Not the Melia

Here’s a secret. Nothing good happens at the Melia Cohiba.
           Tonight is Monday and I am sitting in the lobby of the Melia alongside three classmates all with hopes of escaping the residencia noise and making a dent in our increasing workload. One student with his laptop, and the rest of us with journals pricier than an average Cuban’s monthly salary sit atop the plush couches, a glass of wine by our side and a background of cheap Jazz covers gloss over our ears. Over the past month the Melia has become an unexpected refuge. A place where you can run to get out of the rain, where you can buy a cup of coffee when Maria runs out, where you can use the bathroom without carrying a purse full of tissue, where you can sneak in to use the swimming pool on a hot day and where you can bring find an empty chair and a plug when those in your house are occupied by your 17 roommates. The Melia is comfortable, drinks are expensive, English whispers are constantly heard and you can sit invisibly alongside other tourists without a single thought of what’s going on outside the hotel doors. Tonight the Melia is not comfortable. One of my classmated asks us what we will miss about Cuba, the other two have trouble coming up with an answer. They talk, instead, about things they miss from home. “Ellie, will you miss things?” “Of course.” I reply, and then realize that I have to leave because if there is one thing I won’t miss, it’s the Melia. 

             Being a stranger in Cuba has brought to life an indistinct no-man’s land where I am everyone and no one at the same time. Walking down the street, my clothes, my skin and my swagger draw attention to the fact that I am not from here, it brings locals to my side asking for a handout and policemen that walk one step behind to protect my North American skin. It brings cab drivers eager to know my entire life story and groups of artists and scholars more than willing to share their own. In many ways our stranger-dome has given us an immediate Cuban identity but it has also allowed us to cross over untouched thresholds into hotel lands where faces circle in an out and anonymity reigns.

            As I leave the Melia, I try to think about what I will miss from home. Weeks before we left for Cuba I had become more disenchanted with school, with Ann Arbor and the University than I have ever been before. “I have to get out,” I would say over and over to my roommate as waves of claustrophobia began getting stronger and stronger. People seemed too unhappy and I was ready to escape the stress and chaos that was dominating my life. Now, months later and cell phone free at last, I have trouble thinking of things that I miss from home. I miss my best friend, non-Cuban wine, my mother’s smile and the feeling my body had before drowning itself in sugary pastries, but I also know that coffee will never taste the same without a handful of sugar. I wonder what it will feel like to be back in a place where things are familiar and you don’t have to walk into the next neighborhood to find a sandwich on a Monday afternoon. When I ask people for updates on home they all say “it’s the same.” And I realize that I’ve passed stage one of the anthropologist’s homesick dilemma, no longer searching for familiarity, but afraid for when it will return.

Dancing

Jose Fernandez* is a 25 year old dancer in a local dance company  in Havana. Tonight, he sits calmly along the Malecón and tells me of his love for dance. His voice is quiet but as he begins to talk it’s clear that his voice surfaces through his body and he moves gestures vividly with as much energy and motion as the crashing waves. 

If I couldn’t dance, I would die. It’s in my blood.

When I was little, like four of or five years old, my cousin began to teach me to dance. He was a professional dancer and I was always interested in what he was doing. He began by teaching me the music and then over time I learned the steps. I’ve been dancing ever since. Now I dance every day. I have classes five days a week but if I’m not dancing with my company, I’m dancing in my house, on the streets, anywhere I can move.

I’m not very interested in politics. That’s what everyone who comes to Cuba asks me. I don’t support the government, there’s no way I could, but I’ve had to learn to live under it. It doesn’t define me, it doesn’t define my friends and it doesn’t define my family. We’ve made our own communities and we have our own fun. That’s why I love dance. When you dance you are human and when you don't have your freedom you have to find a way to be human. My mother died 12 years ago and I moved in with my uncle and my grandmother. It was then that I really began to realize that it is my relationships that matter. One can complain all they

I would never want to live anywhere except Cuba. I’ve traveled through South America and the Caribbean with my company but nowhere has compared to here. I would like to go to the U.S. at some point but I would never want to live there. Kids there are so caught up in drugs and violence: there is no youth, there is no fun. The people of Cuba are so vibrant, and so fun; here there is music on the streets. In the U.S. there are gangs on the streets. It’s something I can’t imagine.

