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.

Detalles

No Ganas a intentar to understand Cuba. There is nothing to gain in this attempt because it usually leaves you nowhere. I did not think that the lyrics to Detalles sung by Roberto Carlos would be so applicable in this case but they have proven to be, but nothing makes sense—every explanation requires an explanation, and every story another.

As a traveler in Cuba I feel lifeless.
The clock is ticking but I am still. The Cuban world moves around me and I can just observe. I am a stranger looking into a Cuban snow globe shaking it every now and then to see which direction the snowflakes will settle. Although it does not snow in Cuba I will always remain as an outsider looking in.

I cannot participate
Although I try to negotiate
These factors seem to associate
With the matters which make me feel desolate

As a traveler in Cuba I miss the nonsensical things that once made sense in the United States: A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, fast food, comfort food, things that once made me smile, now are no where to be found -or they have faded into the distance-some say my smile has too…

Llegar

To arrive, to a foreign destination, never thought it would be so. I waited for this day to come, and never thought it would. Now, I’m standing here, trying to collect my thoughts, trying to digest this reality, but after spending a night in the hospital, digestion has proven not to be my forte. I take it all with stride. Each stride becomes more familiar. Buildings, sidewalks, street signs become less distant—walking back from Casa to La Residencia-the 13 floor building to which we reside-the air carried a density reminiscent of what many rainy days carry (including the one this morning).
The waves crashed above El Malecón as if they were competing against me for a grasp of Havana. After several failed attempts to take a picture of the perfect wave the conclusion was reached to leave. Thus I left, somewhat pictureless, and a thousand words less of what I was trying to capture.
Now, as the air becomes more familiar, stomach more settled, and ear more adjusted to the sounds of Español Cubano—I can finally declare that I have arrived.

Homesickness

I miss Mindy Sue, my miniature poodle, and I even think I miss Gemma, my mom’s hyperactive and sometimes annoying wiener dog. I miss not thinking twice about petting a dog I see. I miss cereal. Oh how I miss Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes, the only two cereals I care to stock my apartment pantry with. I miss having something other than hard-boiled and scrambled eggs for breakfast. I miss readily available toilet paper in every bathroom. Charmin Ultra Soft and Bath & Body Works Warm Vanilla hand soap, I miss you. I miss not having to carry a wad of toilet paper in my purse and I miss not having to worry about forgetting to bring that extremely important wad with me to every bathroom I enter. I miss my closet, which beautifully houses my favorite clothes and collection of shoes. It might sound silly but I miss having a wide variety of options when I’m getting dressed in the morning. I miss not having to live out of a suitcase. I really miss living by myself and not having to share my living space with 16 other people. I miss knowing where everything is and knowing what there is to do and at what time I can do it.

Mami y Papi, los extraño tanto. I miss seeing your faces, the most familiar faces I know. I miss the comfort and security that it gives me to know that when I’m in Ann Arbor you are only a one and a half hour drive away. Alma, I miss you more than I can say. So I’ll just leave it at that. My sorority sisters, I miss the crazy, stupid amounts of love that we shower each other with every day. You ladies are my home away from home, but here I don’t have a home away from home away from home. Tia, my protégé, I miss being there to guide you and see you grow. You are never far from my thoughts. Jeff, mi mejor amigo through thick and thin. I miss our silly fights and all the joy that just being in the same room with you brings me.

Yes, I am absolutely blessed and incredibly grateful to have had this opportunity to experience living in Havana for three months. Yes, it is the opportunity of a lifetime; one that very few undergraduate American students have the chance to experience. Yes, I am truly enjoying my time here and yes, I have learned more than my mind can even begin to process right now. However, I would be lying to myself if I said that during my time here I missed none of the people, comforts, and material possessions from my life back in the states. Obviously, I do. Yet, when I catch myself thinking about it too much or for too long, I quickly try to snap myself out of it. What’s the point of crowding my head and thoughts with the people and things I miss if my days in Havana are numbered? I want to make sure that I take advantage of as much as I can while I’m here, knowing that when I leave on April 2nd I’m instantly going to miss a million and one things about being here. But I can’t help it. I do miss home.

A neon sunset

I’m never expecting it or waiting to see it, but it’s always a breathtaking surprise when I do. It usually happens at 1ra y C at around 6:30pm, once I’ve turned the corner and passed the “Playa Girón” block letter sign. I’m usually completely lost in my thoughts, or making sure I don’t get run over by a speeding car while absent-mindedly crossing the street, or focused on the waves crashing fiercely on the Malecón wall and spilling over on the street forcing cars to slow down for once. However, my thoughts come to a screeching halt when I see the neon pink and orange rays of dim sunlight amidst a grayish blue sky. The sun is setting over the Malecón. The clouds are stretched out into long, uneven wisps and I’m not even sure if they are the neon or the grayish blue.

