Sander's sweetness

So grateful that I am here and out of Havana.  On a morning stroll I hear drums and run into an Orisha performance at the park.  By 10 am I have had a morning groove and have scheduled my first drum class here with the lead drummer from the ensemble.  By 1 pm I have scheduled a second class for tomorrow with the famous congero Alberto Pablo, a 78 year old legend, if only in his own mind, here who plays a few solo drum grooves that honestly don’t blow me away for someone who is “famous,” but I know it’s only a demonstration and not a true sign of his playing ability or knowledge. 

I schedule a singing class with a handsome musician who buys me a beer and dances salsa with me at a restaurant where he and I sat enjoying good conversation.  I can feel my body is tired and I know I have a drum class and a meeting to make before 6 pm still and I finally feel like I’m actually doing the work I came to Cuba to do and enjoying every minute of it.

My newest suitor arrives exactly on time for our first “date,” and I take note of how nice that is.  Sander is a rare gem of a man.  Tender, sweet, caring, sensitive and all mine if I want him.  We walk the streets of Trinidad and he shows me the galleries where his art is displayed.  He is an incredible artist, truly talented and I am in awe of his paintings. 

He introduces me to his best friends, and family as his “novia.” Everyone makes a point of telling me that he is a “Muy bueno hombre,” and I know they aren’t lying.  Things move quick here in Cuba apparently.  Less than 24 hours and he is thinking we are a couple.  I question him about this and let him know it makes me a little uncomfortable, “This is how we do in Cuba.  Little boys and girls even 10 years old holding hands, novia and novio it’s normal here.” 

He sits through my entire drum class watching and listening and I know he’s falling in love quick and I feel my own energy pulling back a little to resist.  I am tired, thirsty and hungry and I think we are going to his house for dinner and that it’s close by, maybe a few minutes walk.  I find myself in a taxi driving out of town farther and farther and I start to worry.

Of course, I am expected to pay for the taxi, 3 CUC and of course then I will have to pay 3 more to get home and I find myself mildy irritated by the whole thing.  I try not to let it show, but I do comment on it and remind him he should have let me know the situation before putting me in the taxi. 

“This is my house,” he says proudly, “it’s a modest house.”  It’s the least house looking house on the whole block, looking more like a shed than a house.  The concrete walls are covered by a tin roof and it is dark and almost scary, but I know he is safe and pure of heart, so I enter expecting more or less what it was.  The lights in the living room aren’t working, so his mother is in the kitchen working.  The place isn’t dirty, it’s just old and in need of repair. 

The concrete walls are all peeled and cracked, there are no water fixtures on any of the sinks, nor is there a visible shower in the bathroom of any kind.  I wonder where they shower, but I don’t ask, or even where they wash their hands.  I pray I don’t get sick eating here, but let go and trust that I will be OK.  He is so proud of his house and I want to do nothing to hurt this sweet precious pure and innocent heart that he shows me.

He is so sweet, so loving, so kind I can barely believe it.  “Come,” he says, “I want to show you something.  He pulls a piece of art off the wall  and shows it to me.  We have to go into the bedroom to look at it because the living room is too dark.  It’s beautiful, a scene like a dream opening up into a rich deep jungle with a waterfall and a vision of majic.  “It’s like a dream,” I say to him.  “You,” he says, “are the first person who has ever seen that.  That’s what the floating bubbles represent is the dream. It’s my symbol in my paintings.”  I am touched deeply and wish I wasn’t so cranky from not eating or drinking all day and being exhausted.

His mother serves me a huge plate of black beans with white rice, a plate of tomatoes and some delicious fried sweet potatoes.  It is delicious, I am starving and grateful to eat.  Instantly I feel better just sitting down and grounding. 

After dinner we dance in the tiny living room to music played thru the TV.  The rocking chairs are obstacles that have to be moved, but we manage to get sweaty dancing salsa in a 4x4 space.  He is an incredible dancer, very suave and perfect in every way with timing.  For half an hour I am swirled, twirled and tossed thru the living room.  I am so tired but so happy to be dancing.  His mother sits in the rocking chair and watches us.   I am touched by the sweetness of this humble scene.

I can’t help but think of what will be lost in this culture when computers take hold of households.  I wonder what in the hell they do on a normal night when there isn’t a guest to entertain.  There’s no TV, no computer, barely any light and no food in the refigerator to munch on when they get bored.  Sitting there talking is all there is, finding a neighbor to distract you from a family member perhaps to take the edge off when you get sick of each other is possibly an option.

