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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
I saw groups of people in white clothing, carrying umbrellas, flags, and liters of Ciego Montero water. Everyone was ready.