PS: The majority of this narrative was taken from a conversation that I had with Andy one night. Andy is a young Cuban student who is learning English and was able to help me with most of the translation errors or questions. As we began talking we talked a little more about family and favorite music but I chose to include the above parts both for sensitivity purposes and interest to the reader.

When there is nothing to do, I like to go for a walk.

It is with unplanned repetition that these walks will lead to me a stone park near Calle San Martin in Centro Habana. To sit in Centro Habana mid afternoon is to everywhere and no where at the same time. Today it’s a little after five and the bustle of the park has died down only just a little. The sun in beginning to set and it casts an indescribable glow over the park as though this is the only place in the world. Guillermo who sells sandwiches on the corner has just given away his last piece of bread and talks wildly to his partner as they fold up their tables and chairs. Guilermo has sold 10 peso sandwiches on this corner for three years and says that he loves the people.

“Son Buenísimas, but they talk a lot. They don’t always buy.”

As Guillermo continues packing, a group of girls, just out of school gathers under a tree. Pulsating beats erupt from their speaker providing a perfect soundtrack for them to eat ice-cream and laugh wildly at any young boy who walks by. Later they disappear one by one without and sound and without a trace as though they were never there in the first place.

My favorite part of the park is the large graffiti wall that outlines and abandoned parking lot on the Western side. Images of faces and lonely eyes separated by vivid splashes of color adorn the wall in Dali style graffiti. We were once were told that “Cuba is Salvador Dali’s country.”  If that is so, this may be the heart of Havana. Yesterday the wall was empty, left alone to be looked at and questioned. Today it has become a stadium to four boy and a baseball game. They run wildly through rock made bases and use an old brown ball to score their points. Red shorts just got tagged. He is out.

““José” shouts a woman from a second floor balcony. “José, “José!” It is time for red shorts to go home and he grabs his bat and runs through the parking lot straight towards his home. Within seconds the graffiti wall is once again abandoned and Dali’s eyes are left to look upon the empty park.

I decide that my ealk is over and leave my bench for an old man who is walking toward the park. He has three bags in his hand and looks tired.

homesickness

Here, on our weekend trips east of Havana, we go from bus to plaza, plaza to store, store to bus, bus to hotel, hotel to plaza, plaza to bus, bus to statue to ruins to store to bus. Fed two square meals a day. Put up in rooms with two full-sized beds and towels sculpted in the shape of little men. There are views of the mountains in Trinidad. A balcony looking out on the ocean in Caibarien. Slatted window blinds filtering the shouts of the center of Cienfuegos. A friend or a tour guide always speaking in Spanish to explain what this building signifies (one of the five oldest theaters in Cuba!) what that monument means (Ché liberated this city!). People to translate if I’m confused.

Bus back to the Residence in Havana. Rickety service elevator with the rectangular gap in its roof, up 13 or so flights to Maria, with her glossy calves and the burn mark down her right arm. Yesterday she told us she would rather live on a lower floor. She changes our sheets and mops our bathroom floors, but still hugs us when we return and feeds us breakfast. Rotating schedule of scrambled eggs and boiled eggs.

Here, in Havana, I can go back to another hotel to read in the most quiet that’s available. But at the Melia Cohiba, named for the Cuban cigars I can smoke here but not at home, the piano music is distracting and so are the older white European men sitting with the younger Cuban women of color. The only other Cubans here are the ones waiting on us and guarding the doors. The rose-colored soft chairs, the butter colored couches and butter colored walls should be soothing, but they remind me of the butter at the residence.

The other students slather it on our soft white bread. I haven’t tasted it yet. At home I hardly even buy butter. My parents only keep butter for baking. They teach me to use olive oil instead; it’s better for you. At home, there are people always wanting what’s better for me. Or maybe that’s my nostalgic construction of home, which isn’t even one place anymore. It could mean my old bedroom with the blue curtains, sandwiched between my parents’ room and my little sister’s room. Or the basement room there that we call George. It could mean Ann Arbor, where there is no room for me anymore, only faint impressions of the love I’ve made and had, like body prints in memory foam, like the way old sweat smells inside my shoes.

Celia is inside each of these places. But I didn’t come to Cuba to escape from my dead sister. I don’t think so anyway.

