Por fin: Memories of my December trip to CUBA

So as many of you know, I returned to Cuba a third time this past December for winter break. I had the full intention of blogging about it and kept a journal, but I found that when I came back, my experience had honestly been more emotional and personal then interesting blogging material. It was an amazing trip but it was mostly hanging out and enjoying the time with everyone and trying to figure out my life. The long days consisted of different eating establishments and my best memories of the trip revolve around our meals and where we ate and the events that surrounded the meal such as the time that I split my finger open when I attempted to pull in a chair that was not actually nailed together at 7Mares our fave seafood restaurant. Or when we went to El Caramelo and the fried chicken that looked heavenly on the outside was raw on the inside and we both basically crawled home to bed with horrible stomachaches. Or when we walked 20 minutes in cold rain past the John Lennon statue to Jose’s favorite street pizza joint which needless to say was not really worth the cold walk but I loved every bite of that pizza. Or when we cooked whatever we could find and afford in the kitchen at Jose’s house, using a rock to mince the marinade and tenderize the beef, a piece of tin to grate the weird-tasting cheese, and rusty scissors to open a bottle of Soroa  to accompany the meal.
When we weren’t eating or planning where to eat, we danced, went on random photo adventures to different parts of the city, sat on the Malecon and talked or daydreamed, talked to random people on the street, or chilled at a friends house enjoying the company, good music, and some drinks. Every day crawled by lazily and even though the temperatures were at record lows, I feel those days now with warmth. My connections grew stronger, I fell more in love, I learned about people, I learned about myself. It was a brave trip I think and I didn’t really realize that when I booked it. It was daring of me to go back, to see Jose again despite everything that had gone on throughout the year and all the things I didn’t know. I maybe was crazy to go by myself and spend all that money just to be with Jose and try to make things work. But I did it. And I don’t regret anything. Although I took those trips back to Cuba so soon because I had Jose as an excuse, I was there for myself. Even with the confusion that Cuba relentlessly provides, the occasional heartbreak, the cold bucket showers, and missing toilet seats, I have never been as happy as I feel when I am there. And I can’t explain it. Even if you gave me hours and days to explain. I couldn’t. Because I don’t even understand.

Adventures with a Cuban boy: Ya se acabo

The "Adventures with a Cuban boy" string of posts have come to an end since Jose and I decided to end things, but I have a feeling that the actual adventures will never be completely over and even if they are, they will always stay with me because of the things that I learned from him and because of him. While on the subject of Cuban men, I want to address the issue of dating them. I have been optimistic about Cuban men despite all the warnings that people drilled into me, all the stories I heard, and I want to stay that way but stereotypes exist for a reason. Cubans are known for being manipulatively charming, attractive, and mostly chilling with a gringa for money or a ticket out. Although of course not all Cuban men are like that but think about it... If you already knew everyone in your neighborhood and most of the city, were in a dead end job that didn’t pay enough to buy food, and had no chance of leaving the place where you have always lived and never really changed, wouldn’t you want to spend time with the tourists or students who visit? They are usually willing to take you out so they can have a good time with the locals, bringing you to places you can't afford to go by yourself, and they have stories about the outside world that aren’t being fed to you by socialized media. I mean, I would. I'm not trying to justify using people but I also don’t blame them and I don’t judge them. But it gets complicated when a relationship actually begins. I have been judged and gotten weird looks for admitting that I was with a Cuban for so long, "Don't you know he just wants a ticket out?", "Be careful", etc...But I knew the situation I was getting into and I let myself, partly for the naive thought that he was different. And maybe he is. Either way, I feel like it is best to not trust them, even if they may actually be genuine. Then at least you are covering your ass for better or worse. I don't however think that Cuban men should be avoided or scrutinized. After all, relationships are never easy and bad things happen in relationships no matter where the people are from. Just be aware and understanding instead of critical because if you find someone you love, it's worth it to know them and at least try, no matter the circumstances. I knew all of that before I got involved and I knew it during and I know it now. I knew what was coming, I knew what was going on, I knew what would happen. But at the same time I didn’t know and I still don’t and probably never will. Does that make sense? Probably not but there ya go. Asi es la vida…and I wouldn’t take any of it back.

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/