Only three more cuadras until I reach the residencia. I purposefully slow down. These three blocks are familiar to me now and I like walking them on my own. I am used to the sound of engines constantly roaring past me, away from the fluorescent spectacle, not amused by the sun’s final performance of the day. Couples sit intimately on the Malecón, sweetly kissing each other, and for once I am not annoyed at their public display of affection because I know that I would be doing the exact same thing with that special someone. But I don’t feel lonely. If anything, it’s comforting to see and feel these strangers’ affection from across the street. From across the street, on days when the sea is rough, I also feel the mist of the sea carried by the wind. It hits my face ever so lightly and I lick the salitre from my lips. And before I know it I’ve reached the residencia. I linger for a little longer admiring the organic beauty of the sun’s departure for a few more seconds and finally turn my back on it and pray that it comes out tomorrow.

La mejor noche en Varadero

Lights are down. I have just been escorted to my front row, stage right seat. Although I know that what awaits will be infiltrated with extremely problematic racial dynamics, and blatant exoticization of women of color, I try to justify me being here by telling myself that I’ve never been to a cabaret. I am seated for no more than one minute, when the music starts and the lights come on. The dancers quickly emerge from both sides of a blood red velvet curtain. My initial excitement quickly sizzles away as I think damn, these women do not want to be here at all right now. In fact, I think they would rather be anywhere else but here right now. The sign behind me reads, “La mejor noche en Varadero.” I’m only at the Hotel Internacional for one night, but if I were here for more I doubt this would be the best night in Varadero. Why is the sign behind me? It’s almost as if this sign was purposefully placed there as motivation for these cabaret dancers, knowing that they would need it. The show just started and over half of them have absolutely no expression on their faces, like they have done this a million times before, like they are performing a monotonous chore that has become routine. Twirl twice on beat this, stick chest out on beat that. It has become so mechanical and repetitive that they don’t even bother to stay on beat. It’s hard to watch. The syncopated rhythm of their steps makes them look so messy. If I were able to hear it through the music, it would sound like wild popping popcorn. Ironically, their worn costumes are different shades of blue, a color that has come to be associated with sadness.

But their form tells me that they are in fact good dancers. However, the best of dancers would probably not feel that way if they had to wear costumes that looked like hand-me-down-down-downs, if they had to perform with several holes in their fishnet stockings, if their leotard had a gaping hole right under their titty tassle adorned left breast, if their shoes were so worn that it felt as though they had no soles to dance on, while making sure not to trip over the exposed wires on the stage. I keep watching and become fixated on one particular dancer. Out of all the others who have at least flashed a smile once or twice, her face has not changed. Her expression is blank except for her right eyebrow, which is arched ever so slightly. Where is she from? Where does she live? Does she have any children? What is she missing right now, because she has to be here tonight dancing for me?

Now that I am trying to remember her, the elderly lady who must be below five feet tall because I look down at her in my memory, I only recall her in shades of yellow. It is possible that she has a very wrinkled face, eyes pouched so tightly in bags of skin that I cannot surmise their color, a shock of white hair cut at geometric angles. Her clothes might be plain, or I am just bad at recalling outfits. Either way, she appears in sepia.

She stands in front of the peeling white and blue wall tagged with the black inscriptions: “El Choco 411” and “Yaris 413.” I want to document my time waiting for and riding the guagua: Number 27 from Palatino in Cerro to Avenida de los Presidentes in Vedado. I like the guagua culture. How people cooperate, don’t get irritable over lack of space, and operate on an honor system. How I have never seen a bus map or schedule, and sometimes I don’t see signs, but somehow everyone knows where to catch the bus, when it will come, and where it will go.

She waits, just to the left of these tags, under the shadow cast by the awning of the parada. An aesthetically pleasing photograph forms in my imagination. Gathering my nerves, I approach this very serious looking woman. I try to explain in Spanish, “I’m a student from the United States. I’m doing a project for school about the guagua. Can I take a picture of you?” Not a very convincing argument. She squints at me, than quarter smiles and shrugs. “You don’t want me to?” I ask. She shrugs again. Shakes her head. I stammer, “I’m sorry,” then wander away from her line of sight to the other side of the bus stop.

Discouraged, I contemplate not asking other people for their photographs. I feel slightly criminal as I snap shots of the bus stop from afar, of people’s backs, justifying my actions by reminding myself that I would never take a picture close-up or of someone’s face without their permission.

“¿Que es el último?” call out three different people as they arrive in succession over the course of a few minutes. “¿Veinte-siete?” responds the chorus. When each arrival nods, someone raises his or her hand. They acknowledge each other, then lean, or settle into conversation, or lower slowly to a bench. I move to sit across from a group of three: Two men and a woman. I try again to ask for a photograph. This time I add the disclaimer that I know it’s strange but I think the bus is interesting and they have a bus stop sign behind them. They translate my muddled Spanish to each other, then look at me blankly. The woman with the straightened hair and smooth brown cheeks confirms that I want a picture of her. She breaks out into laughter, shakes her head at me. No. I apologize, banish myself to another bench. Procure myself a place in line after the last woman who asked. Raise my hand when the next person asks. Clutch my 5 centavos CUC (the closest equivalent to 40 centavos moneda nacional, but still worth more than one entire peso cubano. Even my pennies are privileged). Try to listen in on the snippets of conversation around me, but the Spanish is too quiet, or too far, or too fast.