He professes his devotion to me.  “When I am with you, I want you to know you are safe.  I want you to feel like you are with me, that’s why I took you today to meet my most intimate friends and family.  I want you to feel like we are a couple.”  He leans forward to kiss me, and while part of me wants to surrender, another part is resistant and feeling really uncomfortable. 

He is incredibly beautiful, sexy and so sweet and kind, but my heart is broken again and I don’t want another man yet.  I know he would never hurt me in any way, but it’s too much too fast and I just want to go home and be alone again. 

He walks me to the taxi and I close my eyes as the taxi takes me back to my casa.  I go to bed after a hot shower, exhausted and touched by a tender night.

Trinidad: A Place to Land

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Trinidad, Cuba

Bliss is back in the arms of beautiful Cuban men who know how to dance me back to it’s sensual delights.  The cobblestone ground beneath my feet is a challenge to make turns on, and the speed of the dance gives me no time for mistakes.  I wonder how I am going to not break an ankle tonight and put myself on point with my body to maximize my ability.

The moon shines down from a ghostly clouded sky and I think I have found heaven.  Limitless beautiful Cuban men to dance with, incredible live Salsa grooves and Rhumba underneath the moon in a city that is more charming than anyplace I’ve ever been.  Colorful buildings, cobblestone streets, beautifully restored colonial buildings and framed between the ocean and the mountains. 

I don’t need to go any farther.  Trinidad is the place I’ve been hoping to find.  It doesn’t matter that I paid 10 times what I could have to get here, nor does it matter that last night I was feeling sad and hurt, it’s all over now.  Trinidad has my heart.

During a break from the dance I catch the eye of a beautiful young man with tiny braids and a very sweet face.  I know he feels the moment too, but I look away and ignore it.  He is dangerously sexy and probably not more than 25, but I can tell there is chemistry there. 

The night goes into hour upon hour of dancing and when the salsa is over, the nightclub next door opens with reggaeton blasting out.  I am escorted in by a sweet young man who has attached himself to me and decided that he is my novio for the night.

I carefully lose him in the crowd and look for my friends who I never find, but late in the night on my way out the door, the man with the braids stops me and asks me to dance.  It’s not really a question he even has to ask, we both know I am his already.  Our bodies move together and he fills my ears with sweet incantations professing his attraction, my beauty and how happy he is that he found me again after seeing me earlier. 

We dance for a while, our bodies finding each other deeply through our clothes and he walks me home and kisses me in front of the house.  I don’t resist, I don’t want to.  I’m not wasting one moment holding onto the hurt from that crazy man I was with last night.  Not one night grieving that, I am opening to something new and sweet and this kiss is my way of moving thru it so I let him kiss me and can feel his passion grow with every moment. 

I go to bed with a smile on my face thinking only of the night and knowing I have more to come here.

One Hell of a Dramatic Ending

My sweet friend Agostine walks me all over Havana today and we end up at one of the coolest places I’ve been yet in this beautiful majestic city of rubble and piss.  La Patio Bar has a rhumba tonight and my body sings in anticipation. 

As we stand waiting for the music to start, the place fills up, then overfills, then packs itself so tight it’s like getting a frontal massage every few seconds when someone else walks through. I am pleased to see this many people coming out for Rhumba and hope that the fact that it’s mostly young men singing means there is a resurgence here also in the Roots of Cuban music.

An hour into the show, my phone rings.  “Where are you?  Who are you with?  I’m coming to Havana.  You want to see me before I go or not?  Meet me at 6:30 at Casa de la Musica.”  I seriously contemplate blowing him off.  I can feel the tension between us and the awareness that I’m particularly volatile and pretty sick of his shit right now runs thru me as a bolt of adrenaline saying “fight or flight.” 

Agostine escorts me to the Casa de La Musica, and I kiss him on the cheek hoping my lover isn’t watching from some close corner counting demerits.  He shows up dressed in red again and embraces me with a smirk on his face.  He is slurring and it takes me a few minutes to ask him why, “I drunk.”  I laugh not knowing the drama that’s in store for me because of his drunkenness.  I  now start to understand that he has a coldness inside him that is dangerous for me. 

Inside the bar, he buys a bottle of rum and a bottle of water for me.  The drama begins. “you kissed my cousin, I know you now, we can be friends, but we’re through.  I see you.” 

At first I laugh, the ridiculousness of the accusation is so incredible.  Then I remember that he’s drunk already and I try to talk sense into him. I didn’t kiss anyone, “I’ve been waiting for you, don’t you know I am falling in love with you.”  He can’t hear me, he is so deep in his jealousy and so incapable of even listening to me.  He says I disappointed him, and I tell him I feel the same because I haven’t done anything wrong.  He is making up a story and believing his own lie.

