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.