The winter, real winter, is in each of these places. I know I was somehow trying to escape from the person I become when sun fails me.

But here I am, a bit of that person nonetheless, even with plenty of sun and Maria’s scrambled eggs. Nobody to tell me not to eat the butter but myself.

Not being a “Rubia”, “preeeety lady”, or a “Rusita”.

Going about my daily activities without an intense stare, hiss hiss HISS, or a “que linda”.

Not feeling rude or arrogant when I do my best to ignore the compliment giver by rushing by without a simple smile or even a glance.

Not being singled out among the other passer-bys.

Putting on clothes in the morning without rating the outfit on a “How American do I look today?” scale.

Not feeling guilty for not speaking the native language.

Walking into a hotel with whomever I'm with.

Not to be forced to spend my days and nights with my new best friends.

Having price tags, with concrete, unchanging prices, so as not to be ripped-off on a daily basis.


Not having people assume I have money to spend simply because I'm foreign.

Walking into mass at the local Catholic church without people asking if I'm there to sight-see.

Not being ignored when I stand in line at a food stand full of locals.


Being anonymous, being able to blend in.

Not worrying about how I will feel once I leave this island that I've fallen in love with.


Sadly letting the memories fade as the days, months and years go on.

Open your Heart to Cuba

**This is not a true story**

After many weeks of wallowing in my sorrow, I realized that the only way to improve my experience in Cuba was through me. Days filled with hunger, because I refused to eat. Restless nights of insomnia because I refused to sleep. Maria, our house mother at La Residencia, advised me to let go and just enjoy Cuba. The internal complexities my emotions combated had reached their breaking point and could no longer resist the temptation to adhere to the advice of Maria and let free and enjoy Cuba as she is. For I cannot change her, what I need to do is open my heart to her.

Thus the journey begun, and I set my goals upon opening my heart to her and locking her inside so she would never leave, so that I would never have a dull moment with her. So I opened my heart towards the sea. The waves crashed against El Malecón as I threw my key over it. But the unsettling waves of the sea spewed it right back to me. "Hmm," I thought to myself, "maybe I need to try again, or try slightly harder."

And I did. On the class went to one excursion after another. First to Matanzas, we entered La Farmacia a room filled with an array of colorful multi-sized jars with healing powers enclosed within. I opened my heart wide, locked Cuba inside and found a glass bottle jar to drop my key inside. I let out a sight a relief for I felt content. "That should do it," or so I thought. Later on that day, in an attempt to relieve a throbbing headache I opened my bottle of ibuprofen only to find my key inside. Confused and perplexed I removed the key, put it in my pocket, took the medication, and pondered to myself: "why and how?"
The excursions continued. On our second trip we departed from Havana to the cities of Santa Clara, Trinidad, Caibarién and Sancti Spíritus. We stopped to view the sugar mills of Trinidad, the picturesque mountains and landscape into the distance. I opened my heart once more, locked it and threw my key as far as I could into the sugar mills of Trinidad. Later on during the excursion we stopped at a resort in Caibarién. At dinner my eyes filled with excitement as I gazed at the buffet, viewing all the various pastries delicately sprinkled with sugary goodness. "Yum," I thought to myself and placed one onto my plate. I hurried back to the table and bit into the pastry only to encounter a-"crunch!"-I spat out what tasted like metal into my plate. It was my key. Once again, I felt confused and didn't understand why every time I tried to lock my heart and dispose of the key it returned to me.

On and on this happened.
In Sancti Spíritus, I left my key in a pew of the Iglesia Parroquial Mayor, later to open my Bible and find my key there.
Again in Santa Clara, I buried it near El Monument de Ché, only to rencounter my key in at the librería (bookstore) of Casa de las Américas, while skimming through The Diary of Ché Guevara.

"What is going on?" I pondered frustratingly. Upset at my continued failed attempts, I paced back to La Residencia and saw Maria on my way to my room.

"Hola Maria," I grumbled, "Que tal mi amor," she inquired, her face expressed concern in my unpleasant mood. I proceeded to explain to Maria my strategy of keeping Cuba in my heart by unlocking it to her, placing a part of her inside and throwing away the key-along with each unsuccessful attempt I had experienced. She looked at me slightly mistified by my response, but said nothing. I hurried along to my room, plopped my things down on my bed, placed my key on the night stand and headed toward the shower. After showering, I returned to my room, only to discover that my key was missing! After endless searching and asking all of my housemates if they had seen my key, I raced desperately to Maria's room. There she sat silently, her eyes smiling for she was watching her favorite telenovela.