The 27 arrives, and because it’s Sunday, there is not a huge crowd scrambling to climb onto the bus or squeezing into an already limited space. I stand behind the woman with the headscarf and wait my turn to press my coin into the driver’s firm hand.

I plan to take pictures on the guagua. I sit in the back, thinking I will continue to photograph from afar. I hope to capture the interactions of friendly strangers talking about baseball, or the way a couple doesn’t mind being forced up against each other, or a child sitting on her mother’s lap, or the raucous laughter of uniformed students on their way back from school. But another old lady sits next to me, and I feel ashamed. I can’t take secret pictures with her watching.

If we were in the front of the bus, she might be sitting and I might be standing, arms outstretched to grab hold of the bar overhead. She might offer to hold my bag in her lap for me, like other old women do for the younger ones who give up their seats. Then maybe we could talk, and maybe I could take her picture. Instead, I am afraid to bother her, and I take a few blurry photos of views out the window before the vibrations of the motor rock me to sleep. Remember, it’s Sunday, and there’s not much going on anyway. When I wake up, another woman is sitting next to me and I have to squeeze past her, allowing her to hold my elbow and help me along, “Con permiso,” past a few men laughing and shouting, “¡Permiso!” until I am stumbling out onto the curb, taking a parting shot at the guagua with my camera as it roars away, turning and heading the twenty five blocks back to the Residencia.

two weeks past

two weeks past

What is the kitchen? Where is the kitchen? One observes that the kitchen is more than the kitchen but extends to the dining room, the washing machine hallway, the residence’s rooftop. In the kitchen is the empty fridge. It doesn’t work. In the dining room is the working fridge. This is where the food is refrigerated- the juices, the water, the bottom drawers full of tomatoes. But not all of the produce is kept in the fridge. Boxes of lettuce, spinach and pineapples are kept neatly stacked in the little through-way that holds the washing machine, also connecting the kitchen to the door out to the hallway. If produce is not kept here you may find it outside on the roof in the open closet-like alcove next to the empty swimming pool, best view of Havana. In the alcove under the ladder with a sheet hanging to dry is a bag of potatoes, a box of plantains. Sometimes we find boxes of larger tubers and then we know that we will be having malanga for dinner soon.

The eggs, stacked 4 flats high, 30 small eggs to a flat, are kept not in the fridge, not outside of the fridge, but on top of the fridge, not the dining room fridge but the kitchen fridge, the one that does not work. We put cakes on top of the fridge, too, though these go on working fridges. At Casa de las Américas, Morgan’s birthday cake was kept on top of the fridge in the school’s kitchen. When I came back to the residence carrying the cake I asked Marta where to place it, followed her to the dining room fridge and, thinking she meant inside the fridge, opened the fridge. Her hand began smacking the top, “No. Aquí! Aquí!,” and then it occurred to me that perhaps the on-top-of-the-fridge resting place for cakes was a universal practice in Cuba.

3 weeks past

I sit at an outside café table, metal, painted red but peeling, circus-like awning, cheapest coffee on 23^rd. Blue Lonely Planet covers scattered all around, held by fellow café sitters, quite a tourist spot I think, full of Cuba guidebooks. Neighboring table of six Canadian men only holds twenty-four empty Buccaneros. Women weave through them, they are younger and Cuban, kissing cheeks, her hands playing games with his, hers holding a beer just bought by his, and suddenly I feel like I am only peeking at Cuba through keyholes, watching exchanges I perhaps should not be seeing. It’s hard not to stare though when sitting alone, when not talking, sentiments of distance moving in fast and now this is all being observed as if through glass, you on one side, world on the other.

A man shuffles over, “¿Porque estas sola? ¿Puedo sentar aqui?” He is older, worn face, lean, strong, young arms. One holds a re-taped appliance box with a homemade handle, the other grips a large container of ice cream, pink, dripping. We don’t talk at first, he eats and I read. Then, I ask his name. He says Estevez, and then asks me mine.

***

I won’t sit long, just long enough to finish my ice cream. I love ice cream, I really do. All kinds. Do you? This is chocolate. I don’t eat ice cream very much anymore though. It is so expensive. Do you know how much this size costs now? 50 pesos! Do you know how much it used to cost? Just 1! I used to get this for 1 peso, now its 50 pesos, and I still make the same amount. I have always lived in Havana, but the food has changed a lot. It has changed a lot in the country, It has changed a lot in the city, too. Change has been happening much faster now.

In Miami, when I went, there was so much ice cream! In February I am going to visit my family in Miami again. All my children have moved there, all my grandchildren are there too. Oh, I miss them! I will see them so soon. When I visited I took them to play outside everyday. Then my family bought large containers of ice cream of all different kinds and I ate so much. I leave in a few weeks to visit again. How long am I staying? Well, for one month. I am old, though, and (lowering voice) can I tell you? I wish I could stay. I love Havana, I have lived here all my life, but old men like me, we need our family and things like this, like ice cream, to make us happy. I am 55. I would like to have these things. If I could stay in Miami I could live with my family, see my grandchildren, and have so much ice cream.