His hostility and sharp words frighten me.  I don’t understand how or why this is happening and I’m mostly sad that this is how he’s choosing to end our time together.  I try to rationalize with him, “Please don’t do this on our last night together.  I just want to dance and enjoy this night with  you baby, I love you.  There’s been no one else.”  He gets nastier and nastier and looks at me with loathing and my heart sinks.  I walk away and sit somewhere else wondering what the best course of action is right now.

Leaving feels heartbreaking, staying feels heartbreaking.  Taking space is the only thing I can do at this moment.  I go and dance with some other beautiful men but my heart wants him.  He tries to get me to dance with his cousin, and this time I say “Dammit no, I didn’t come to dance with your cousin, I came to dance with you.”  I slam a few shots of rum to try to meet him where he is and fight fire with fire, knowing it could be dangerous, but not knowing what else to do.  My bag and keys to my room are in the car and he’s now refusing to give me the car key.  I am stuck, he is, as he has always been in this love affair, in control. 

Finally we dance together.  It’s one of the most incredible dances of my life, so filled with firey passion.  We dance together perfectly.  Matching every step, making love in the dance and for a few moments I think maybe this night can heal.   After a few minutes he passes me to his cousin and my heart sinks again.

I realize I am drunker than I have been in years when we go to leave.  The room is spinning, and I can’t see straight.  Stupidly, I get into the car with him, knowing he’s more drunk than me.  Lights and cars speed by me.  He’s still accusing me of kissing his cousin, his cousin even tells him with me right there that it didn’t happen and still he can’t let it go.  His jealousy and insecurity amaze me, and I find myself getting angry and frustrated by the moment.

I have no idea why, but the car stops for a moment and I grab the key out of the ignition, get out of the car and run down this random street of Havana and hide behind a big tree.  I know he will be behind me and I am not moving until we talk.  He comes and I am laughing, and he’s like a little boy when the power gets switched around. 

Looking at the ground, saying “I’m sorry. OK I believe you.”  For a few minutes, I have power.  I reluctantly go back to the car, not knowing if he really heard or got anything I just said to him.  Too drunk to keep trying. I know he has never dealt with a woman as strong and fiery as me.  I know he has feelings he’s afraid of.  I know he’s sabotaged our night out of not knowing how to feel the sadness of our separation, but still I am dumbfounded and mildly traumatized.  I can’t help but keep rerunning the scene of him trying to pick up another woman right in front of me, though I give him credit for at least introducing me to her. 

His cousin drops us off and takes the car and he and I stumble to my room with him mumbling about fucking and having sex the whole time like a strange primitive creature.  We make love for a long time, deeply.  I’m not sure if it’s good, but it’s so intense I want it to last all night. I remember being slapped in the face and knowing that that wasn’t OK, and stopping him in that moment.  “Never do that again.  That’s not OK,” but I am so drunk and I want more of him.  He falls asleep inside of me and holds me close to him and I feel comforted, confused and fall asleep not caring as long as he is holding me.  

He wakes me again in a few hours for seconds, and in a few hours after that he wakes to leave.  “Listen to me, you can never hit a woman in the face, that’s not OK.”  “I didn’t baby, I didn’t do that.  I would never do that,” he says and I am scared for a moment of what he might be capable of when he’s drunk.  “Yes baby, you slapped me last night,”  “Oh,” he says, “that was just sex,” and I am disturbed and a little sick by the fact that somehow I understand that and am even slightly turned on by it, but more than that I know it’s dangerous for me and I vow in that moment to be done with him. 

I walk him to the door, feeling less sentimental that I would have if we had had a great last night instead of a night of bullshit drama.  I’m mostly sort of repulsed by him at this moment, and deeply sad that this is how it has to end.  I think about walking with him to meet his cousin on the Malacon, but I decide he’s not worth it and doesn’t deserve my companionship in these last moments.  He deserves to stand there alone and think about what he’s created.

“Thanks for helping me out with things here.  I love you. Good bye.”  I say to him.  “I’ll see you back in Colorado,” he says, “I had a good time with you here in Cuba.”  I go back to bed feeling the stinging on my cheek as if the slap had just happened and think to myself, “I hope not.”

I realize I have no way to contact him when he leaves Cuba and I start to call his sister to get his contact info, then think better of it.  It’s better if I have no possibility of being able to communicate with him.  My stupid tender heart will want to reach out and try to heal things, try to make him realize how much I love him and how he hurt me, but this time, I need to learn the lesson of letting go, and walking away and not looking back.

