. To him, I was a foreigner(bonus points!), which means money, completely different lifestyle, something different and exciting, a way to see the world a little, and to me, he was a Cuban which is exciting and different for me and a way to see the real Cuba. It didn't hurt that he was one of the more attractive human beings I've ever seen. Throughout our time together so far, we have learned a lot from our differences. I don't know what he would say but I think I opened his eyes up to a different perspective on the world, which he hasn't had the opportunity to see in the censored, caged-in society in Cuba. At the same time he has taught me about life in Cuba, his ideas, and at the same time I am learning to look at my life and my ideas differently.
There are also moments of misunderstanding that come along with these differences. The cultural misunderstandings and differences can be a little difficult, and sometimes humorous in a way. For instance, the whole dating game is completely different. After getting Jose's number, I waited the American standard 3 days to call him, not wanting to seem desperate obviously. On the third day, his friend Geovanis addressed me about it, asking why I hadn't called Jose and what was wrong with him? I tried, unsuccessfully to explain that that is how you are supposed to do things in the U.S. He just didn't get the point. I had to laugh at this and other similar instances. We play so many games in the dating world here in the U.S...don't call immediately, play hard to get, let him call you, blah blah blah. I found it relieving to not have to deal with all that. If I wanted to call him, I did, if we wanted to hang out three days in a row, we did. It was so much easier and less stressful once I got used to the fact that that is how they did it there.
I'm still trying to figure out all the different ways that we do things and the different ways that we think, and trying to embrace it for what it is and although it's hard to get around it sometimes, it's a really good thing at the same time to learn how people do things differently and adjust on both sides to make it work.
The language barriers proved a lot more comical. My Spanish is okay but nowhere near fluent, especially my Cubanespañol, and he only knows a tiny bit of English so we communicate in Spanish. We got in a fight once because I don't understand how to use the verb gustar and so thought he was saying he didn't like me; and he freaked out the other day when I told him I was having dos dientes taken out and he thought I said todos dientes. I was a little hurt that he wouldn't love me if I had no teeth...
The mix ups are endless and sometimes endlessly entertaining and the truth is I love that part of our relationship because no matter if it's good or upsetting or hilarious, it is always interesting.

A Different Life Perspective

Sometimes random experiences will put life into perspective, or give it a different perspective, if only for a moment. I work at an Immigration Center in Boston and this makes for some interesting experiences all around. We have people from all over the world who come in here, some crazy people, some very warm people, and they are always very interesting. In some cases, however, their stories are very hard to listen to.
Last Monday, first thing in the morning, no one else was in the office and I was going about my morning duties as usual. The bell rang and a man with smooth dark skin, friendly eyes, and a small suitcase walked in. He asked to apply for asylum. We don't deal with asylum at our office so throughout the next week I assisted him in finding people that do and helping him find food and shelter. I felt like although there were some things I could do to help him, it really wasn't much at all. In his helplessness, I felt my helplessness, I couldn't make things better for him, not to the extent he deserved.
He had arrived on a plane from his country the day before, having never been here before, he had dealt with torture, harassment, and threats from police and the government in Kenya and has no idea where his family is and if they are even alive. He was taken to be killed and luckily escaped. His family probably assumes him dead.
Listening to his story broke my heart. You hear these stories on the news, you know about genocide, violent discrimination, government and police brutality, etc. But when a victim who has lived it out is sitting in front of you, eyes hopeless and yearning for help, it makes it too real. Everyday we watch the news and the awful stories and the only way to deal with it is to separate yourself in some way from what is happening, to block from your mind the reality of the hell that happens all over the globe. But sometimes these stories are closer to us than we make ourselves believe.
The most awful part of the story is that in many asylum cases, even with physical evidence of abuse and torture on your body, you can be denied asylum status. It may be a necessary process to limit numbers of asylees, but I can't justify in my mind sending this man back to his home country where he will be killed by his own people.
It was a tough situation and a sad story and I realize that his story, or some version of it, is not uncommon in the least, and that is the worst part.

Anglais si vous plait

College life has it's perks. This weekend, the International Student and Scholar Institute funded a bonding/sightseeing weekend getaway for international students and those involved with the ISSI. Free transportation and a night stay at the Fairmont Montreal, a luxury hotel, were provided. Can't really beat that.
Twenty something of us piled onto the Peter Pan bus and headed to visit our Northern neighbor. After crossing the border successfully, we arrived midday in Montreal. It was a beautiful day and the perfect weather for a hike to the top of Mont Real. (<-Get it?)
Unprepared as we were, donning flip-flops and white high heels, we bush-whacked to the top of the mountain, and two hundred stairs later we were at the top. Thankfully the view was pretty great and thus a photo shoot ensued. After a sufficient number of tourist photos we headed inside to where our growling stomachs had been promised a decent meal. They were very disappointed when the said food was actually non-existent. But no worries, at least the way back was down-hill. The rest of the afternoon was free to find a nice Canadian meal, maybe a cocktail of some sort, and some exploring. Elisha and I settled on 3 Brassieurs, a restaurant brewery. The decor resembled UNO's but the food proved to be much more enjoyable. We marveled over the fact that the food there was fresh and healthy whereas the American counterpart would be greasy and cholesterol-rich. I also learned that beer, grenadine, and Sprite is not exactly a pleasant combo.
After checking into the five-star hotel that would be our home for the night, I ventured solo into the streets of the city. What I love most about Montreal and what I've seen of Canada is that although a lot of people think that it is similar to the U.S., it is much more European than American. The people are different, there is the aspect of French charm, and the romantic sounds of the motherland's tongue. The pace is different than that of Boston, a little slower, more laid-back and friendly. On my little outing I struck up a conversation with a couple colorful women from Ottowa. We chatted about Spain, fashion, Boston men, and how people in New England can be cold, and not just in the winter. As I talked to them and a couple other random people along my walk, I realized, once again, how true that is. I walk around Boston all day and rarely have a conversation with a stranger. I enjoy doing this but with most people it does not happen, and so I mind my own business in true New England fashion. Although this is what I'm used to, everytime I go away and return to Boston, I find myself yearning for that warmer culture of interaction.
The night started off wonderfully at Le Resident, a restaurant reccommended by a Montrealian, and it did not disappoint. The atmosphere was airy and warm, the drinks were yummy, and the food was delicious. The table was full of diverse smiling faces, laughter, and good conversation. From there it was time to head out on the town. A small group of us ended up first in Karina, a bar that advertised free drinks for the ladies but then did not follow through but we stayed anyways, if only for the intriguing contortionist aspect. The music was good, the drinks were reasonable and the crowd grew. When we were ready for a change we found ourselves in Havana. The sounds of Cola Loca coming from the club caught my ear quickly and I convinced everyone it would be great. Although the music delivered in true Cuban style, we arrived as the only ones and the crowd never grew. Although I reminisced as I danced to El Chacal in front of the bar stocked with Havana Club, it just could not live up to it's namesake and we headed out and to the hotel for the night.
The next day, although sleep-deprived, was relaxing and enjoyable. It started with breakfast in the Old Port, continued with the Biodome, and ended with a long trip back against the green backdrop of a summer New England sunset.