Matanzas

In Matanzas there is an aging book that holds nearly one million medicinal formulas. The writing on it’s coffee brown pages has dissolved into nothing but faded lines but its binding is strong and holds together the pages and the wisdom as it did years ago. It is January 29, 2010, and I am in inside of a pharmaceutical museum tucked discretely in the corner of The Plaza De Armas in Matanzas, Cuba. The sun shines warmly through stained glass windows and we move freely throughout the space as though we are long trusted clients of the 1940s and 1950s. A round woman with curly red hair, an inviting voice and a proud smile tells us of the museum’s history as our eyes move through row after row of hand painted jars full of Azucar, Balsamo and Manzanilla. I run my fingers along the pages of the crumbling book. My mind wanders back in time but my nose stays caught somewhere between the musty books overhead and the vials of essential oils perfectly preserved.

Three days ago I was inside of the pharmacy in the Havana medical clinic. With a stomach bug, I stood awkwardly awaiting medicine as a woman dressed in green typed my information into a computer. There, fluorescent lights turned the walls a sickly green. Their sterility is illuminated over shelves and glass cases where products are arranged like jewelry, not medicine, side by side with labels that attract but price tags that limit function. I continue waiting as the woman in green keeps typing. She then begins talking in a quiet Spanish that I can’t quite understand under the buzzing of the electric lights. She hands me a bag with a bottle and some pills. The price is exorbitant for some but covered under our seguro medico. Nearby glances and stares make me well aware of the fact that my country of origin and student status has allowed me to bypass a line of waiting patients and suddenly it feels weird to be a tourist in the clinic.

 Back in Matanzas the guide tells us that even before the Revolution the pharmacists would give out medicine for to those who could not afford to buy it. Wealth was distributed before it had to be, and there was a rapport among those that circulated throughout the same painted jars and colored windows as we did. I forget that we are in a museum as the guide weaves us into the open kitchen and I stare through the skylight that goes for miles.

For a Sunday morning, the bus was packed. Miles, a friend from our U of M group, had his skateboarder friends met us early to take us to Miramar, the next neighborhood over, for a surf competition that they invited us to the day before. Having never been to one, I was curious to see how it worked, would it be similar to the many snowboarding competitions I've been to in Michigan, or is it a completely different type of extreme sport?

We got there early, before most of the other spectators arrived. The surfers and body-borders were warming up with push-ups, crunches, and stretches, a few were out practicing in the ocean before the competition started at 9am. A friend of Miles', Luis Enrique, whom he met at the skate park the previous week, offered for us to store our bags in his his small tent, which was posted up on the rocky beach apparently since the night before.

Prior to the start of the competition, a Cuban flag was zip-tied to a piece of drift wood by one of the surfer groupies and wedged into one of the many jagged boulders scattered along the beach, which doubled as bleachers. The extremely forceful wind helped create the perfect wave to surf and body-board. The waves kept rolling in all day long, one falling over the next.

As locals, tourists, and Cuban and foreign contestants congregated to check out the action, the announcer yelled through his megaphone “Primera heat, cinco minutos! First heat, five minutes!” For the first round of the competition, four surfers hustled over and put on their designated rash guard, each a different color so the judges could tell who's who out in the rolling waves of the endless carribean ocean.

As the competing surfers carved their way through the waves, I looked around at all the different people that were there. Whether they were local kids, tourists that meandered over from their luxurious hotels, or study abroad students who were just trying to experience another aspect of Cuba, the people that were at this event were all so friendly and welcoming. Everybody seemed to know everyone, and if not, they'd introduce themselves.

The surfing community's love of surfing is apparent from the way the surfers get pumped up before their ride, their exhilarated faces as they leave the water and the exuberant cheers from the entertained crowd. Surfing is a life long sport, evident from the young beginners to the now coaches. Many of these surfers have the phrase “Never stop surfing” tatooed on their toned arms, ripped torso, or sculpted legs.

I noticed the t-shirt that many of them were wearing said Pan American Surf Association Uniting the Americas through Surf. On the back, there were the flags of every American country of which they travel to for competitions. Thinking about how their passion for the sport is bringing together more than just surfers through their travels, I hope that maybe one day I could do the equivalent through my love of snowboarding.

La Fuente

We meet at la Fuente almost everyday now. I first met Yordi there about three weeks ago, and that has become the group’s hangout spot and favorite location for skating too. For almost a month now I have developed a fraternity with kids five-six years younger than myself. My classmates enjoy hassling me, “where you going Mi-les? Babysitting?” I laugh, because I know our friendship grows thicker with each day, and I have found my click. They have showed me around the Vedado neighborhood, taking me into their homes and other skate spots—we are even attending an Industriales (the New York Yankees of Habana) baseball game this weekend. We have exchanged stories, gotten to know one another’s personality and characteristics on a profound level. Though I’m sure the dynamics of hanging out are different with this Mulatto-looking American around, I don’t feel as though any bit of our friendship or hanging out is artificial.

