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.

A Night to Let Go

The night invites me out for a walk and I go to meet Alexander down town.  We’ve been trying to connect but missing each other.  Apparently we missed again.  After waiting for too long, I give up and walk.  I run into another friend I met a few days ago, Agostine, and he is just getting off work and joins me to go for some salsa.  As soon as the music hits me I forget everything else, my body takes over, the medicine takes the pain.  I am happy again.

Agostine as it turns out, is a great dancer, suave, smooth, skillful and strong and again I feel divine grace moving.  Throughout the evening he continues to become more intimate, first holding my hand, then squeezing me, then tenderly squeezing my body as we dance like lovers would and I don’t fight it, nor do I say no.  My lover is leaving and has abandoned me in Cuba, I need the affection and I take it gratefully.  In the space between the dances, I let him know that we are just friends, and to please respect that boundary.  I tell him my heart is with someone else and I know that he understands.  He is totally respectful and I feel safe.

After dancing, we take a walk to the Malacon.  He is easy to be with, light and playful.  We are laughing and slapping each other on the back nearly falling over in the fun wandering thru downtown Habana. 

My phone rings and I answer.  Manuel's voice greets me with some agitation, “Where are you?  What are you doing?  Who are you with?” 

When I tell him I am taking a walk with a friend, another stream of questions comes, “Who is he?  You replacing me already? You should go back to the house right now.”  I smile at his jealousy and find some pleasure in it.    

“Come back, I want to be with you,” I say.  “I miss you baby.”  Then he tells me he’s not coming back until the night before he leaves and I want to scream at him.  I want to say “God dammit.  I busted my ass to get here to spend time with you and you can’t give me one fucking day before you go?”  But I say, “Please come back tomorrow.  We only have two days, and I miss you.” 

I know he won’t.  I know I will barely see him before I leave and that probably it is for the best.  I hang up the phone and feel a combination of being happy and touched by his jealousy, frustrated by his absence, and angry that I was such a fool to plan a trip around the possibility of having time with a man who is just not available nor willing to prioritze me in any way.  I also know he is here to be with his family and that his family is his priority and again, I understand in spite of my own selfish desires.

I return to Agostine who is waiting patiently for him and let him put his arm around me and hold me in my grief.  I sink into him and feel comforted, but my heart wants only my lover, the man I am now in love with.   “When you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with,” runs through my head and I surrender to accept what is present for me in the moment rather than wasting any more tears on a man who won’t give me what I want and need. 

The city is so beautiful at night.  The majesty of the buildings comes to life even more in the darkness when you can’t see the flaking paint and broken windows.  Something of the magic of the past comes alive and you can almost feel the ghosts whirling around the place haunting it with the zillions of lost dreams and hopeless desires.  I love it.  I am happy in spite of my grief.

We spend the night laughing and strolling the Malacon.  He is a total gentleman and never crosses any boundaries or disrespects me in any way.  He is a good and true friend to me and I am grateful for some safe sweet company.  He teaches me to curse in Cuban Spanish and we yell and curse through our laughter at my pathetic pronunciation, and I try to not let my thoughts wander to the hole that is growing in my heart.  I have to let go. 

Baile d'amour

It’s hard to not feel wary that I may be acting like a crazy old fool.  It’s even harder to stop myself and harder still to have any real idea of whether anything my mind is thinking makes any sense whatsoever.

I’m falling in love with a man who likely will break my heart and leave it in Cuba with the millions of other lost broken dreams that have faded here.  Undoubtedly one of the most physically beautiful creatures I’ve ever touched or shared my body with and perhaps one of the strongest men I’ve ever known or been with in mind, body and spirit.  I keep telling myself to stop the train, get off and run the other direction as fast and far as possible, but the reality is I can’t resist him, nor do I want to.

Our first whole night together and I can’t remember if I slept or just stayed awake all night feeling him next to me just to feel him next to me. I only remember the moment he turned over and pulled me close and held me early in the morning as being a moment I wanted to last forever. 