I proceeded to asked her if she had seen my key. Maria sighed, clasped her hand in mine, and I felt the warmth from the metal in my palm of my hand. My heart tingled, it was my key. She sat me down, we faced one another eye-to-eye. Ay mi vida, she smiled at me with her eyes fixed upon mine, "if you lock your heart and throw away the key, how will you re-open it again, and where will you put the things you love?"

Dreamer

I like to say that I was a dreamer. I enjoyed letting my imagination run freely as the countless stray dogs that run through the streets of Havana. They have no private owner—they are owned by the state. Now, my dreams succumb to the denseness of reality, winding through the labyrinth of time trying to find its way out so my brain can dream again.
Some dreams are generalized, and associated with groups of people. There is the “American Dream” which is the desire to succeed in the United States through the completion of one’s occupational goals. Another example is the Cuban Dream. What the Cuban Dream is exactly, I have not figured out for it varies amongst Cubanos. For those in favor of the revolution, it is generalized that their dream relies on the idea of socialismo, things being run by the state in order to reach equality among the Cuban people. Others, against this mindset desire to seek more than equality, what it is that they are seeking has been generalized and stereotyped as well.
Among those not in agreement with the concept of socialismo, it is stereotyped that those Cubanos seek refuge in the United States. After viewing high profile cases such as Elian Gonzales, it is tempting to agree with this stereotype, but there are some that do not share the same views with the Cuban government, or the idea of socialismo, but neither have intentions to seek refuge in the United States.
I walk along the roadside of Havana because Giovani warns Aliesha and I that the sidewalks are too bumpy. “Camina aquí, en la calle,” Giovani informs us. Giovani, a young male in his late twenties who works for La Residencia (the place to which students attending Casa de Las Americas reside) befriended Aliesha and I within the first week of our arrival. He refers to us as his hermanitas or little sisters. Tall, with his broad shoulders and skinny legs, he walks before us leading the way to the home of a family friend of Aliesha.
Somewhere along the walk, the conversation shifted to life goals and aspirations, Giovani asks us if we would come back to Cuba, Aliesha and I insisted NO! His strong facial features gathered close together as he shifted his head to the side indicating that he was slightly perplexed. “¿Por que no?” he inquired. Aliesha and I continued to demonstrate the reality of living in Cuba, from outsider perspective and how it does not coincide with the American Dream. “In Cuba, I feel like I cannot do anything,” Aliesha explained, “there is no retribution for working hard, people work different jobs and get paid similar low wages, that is not fair.” I nodded in accordance to Aliesha’s protest. It did not make sense to us that a taxi driver makes more money than a doctor.
As we proceeded to inform Giovani how things work in the United States the question presented itself: “when do you plan to move to the US?” The key word here is when, I cannot speak for Aliesha, but I was assuming that Giovani had intentions of leaving Cuba. “No quiero salir de Cuba,” firmly responded Giovani. His expressions secure with his statement and his body language did not display any sign of resentment. We all stood there as though time met pause until Alisha interjected and asked why. Giovani sighed, looked over his shoulder and asked us in return “what is there for me in the United States?” Now Aliesha and I were perplexed because we did not know what to say. We both began to studder, while trying to compose appealing reasons, but none came to mind. Never had a Cuban ask me such a question. Giovani said to us “I enjoy myself here, in Cuba.”
It was not until then that I realized that not every Cuban in opposition to Fidel, or to the idea of socialism desires the American Dream. For them, this dream may have no worth. It was here that I began to re-evaluate the concept of the American Dream and ponder if my dreams had any valediction. This point commenced the fading of my own dreams, because I too began to question the roots of my own dreams.
I like to say that I miss dreaming. Now, mis sueños slowly fade as does the moon when the hot Cuban sun reveals itself at the break of dawn. I am reminded of the statue of John Lennon in a local park in Havana. At his feet inscribed in the marble reads: "Dirás que soy un soñador pero no soy el único." Perhaps, quizás, my dreams and I may reunite once again.