Anyway, let me get back to our domain. Outside of our Residencia, in front of the Melia Cohiba and Hotel Riviera, la Fuente is an old fountain that barely functions these days. Similar to many other Habana architectural creations, the fountain barely embodies whatever potential it once may have had. Built sometime in the 1970s—according to one of the countless taxi cab drivers outside the hotels—the Fuente contains a colorful display of empty pools surrounding a decrepit stream of water that ungracefully spits out water every few days. However, la Fuente undoubtedly displays the ingenuity and creativity of Habana locals. In the Vedado neighborhood I have met countless skateboarders, or patinadores, and day after day we get together here and pass the time. Accompanied by our various boards, packs of cigarettes, and bottles of rum and coke, we skate, chill, and enjoy the breeze that blows furiously from the Malecón in these winter months. 5PM has become the afternoon time for us to encontramos, and as we depart for dinner or an evening siesta, we debate, “¿A qué hora esta noche?” “Nueve?” “Nueve y media.” “Bien. Nos encontramos a las nueve y media.”

Last Wednesday, we met there to celebrate Reinaldo’s cumpleanos. For his 15th birthday, we got him a cake and some Habana Ron and partied well into the night. (There are endless cultural differences between Cuban and American youth, but one indistinguishable Cuban trait is independence from a young age, and for better or worse they tend to smoke cigarettes and drink alcohol at a younger age. Nonetheless, they are immensely more responsible and in no way junkies, simply more experienced in their adolescent years.) Carlos rapped in Spanish—he loves Cuban Hip-Hop—and Roberto enthusiastically dropped the beat, I was so shocked to hear 14 and 15 year-olds make such beautiful music, from what I could understand, I guess. My Spanish is improving day after day, and learning from these kids has undoubtedly aided me as they know words and slang that often do not appear in the typical Spanish-English dictionary.

Though these niños are indeed years younger than my classmates and me, we have all developed a great rapport and even stronger relationships. On Saturday, our friendship manifested itself as we all met at la Fuente. I planned a photo shoot with the photographers at Casa de las Americas who were interested in taking pictures for their monthly magazine, however, they were unable to attend because of an art fair that was ongoing at the university. Regardless, we had already made plans and built up a good deal of hype, so my classmates joined me and got to know my skater friends for an afternoon of fun, music, photos, skate videos, and conversation—in broken English, Spanish, and of course, Cubañol (the rapid discourse of Spanish slang). There must have been 15 or 20 of us hanging out. Guys, girls, Cubanos, Americanos, Mulattoes, Afro-Americans, Afro-Cubans, Haitians, Caucasians, niños, and an array of tourists who came to watch from their local hotels—one who even came from France and was snapping photos of skaters flying high into the air off of broken concrete walls.

Though this is only our third week in Cuba, I am more than excited to know that I will be hanging out at la Fuente tomorrow, the next day, and most likely seven days out of the week. I am learning more and more Spanish, and more importantly, getting to know kids who share my same interests and portray the happiness that one often thinks about when envisioning a Cuban youth. Although their perspective of the Revolution and figures such as Fidel contrast strongly with mine (simply because they have lived the experience while I have only read or learned about these policies in books or from my father), I am beginning to process what the Revolution has provided for much of the island, but also deprived from much of the youth. These kids, born in the 90s in the middle of the Periodio Especial—a very trying time for the entire country—only want to skate and listen to Hip-Hop, but the Cuban Government often stifles such freedom of expression in public domains. The Gobierno often throws rocks onto the skate parks, the few that exist that is, and knock down any ramps or stair lifts that have been artistically created.

For now, I can only describe in detail what la Fuente represents for these kids, skater punks in the eyes of the government but free-spirited and fun-loving youth in reality. A park that contains opportunity and escape from the repression they feel they suffer within the walls of school, and within the imaginary prison they call home in Cuba. A playground of sorts, la Fuente allows them to enjoy their free time without pressing the nerves of vecinos or Government agents. For me, la Fuente is a magical place where I am able to perform my ethnography, but more importantly, engage in poignant conversation and jovial freedom with these fun-loving kids.

Varadero

In Cuba, the revolution is written onto every wall, but the only signs in the Varadero hotel are the Ché shirts in the gift shop. Varadero is a peninsular resort city in the province of Matanzas, an hour or two east of La Habana. Here is the highest concentration of hotels on the island: space dedicated to transient housing. The people who work here live in small neighborhoods of tightly packed houses and apartment buildings that we saw driving in. Around the bottled neighborhoods, empty land scattered with trees and trash heaps.

But the hotel we are staying in reminds me of a Jean Baudrillard playground, all simulation and hyper-reality. This hotel was built in the 1950s, before the revolution, and it looks like an exact replica of a pre-revolutionary hotel built the 1950s. And here, I also live as a simulation. We are ostensibly students on a field trip to understand tourist development in Cuba. Even as a student, though, the island has a way of forcing tourism under your skin and into your eyes. It is like this: imagine sitting in the hotel lobby, talking about some banal subject that isn’t related to doing ethnography in Cuba, something like Lady Gaga’s music videos or what is he wearing or what you “want to do after you graduate.” Then a Celine Dion song starts playing from outside, which is just fundamentally weird considering the geographic and temporal context of 2010 Cuba. So we head to the patio, and it is as if we had walked into something we should not have been seeing, like discovering a collection of porn magazines under your brother’s bed and then looking at them cover to cover. But somehow this felt dirtier.