He wakes and within minutes he’s inside me again making love to me the second time, his delicious voice over and over saying, “You feel so good, god you feel so good,” and ending with “I want to fall asleep inside you,” as he fills me with his release and passes out inside me bringing warmth and comfort to my whole being.  Time here stands still for a moment.  I wish it would stand still for a week.. or a lifetime.

I wonder if he knows what he’s doing to me or not.  I wonder if he is falling in love too or if he’s just having some good sex with a willing woman and enjoying some moments in Cuba away from his wife with a woman who is eager to take his beautiful black body for hours of pleasure.  There’s no way to know, part of me cares, part of me doesn’t.

I know it can’t last.  I know there’s absolutely no chance of a future with him, yet I couldn’t help but fantasizing today of someday coming here together and fixing up the finca where his parents live and running a drum and dance music camp. 

He’s just such a good man, and the more I watch how he communicates, how he connects with people and his easy way of being with others, the more I fall in love with him.  He has this sexy suave tenderness, not just with me, but with everyone he talks to, that is so inviting and so attractive. Seeing him here, in his home country, so comfortable, confident and absolutely undeniably sexy is such a turn on, I just want to keep him here in my arms as long as I can.

He feels so good falling asleep and going soft inside of me.   I wish this moment could last all day, but slowly he awakes and rolls off of me and I feel his semen start to ooze out of me, warming me once again.  When he gets up and starts to dress, my heart sinks a little.  I want him to want to stay here with me all day,  but he’s ready for his day, well rested, well loved, double sexed in the night and off for a day to help his family in every way he can while he’s here.  I totally get it and admire the fact that he is a man who prioritizes appropriately.

I find myself reacting pretty intensely to his disappearance without a proper goodbye when I’ve just been out pounding the pavement and getting soaked in the rain to find food for a good healthy breakfast for him after his run and that alone tells me I’m in trouble.   I spend an hour or so fighting back the desire to freak out.  I cry then convince myself he’s not worth crying over.  I start to fall into the pit of depression that once again I’ve fallen for a man who is sure to disappoint me, who already has more than a few times. 

I work hard to convince myself I won’t answer his calls and won’t sleep with him anymore.  It’s done.  I don’t need this shit after all, and it’s just a heartbreak coming and nothing more anyway.   I write myself out of it, pull up my big girl pants, remember that he will be back, and that he left to take care of his family which is admirable and noble and I let it go and walk to my drum class.

He calls while I’m gone for lunch and I head out for music for the evening hoping he will call in a moment where I can actually hear the phone ring.  He does and we make a plan to meet for a show at the Casa de la Musica.  He shows up dressed head to toe in white and I am sure I’ve never seen a more handsome regal looking man in my life.  I want to devour him, but he’s with the family and I know tonight I have to be just a friend, not his lover.  I wish I had taken time to change clothes to look nicer for him, but this is Cuba after all so what ever.

He makes a point to remind me early in the night that we can’t be “hot for each other” because he’s with his family, so I try hard to ignore him and spend most of the night dancing with his cousin and uncle.  I feel him watching me carefully, and I get totally turned on by the fact that he and I have this secret between us, but also a little worried that truly anyone with eyes can probably see it anyway. 

After several dances with his cousin, he gives me the nod and extends his hand to me and we dance salsa, the only two on the floor and I feel like a queen with her king.  He is such a beautiful dancer, so suave, so strong, so clear, and the smile on his face shows me that he is enjoying me too.  I know his whole family is watching and I do my best to stay on point but not over the top.  We dance three dances, his smile touches my heart deeply.  The whole time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him so happy. 

I notice that we dance together much better now after so much love making, our bodies know each other better, we trust each other more, there is more freedom, more love, more of everything good between us and the chemistry is magical.  The dances end and I float back to my chair to ground down for a few moments. 

Later in the night, he shows some jealousy and I am touched by it. I begin to realize perhaps something is happening for him too when, after dropping his sister off at her house, he casually drops the line, “What are you doing to me?” and all I can say is, “I don’t know but I think it’s happening to me too.”  We are silent for the rest of the drive back to my place holding hands and the energy in our fingers comes directly from our hearts.