Adventures with a Cuban Boy: The Separation

So I guess meeting a random Cuban guy at a discoteca and dancing the night away is a respectable way to meet someone, right? Maybe for a vacation fling. Well in my defense, I never was expecting anything more than some fun while in another country. After all, at the end of three months I would leave, and, thanks to the US embargo, most likely never see him again. So that was my plan, and his too.

Six months and 3,000 miles later, we are still going strong. Well, maybe strong isn't the best word, but we are going. The end of March got nearer and nearer and I was not ready to say goodbye to Jose. We had gotten too close and real feelings had started to develop, whether I told them to go away or not. There was no avoiding it, I was in it. So I told my Cuban boy, I love you, see you sometime, and got on that plane and flew away.

The separation anxiety, both from Cuba and from my love were traumatizing to say the least. Nothing could comfort me, not even Poptarts, something I had dreamed about in one of my hazy Cuban afternoon-nap dreams. I longed for the warmth of the island and the people, the adventure of every day, and of course Jose. Sitting here, four months later, I still miss Cuba more than ever, and I love Jose possibly more than before. Obama is trying but I don't see an end to this freakin' embargo anytime soon so basically I'm screwed. But I believe that despite all that, there could be a way. They say it's good to follow your heart, and that's what I'm doing.

So here's how it's working out so far. I have spent about $500 calling him and we've only talked about a handful of times in the period of separation. He can no longer afford to e-mail me because he has no money and they raised the price for the e-mail center. We have had serious conversations, silly conversations, conversations where I love him more and conversations that make me hate him a little. Cultural misunderstandings and language barriers constantly provide obstacles. Trust is an issue on both ends, and sometimes I wonder if I'm making a huge mistake. But after all that, I think about everything, good and bad, and couldn't be more sure that all of this is somehow worth it. Maybe I'm stupid, naive, or just crazy, but if you love someone and want to be with them, why not fight as hard as you can to be with them, across unfriendly borders, pesky legal systems, and a distance of thousands of miles?

Adventures with a Cuban boy

When I packed my bag to go to Cuba to study for three months, I wasn’t expecting for much in the way of love. With my track record, I was barely expecting a hook up in a discoteca. So as I headed to Cuba, there was nothing but warnings running through my head, warnings from virtually everyone I had talked to about Cuba, friends, acquaintances, or strangers, telling me to watch out for those Cuban men. And, well, I guess I should have followed their wisdom and thus would not be in my current situation, but what can you do?
It started at Almanecer, a small, underground club that started its night with some colorfully clad entertainers with a handful of talent, and continued the night with some bumpin’ tunes to boogie to. It was our first weekend on the controversial island and already I loved the place. We had met a cool young guy, Geovanis, who worked in our building and invited us out on the town. He had shown us a good time the previous nights, but tonight he wanted to show a couple of us girls a real discoteca, and brought along his friend Jose to join the fun and meet some of his new American friends. When Jose walked out of his place, all of us were immediately impressed and maybe a little nervous. He was skinny but you could see his lean muscles through his t-shirt and dark jeans. His dark skin was complemented by a hairstyle of thick dreads and perfect dimples on both sides of his face. He greeted us all politely and we looked at each other with expressions that said, “dammnnn”.
Me, being the shy girl who never talks to attractive men, walked behind him, admiring his behind and eavesdropping on his conversations with the other girls to get an idea of what he was like. Oh, right, I forgot I don’t understand Cuban Spanish yet, well, he has a sexy voice anyways. We got to the club, ordered drinks, watched the opening entertainment awkwardly, failing at our attempts at conversation over the ear-ringing volume of music. With each sip of Havana Club, we eased up and soon the reggaeton was turned up and the stage turned into a busy dance floor. We all were having a good time, dancing with each other in a group, me staying at a safe distance from the dreaded temptation (no pun intended). My efforts proved useless as I found him eyeing me and doing a silly-looking dance move that was surely intended to be seductive. Even though he looked a little ridiculous, it was unintentionally charming and I accepted his offer to dance.
As the tobacco smoke got thicker, the music sexier, our vision blurrier and as we got deafer, I decided that I liked this strange, presumably dangerous, Cuban man. I blame the dimples.