It will and can only get worse, and I don’t need to waste any more time on men who turn out to be abusive and hurtful.  That’s the first and last time I will ever be hit by a man.  Once is more than enough.  I run through the night in my head a hundred times trying to make sense of it and tell myself there’s no sense to be made.  I think about the number of things he did last night alone that hurt my feelings, and remind myself that I deserve more respect than what he showed me last night. 

It doesn’t matter if he acted that way out of fear of his feelings or just being a psycho, what matters is for me to be smarter this time, to take it for what it was.  To realize I had some fun sex with a super hot Cuban and leave it at that.  Love this time has nothing to do with it.  I commit myself to leaving this all in Cuba and staying away from him when I get back and feel so grateful that it will be 3 months or more before I return. 

The Next President of Cuba

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“I’m going to be the next president of Cuba,” he tells me.  I can’t deny the statement gets my attention.  He sits next to me, a cigarette hanging out of his lips, and his face deeply lined with a maze of small wrinkles that cover a strong Spanish face.   He’s a handsome man, suave and sophisticated with a casual air that keeps him approachable.  We met of course dancing salsa at a little corner bar near Havana Vieja.  “I’m politico,” he says as if I should do a backflip for him for that one. But yes, I’m intrigued, intrigued enough to even take time off the dance floor to hear what he had to say.

“The Cuba people need a new leader.  I have many people who think like I do.  Four months ago, I went to talk to Barrack Obama.  I talked to two senators to tell them I am the right person for them to look to in Cuba.  Fidel is 82, his brother hasn’t thought about a successor.  The people are ready for a new leader.”

I was fascinated, if not convinced.  To even speak of something like this in public in Cuba can be dangerous.  “I don’t fear death.  I am not afraid to die for my people. I love my country, but my the people here need to be allowed to evolve.” 

After only one week here talking to people, I know this is true.  I also know that everyone here loves their country.  It’s a deep sincere appreciation for what is here in spite of all the problems and issues.  Many people I’ve talked to even love Fidel.  They believe he is a good man and that he saved Cuba in many ways.

We dance several more dances, and he walks me to the corner of my street and we turn and go our separate ways.  I wonder if in a few years I will see a new face on some political propoganda in Cuba and remember this night.

The Dissolution into Drama

I see that he has called 3 times and I do nothing.  I know what he will tell me will just disappoint me again and I don’t want to hear it.  Not to mention that I’m so angry with him I want to scream at him.  Finally I answer when he calls.  The same questions come at me, “Where are you?  What are you doing?  Go home.  Have  you been drinking? Someone told me you were with someone last night.” I laugh at the thought of "someone" telling him I was with someone last night.  Who the hell would know me, that knows him here in Havana where I am a stranger and no one even knows we know each other.  It's so ludicrous, but it pisses me off nonetheless for it's stupidity and unnecessary drama.

I’m intolerant and bitchy tonight with him. “If you’re not coming tonight, don’t bother, I’ll see you back in Colorado.” And I hang up on him.

I go into the bar and in minutes I am dancing across the floor with nothing on my mind at all.  When the music stops I start to feel bad and I call him back.  I’m not much nicer, but I give him a little bit of a chance to give me the sob story before we get pulled away from each other again by the reality of how much it costs to talk for one minute even on the phone in Cuba.

Maybe I get mad because this is a man I absolutely can not control in any way whatsoever.  I have no ability to sway him, influence him or get him to do what I want and maybe, just maybe that’s part of what’s both driving me crazy with him and making me fall in love with him.  He’s so fucking strong and pigheaded.   There’s just no moving him once he’s made up his mind.  Maybe, just maybe I’m used to being the one in control and with this man, it’s just not possible.  Maybe some part of me even likes the drama.

Food Journey

My new friend Augustine meets me right on time, not a second late and I take note of how nice that feels to not sit waiting forever for someone to not even show up.  He tells me that he wants me to see how he gets his food, and shows me his ration book explaining to me that they mark it every week when he goes to pick up his food.  We walk out of the tourist area of Havana Vieja into what I am now calling “Havana Verdad,”  which is the vast maze of slums that showcase barely standing buildings, staircases reinforced by rotting wood and metal scraps, and piles of dog shit that inspire you to keep your eyes down watching your step all the time. 

We approach a small line of people standing waiting for their meat rations, all holding dirty plastic bags that will transport the meat home for them.  There are bars on the windows like a jail, and a man stands behind the counter smoking a cigar and drinking a tiny jar of black coffee.  Agostine hands him his ration book and he checks off the date, and scribbles in it then hands it back. 