He is already asleep when I get to my bed.  I curl myself around his perfect black body and pray.  He wakes me in the night and makes love to me so sweetly and so deeply that I know it will be a long time before I will want another man after he leaves.  Dawn will come too soon as always.  Only 3 days left before he has to return. I don’t know how I’m not going to break down when he goes.  I don’t know if I will last that long even.

Global Citizen

I have heard it said that what we teach and bring to the world is that which we need for ourselves first and foremost. I believe it to be true.  My work being that of working to support, create and foster a sense of culture and community wherever I can, I can’t help but recognize the reality of the relevance.   I am so rich and so blessed in so many ways, with so many friends around the world, yet, in moments, I feel like I am the most lonely and alone person on the planet. 

My heart longs for something that feels always fleeting: a feeling of “belonging” with others that can really only come from family and culture.  I see it here everywhere.  The people know who they are, they know where they come from, they have a connection to their roots, to their community, to their families. They have roots that go back hundreds of generations that they are still in touch with every day.  Most of us in the good ol USA, simply don’t have that.  Many of us don’t even know where our grandparents came from, how they got here and what their roots were.  Often our grandparents don’t even know, the chords were cut and little was revealed. 

Add to that my path as a visionary and a lover of adventure and travel as a global citizen, and it’s as if somehow my path, as beautiful and noble as it is in many ways, also isolates me from the very thing that I seek.  My journey of exploring culture and community takes me away from mine.  My desire to experience the cultures of the world and to witness how they work somehow keeps me just on the outside of full belonging to any one particular and the one I was born into and raised by is not resonant with my soul, heart or mind really in any way. 

I am a loner in this world:  a self proclaimed, fully discovered lost, yet totally found, soul.  Enlightened in many ways, and fully connected, yet longing for something that “normal” people in the most poor of places seem to have that I can’t quite touch or grasp.  Something that I know I will never have, that is not mine to have and that I can only witness, borrow and admire in others.  

Somehow, being a woman, single, solo and carrying the torch that I do, with the passion for experience, knowledge and wisdom that I have, I have become a citizen of a different kind of community.  I am participating in the community of the entire world.  I wander, I watch, I listen, I am like a ninja warrior priestess in the city of the world on a lifetime quest for understanding humanity as a participant of many cultures.  I am, indeed, a global citizen.  I have home, friends, community and love everywhere, and yet at the end of the day, still I am alone.

My instincts are sharp, and I know how to take care of myself and others.  I can literally go anywhere in the world and feel like I can survive, thrive and find my way.  I’ve been described as brave, courageous and fearless and I know it’s all true.  I don’t have a lot of inhibitions.  I say and do as I please, when I want and I’m grateful that I was blessed enough to be born into a culture that does grant me, if nothing else, the freedom to create myself and my life as I please.  Even in my lonlieness, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Yet, in quiet moments, like now, sitting by the Malacon at sunset listening to the surf and watching the day come to a close, the tender soft place in me, as a woman, wants nothing more than the sanctuary of one good man to lean on and to take my hand.   A man who can let me collapse into him when I am sad, tired or just fed up with the whole crazy illusion we call life.  A man who can feel what my heart feels right now, and show up to pick me up, dry my tears, hold me and know exactly how to nourish me back to my source, quietly and with great strength and softness. A man who can stand up to my fire, but melt me with his tenderness.

I’m beginning to think he’ll never show up  and that the reality of what I must accept in this life is that indeed, I am here on a solo journey to touch the hearts and lives of many, but to walk always as one woman with a mission to find ways to offer to the world that which she doesn’t have in her own life.

Two faces: one people

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November 18:  Day 6

People here wear two faces.  One is tired, worn and hopeless.  The other is friendly, tender and always welcoming. Walking the streets of Havana these past few days, I’ve seen so much of both.  There is an undeniable sense of hopelessness here matched with a spirit of acceptance for what is that allows the people here to find peace and enjoy a rich life in spite of their circumstances. 

 In spite of old, decrepit, falling down homes they smile. In spite of the incredible stench of piss and filthy streets that they have to navigate every day to get to the food stalls they smile.  In spite of the knowingness that it is unlikely that anything will ever change for them in their lifetime and that their government has effectively made them prisoners on this island they laugh and enjoy moments with total joy.