On the patio, a scene repeats nightly, and time folds in on itself. Single men with mottled gray hair smoking Cuban cigars. When they exhale, the smoke becomes opaque sheets in the light of the low-hanging lamps. Behind the smoke sheets, the men are faceless, anonymous sexual potentialities whose arousal stains the thick air of their all-inclusive weekend. Not included: the Cabaret. For twenty-five convertible pesos, women will dance in feathered unison. Those unwilling to pay are here, along with those who unwittingly wandered out. Anachronistic pop music is the only hinge that blurs the territory of time that the hotel tries to draw itself into.

In front of a backdrop of a bohio painted for a middle-school play, colonial desires reproduce themselves in gazes on black bodies. Unlined tight mesh wraps the dancers’ breasts and their nipple targets are hit with perfect aim along the white crowd’s line of sight. Bands of black fabric slip around their thighs, suspending transparent parodies of pants. The songs alternate between chaste North American stage classics and eroticized Latin numbers, but the footsteps of the dancers remain consistently outside any pattern of synchronicity. Song change: the women emerge from behind the set in black dresses. A woman in the audience gestures at her lap to her frozen husband, “Cut up to here.” Through the crotch-high split, mismatched pairs of underwear slip out in little cries of abuse. Male dancers saunter through the crowd in childhood imitations of machismo and oversized white jackets. When they reach the lit stage carved into the patio, they lift the women onto their shoulders and bite into their stomachs as they spin. Song change: the theme from Beauty and the Beast. Man in a beast mask pursues delicately dressed female dancer, every history of racist representation converges into this moment. Colonial time, confluences of modernity and revolution are subsumed into the show as smoke eats into the night.

That’s how it was. Or that’s how I saw it. How I looked at it. I don’t know if I was a student watching the show, or a tourist watching the show, or a student disguised as a tourist analyzing the show, or a tourist disguised as a student disguised as a tourist getting unethical laughs out of pretending to analyze the show through a lens of cultural criticism. If I could pick one of these identities, the two and a half months that I have left in Cuba would make sense. But they keep shifting back and forth: student, tourist? Do I want to watch or do I want to understand? The longer I am here, the more the state of understanding feels further and further from my nail-bitten fingertips.

Matanzas!

Our trip to Matanzas started with a visit to a beautiful museum, Las Rutas de Esclavos, honoring the influence of Afro-Cuban slaves. In this port-side fortress, we learned about the amazing impact of slavery and slave revolts throughout the 18th and 19th centuries. In particular, my favorite exhibit showcased the Santería religion practiced by the slaves, and highlighted their spiritual strength and beliefs. I was absolutely fascinated with the accomplishments of these slaves, both in their religious vitality (as Santería is a religion that preserved the West-African Yourba traditions under the mask of Catholicism), and in the intelligence and courage manifested by countless uprisings and revolutions. However, although the exhibit celebrated the elaborate dynamics of Santería, it was indeed a safe representation of their religion for tourists and visitors unfamiliar to the complexity of slavery in Cuba. Slavery was a prominent and horrific practice for centuries in Cuba, but the country is certainly acknowledging its wretched history by paying homage to the magnificent brilliance of slaves with museums such as this; Fidel also embraced Cuba as an Afro-Latin nation soon after the Revolution, but analyzing slavery in Cuba is much different than the plantation system in America along with the continued practice of Jim Crow politics in the Southern States. The room contained the different deities of their respective powers—the thunderbolts and physical prowess of Chango, the omniscient wisdom of Orula, and the spectacular and colorful beads and gifts that were chosen to honor each of the 17 Orishas.

We then continued on to the center of Matanzas and arrived at the Vigía book workshop where we met the masterminds of the intricate hand-crafted books. We sat down to learn about their stories and lend a hand in preparation of an upcoming Cuban book fair, to be held in Habana in early February. However, after a long ride from Habana, I needed a meal to silence my stomach (dealing with my Diabetes in Cuba hasn’t been too much of a challenge, but it is a disease that still requires constant care and attention) before joining my classmates in the assembly line of cutting, folding, and other small tasks in creating these detailed books. So Manolo, a young artist of the Vigía workshop, came with me to eat lunch next door at a delicious burger spot, and so the story of our friendship would embark. My Spanish is más o menos pretty good, and as we sat and spoke, exchanged stories and got to know one another, he professed that my fluency was indeed impressive. I laughed and said gracias.