I am touched by the friendliness and spirit of everyone in line.  Everyone is laughing and making jokes.  Agostine is gregarious and seems to bring a playful spirit to the scene.  I watch as another man who cuts the meat cuts off a few chunks of meat for my friend and puts it in his bag.  This is his ham for the week.   It looks more like a big fat weird hotdog than actual ham.  It’s some kind of processed food product I’d be afraid to eat after it’s been sitting out for who knows how long, unrefrigerated and touched by who knows how many hands and dirty, unsanitized knives. 

My beautiful smiling friend takes his rations with a big smile, pats his friends on the back and we re-enter the street.  I wish I had filmed the whole thing.  I wonder how I’m possibly going to get over my camera shyness and get to the job of getting good footage.  Maybe my project will be less video and more writing.  I just feel invasive and rude pointing a camera at people’s personal lives.  It’s a block for me and I’m frustrated by myself for it.

I know I’m missing so many incredible moments in my fear of being rude or intrusive.  When I see tourists pointing cameras into people’s windows and lives, I find myself irritated by it and so it’s hard for me to be that person.  I have so much respect for these people and I wouldn’t want someone coming to my community and pointing a camera at me when I’m standing in line at the store.  I’d probably bitch slap ‘em.  I think about pulling out some pesos and just paying people to make myself feel better about it.  I know if I did no one would bat an eye, they’d take the pesos and be grateful maybe even, but I don’t do it.  I will just have to live with my regret  for the passed opportunity. 

We walk thru more of the slums of Havana Verdad and he tells me, “This market I’m taking you to, don’t ever come down here at night.  This is a dangerous place at night, people come here for cocaine, you know cocaine?”  I reach for my bag for a moment feeling some anxiety and wondering for a moment if I’m being taken into a trap.  Then I laugh recognizing my mother’s fear trying to surface in me. 

My mother, sweet little lady that she is, lives in fear of just about anything and everything no matter how unlikely it might be, or even impossible.  When I was in school, she would tell me to lock the car doors when we were driving 50 mph down the highway because someone might just jump into the car and grab me.  I would always argue that humans can’t run that fast and it would make her so mad when I’d live on the edge and defy her and keep my door unlocked just to show that I wasn’t afraid.  I suddenly realize today is her birthday and while I know I can't call her, I send her my love in a moment of blessing.

I relax my grip on my bag.  I know that this man is genuinely a good person and I let out a facetious “Oh my god! Where are you taking me?! I’m so scared!”  at the excitement of being in a dangerous part of the city.  

He taps me on the shoulder and laughs with me and puts his arm around me.  I am enjoying this new friend, and feeling so grateful for shared time with someone who will actually be present with me and offer me the comfort and friendship I need in this place right now. 

The market is bustling and offers all the food I am looking for at good Cuban peso prices. I buy a big papaya, pineapple, greens, tomatoes, avocados and bananas then a few bags of peanuts for us to munch on on the way back to my casa.  I spent the equivalent of $4 and have enough food for the week.  Agostine refuses to let me carry anything and still manages to have a free hand to slap me on the back when he’s laughing. 

Throw it out!

I wake up wanting him and fighting the deep depression and grief that wants to take me over, consume me and leave me here crippled to my core.  Finally after an hour or so laying in bed holding myself and wishing he was next to me or inside of me, I get up begrudgingly and try to think of what I can do today to be of some service to my project. 

I find one of my earrings in the bed and when I try to fix it, it breaks completely.  I throw it in the trash and realize I need to do the same thing with this man.  It’s broken, I can’t fix it, it’s got no potential to be useful. I need to toss it aside and walk away without another thought.  Damn I wish I was that strong, but I’m not. 

I dial the number he called me from last night and let it ring twice and hang up, maybe he will see that I called and try to call, but I doubt it. My heart hurts and I feel totally lost in the world.  What the fuck am I doing here?  Nearly 10 days in, and I have nothing to show for my time but this journal of a heartbreak.  I don’t even know what to do first, how to start, or what I want to do anymore.

Nothing that I’ve found here is really “it.”  It’s all OK, and decent distractions, but the reality is I’m not getting too far and I’m not feeling at all in the flow.  I need a lifetime here, not a few weeks.   It’s just not enough, I don’t know how any short period of time ever could be.  I want to live here and not have to leave.    

I think getting out of the city really will be good for me, and I am looking forward to the upcoming trip in a few days to Cinnefuego and Trinidad.