We returned to Vigía and got back to work, continuing our conversation and building a nice rapport. At our corner of the table, a few classmates, Manolo, his friend Frank and I began singing call and response type songs to pass the time. We started with the classic “I’ve been working on the railroad,” then quickly switched to the plethora of Michael Jackson tracks that are known universally. In between tunes, we got to know each other more and more. I told him I was a patinador (skateboarder) and he told me about his desire to windsurf; I feel as though it’s always easy for people who indulge in extreme sports to bond easily. While I love to carve, cruise, and bomb hills on my board, he enjoys flying freely through the air—both of us catching the breeze on our different vehicles of choice, pushing the limits of sanity and safety, but always in the quest of exploration.

As we continued, after a few hours of cutting images and folding pieces of paper for the hand-crafted books, he took me and a few others around the workshop. Upstairs, Vigía was decorated with a splendor of flowers and the most eye-catching blue shutters, not to mention the countless pieces of precious art. He took us onto the balcony which overlooked much of Matanzas, pointing to his home just beyond the water sitting atop the second hill.

Manolo and I were becoming good friends, and, as we continued to hablar en español, our relationship only deepened. We shared stories of our youth and developed an interesting prologue to our new friendship, though it seemed as though we now knew each other for years, though only a few hours had passed. We sat and talked as the afternoon unfolded, and decided to connect through Facebook, which these days seems to be the only way two people can officially stamp their friendship. But Facebook in Cuba must be such a challenge with the slow and immensely difficult Internet access, but regardless of whatever challenge we might face—including racial differences (me a Mulatto, at least in Cuba, and he a blanco of Spanish decent) and miles of separation—true friendships endure through the bonding of sincere characters, not social boundaries.

Next, he showed me a few of the books he had designed the art for, and I loved them all. I bought his “Vivir Creer Vivir,” to live is to believe to live, loosely translated. It was a wonderful book that explored personal adventures on a bicycle, another one of his favorite activities, and he dedicated it to me and signed it too, officially inking our friendship into the texts of adventurism. Many of the Vigía books contained the work of the great Cuban poet and independence hero Jose Martí. But one poem in particular, Guantanamera, which boasts the line, “Yo soy un hombre sincero,” gave me hope and confidence that our friendship could indeed endure despite the embargo, Internet access, or whatever other barriers. As we are both passionate adventurers with contemporary vehicles, he windsurfing above the Caribbean waters and me skating through the streets of Habana, I hope to one day return to the workshop that will one day be passed on to him. After another week in Cuba, I feel as though I’m connecting with lost friends, developing relationships that although have been short, have been realer and as profound as any I can imagine back home in the States.

Giving up on trying to take a nap on the uncomfortably bumpy tour bus on the way back to Havana, I opened my eyes and was taken by surprise by the incredible view of the rural Cuban landscape I was gazing upon. Wishing that my camera battery hadn't died the previous day so I could attempt to capture the unique beauty of the mountainous hills, the dark, enclosing clouds, palm tree filled valleys and the rose colored glow of the sun as it concluded its daily routine. But, as always, pictures can only give you a taste of the true captivating beauty, and can never capture the way you feel at that moment.

The exotic and mysterious scene could have been the artistic theme for one of the unique handmade books created by the publishing company Ediciones Vigía, where we volunteered during our weekend trip to the city of Matanzas. The books' art is naturally flowing, yet is concrete with intricate details. The brown craft-paper is the signature backdrop with an explosion of creative flare added to each cover, page, and binding. The artists, writers, and editors put an incredible amount of time, dedication, and care into every one of the 200 copies of each of the publications they create. The view that I experienced on the trip back from Matanzas could easily be imagined and created by these monumental artists to capture the mystery and intrigue of the Cuban countryside. Using earth from the potted plants sitting in Vigía's charming courtyard to build and texture the mountains. Coffee grounds to dye water to color the dark, translucent clouds. Coconut skin shreds to contour the valleys. Palm leaves to construct the palm trees. Extract from the veins of a hibiscus flower to add the faint glow of the fading sun. A local poet's latest masterpiece inked across the pages made of dried and thinned ceiba tree bark bound together with vines that were once climbing up the walls of the enchanting workspace of Vigía.

The scene of the rural countryside that I saw on the bus is now only an image in my mind and will soon begin to fade, but the books created by Ediciones Vigía are tactile dreams that can be collected as priceless pieces of art.

Each book is a village

I. Matanzas, Sunday evening:

Rolando Estévez Jordán sits on a plastic chair handling delicately the butcher paper embossed with cornhusks and etched José Martí likenesses, as if each sheet is one of his daughter’s first teeth, archived for posterity. His backdrop: A shelf of books handmade by the cadre of artists and authors who make up the Ediciones Vigía crew. To his right is the mimeograph they’ve used since 1985. The ceilings above the ceramic tiled floors are high, painted teal, and reminiscent of a boat’s bones. The group’s symbol is a quinqué: An oil lamp. Vigía means watchtower. I suspect in this case it could also signify lighthouse.

Their business: The fusion of literature, art, and manufacturing. It is a spiritual process, this artist tells us. He is the man who co-founded the entire operation a quarter of a century ago in Matanzas, this city named for the slaughter started by the Spanish. This city who’s Museo Provincial houses the hauntings of a slave’s bones and a woman’s mummified body.

He wants the group to know that each page in their books has its own identity. If that is so, I think, then each book from Vigía must be its own village.

II. Varadero, Saturday afternoon:

Welcome to Varadero Internacional. Here the ocean is a clear cerulean and my feet leave temporary prints in the sand closest to the almost non-existent waves. I am greasy with spray-on sunscreen that smells of alcohol. Officially, I can say I am here as a student, to observe the tourist industry in Cuba. After all, I just came from my educational experience in Matanzas.

But I have two visas here. And I am white and American in an all-inclusive resort. And the other clients are mostly white and Canadian. Or white and Russian. Or white and Spanish. Either way, we all wear the same green hotel bracelets. Meanwhile, the employees are mostly brown, and all of them are Cubans. The card marked “tarjeta del turista” that got me off the plane and into Habana definitely has the upper hand here.

The people who work at this hotel are not from Varadero. They are from Cardenas, or other towns whose names sound like birds. If Varadero is a book, each of these people is a displaced page, and the tourists are only the ribbons that once marked the reader’s place. So I understand when I ask at the bar for a mojito that comes for free with my stay here, and the bartender sees no cash in the exchange, and I see no reciprocal smile when I send one in his direction.

Our professor informs us that if not for the government stipulation that groups of foreigners must travel through the tourist system, we would set off with only our knapsacks and a much smaller bus. Nonetheless, we are a group of foreigners, and Norkis is our Transtur-guide, an employee of the Cuban state who has to leave her daughter every time she stays in places like these with people like us. She tells my class that a wealthy man ripped some Cubans off when he bought this terrain dirt-cheap and sold it to the highest bidders in the 1920s. Now, without leaving Varadero or even this resort, I can go the souvenir shop and buy a black Orisha doll for 7.50 CUC (half of the average Cuban’s monthly wage). Or, if I want to take the hotel travel agency’s guided tour to Guamá, I can even pay to enjoy some Afro-Cuban rhythms or a visit to a Taíno Indian village replica and a crocodile breeding farm (according to the brochure).

I try to connect this back to the Cajón I was honored to attend back on Calle San Martín in Habana. How the chanting and dancing of the Santa María ritual gifted me with a deep calm that did not even feel like my own, that was borrowed. How I sweated for four hours and had no desire to leave.

I do not see the connection between the man in his white cap who caught the spirit of an Orisha at the Cajón, swinging his joyous body in every direction, caressing stomachs, and the Barbie-derived souvenir doll with her painted-on eyelashes and typed description tag. But then again, I cannot say which of these is more authentic to its source. I cannot assume that an Afro-Cuban religion with its history books full of intersecting cultures and heritages can be simplified to the one page I was lucky enough to witness unfold that day.

Final Destination: Havana

Peering out the tiny window as the plane descended into the low-lying clouds for our arrival at our final destination, I thought, “now this is it, in a few moments, I will be seeing what few American citizens are permitted to see, here it comes...” And there it was, my first glimpse of our mysterious island neighbor and my new home for the next three months, Cuba. But...wait a minute...it looked like it could have been any other tropical land, perhaps Mexico, or even rural Florida. There were small towns scattered between farmland and forests. The lush greenery stood out along the coastline. Well, what was I expecting? To see revolutionaries conspiring for their guerrilla warfare in the mountains? Mile long lines at food ration stations? No, I suppose not. The images that the U.S. has put in my head as the result of the bitter multi-decade long squabble have, of course, been exaggerated and fantasized.

Looking out the bus window on our way to la residencia, the apartment that would soon become our home, I kept trying to find drastic differences that would convince me that I'm in a different country, in a different culture, but all around me, I saw familiar things. There, a factory with workers outside taking their smoke break...and there's a school with children playing tag during recess...and right there is a farm, complete with a farmer tending his crops, just like I see every day in my small Northern Michigan home town...except they, the factory, school, and farm are all right next to each other. So maybe it is different than home – But no, see! Right there! A policeman had pulled over a car and was writing a traffic ticket, which I've seen countless times driving the four hours from Charlevoix down to Ann Arbor...only the car was an old 1950's Cadillac. Once at la residencia, and after the slow and rickety elevator made it up the thirteen floors to our apartment, we were greeted by a sweet old lady with knowing eyes peering out from behind her dark wrinkles, whom I came to find out was our house mother. She could have been my grandmother...but I couldn't understand the language coming from her mouth. How could things be the same as what I've always known, yet so different?

Staring out the gigantic window of our residencia, a view of the ocean fills the frame. But I've seen the ocean before, I've seen the waves crash into the break wall, I've seen the pelicans dive for the unsuspecting fish, so why have I convinced myself that this country is, or perhaps should be so different?

Stepping out onto our open, thirteenth floor balcony, a rush of clarity came over me. The sweet and fresh January air filled my lungs, my skin tingled from the glistening sun, the noise of the busy streets below just now hit my ears as I looked around and realized that this bustling city of over two million people was not waiting for my judgment or comparison, to say if it is right or wrong, to find any comparison to the world I know, but instead Havana was welcoming me to step out from behind the window of observation and join its warm and eclectic lifestyle.