The contradictions here are difficult for a foreigner to understand.  Last night, walking home with my new friend, Salvador, I had an AHA moment.  The whole system is so different than what I’m used to in the US.  The way the people think is so different.  The laws and considerations that are created around that way of thinking is often very hard to grasp. 

This is an entire governtmental system that thinks not for the individual but for the entire population and for preserving a certain balance that preserves the whole.  The people think likewise: they don’t think of or just for themselves as individuals but about and for how their community and family is affected in every moment.  It’s almost as if there is no “I” but always and only a “we.”  It’s beautiful, and tonight suddenly so much more made sense to me.

The balance the government is holding them in isn’t necessarily one that all of the people want preserved, nor is it one that is always the most ideal place to exist, but the reality is that in spite of it’s many many problems, people here are surviving and existing in a certain surreal security, of sorts, that we in the US absolutely do not have and can’t understand.

The woman of my Casa Particular explained it to me the other night when we were walking the streets of Havana for hours under the guise of looking for someplace to dance.  “Cheri: Mira.. here, we no pay for nothing like you do.  My house, I no pay rent.  If I get sick, I no pay Doctor.  Lyposuction, I want to get, free for me.  I no pay for electricity, or water. Food is very cheap and some of it free. You understand me?  In your country, you pay rent no?  Doctor is very expensive. You no money, you no house. You no money, you no have food. For you, is very hard. Me, I prefer Cuba.”

And it’s true.  In spite of all the problems, and there are plenty of them, there is a certain stability for the people.  A certain security of at least having the basic needs more or less provided for them.   When I walk these streets all day and all night absorbing the energy, I understand that to be the source of the general feeling of peacefulness that presides here, also perhaps it feeds the apathy and maybe some laziness too if we take it far enough.

People get along well, they are willing to share, and to help each other out, they enjoy the company of each other.  The level of intelligence and savvy street smartness is incredible.  They are always thinking creatively to survive and to find little ways around the system that can benefit them or someone else.

My Aha moment last night was so profound it’s hard to yet put into words.  It was a recognition that somethings here, some “regulations” are put into effect almost to protect individuals from their own human nature or poor judgement, but of course, as with most things in government and systems of control, it is taken too far.  My western Americanized mind defaulted to the “personal responsibility, independent” argument, but then I realized, “wow, this system is saying to me, “Yes, but your personal judgement or mistake can impact the whole, and so we are taking that into consideration, realizing that you can make poor decisions.”  

It’s such a different way of being in the world, it’s a model once again of community, of limited shared resources and a need to consider that one individual can not be permitted to wreak havoc on a whole community, and so regulations are created to avoid this, and perhaps more so to maintain control and keep people disempowered to make change in a system that keeps them down.

This is truly a fascinating culture and system.  I am learning more every day.  My love for this place only grows, and my compassion for it’s people with it.

Preserving Mental Hygiene

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I am filled today with an incredible sadness.  Maybe something of the despair of the city has gotten into me.  Maybe I’m just tired.  Maybe it’s both.

I find myself looking deeply into the eyes of the old people I pass on the street to feel what they might feel.  I enter their window of hopelessness and despair.  I walk the streets today allowing myself to experience what it might feel like to live in one of these filthy little alleyway apartments with rats scurrying across the floor, and the smell of piss and sewage everywhere knowing that this is all I will ever have. 

There is no way out.  This is it.  I don’t have opportunity for anything different.  I can’t make enough money to even buy food or clothes, much less to get a passport to get out of this place.  There is no change coming here.  Nothing will ever be any different than it is now and my whole existence is simply to try to survive another day.

It’s a good practice and an incredible window to the reality that is here.  I let myself spend some hours in this space walking back and forth to my little room throughout the day until finally I come across some music and I stop there for relief from my thoughts.

A very handsome couple stands next to me chatting.  She is a beautiful young woman and he’s a very handsome tall man.  She gives me his hand, “Baila.. baila, el es mi hermano.. baila..”  I am ready to dance and happy to oblige, but apparently I don’t know this dance or I’m just nervous, and I feel like a dork with two left feet.  He is gentle and kind and helps me, and she is my cheerleader. 

The three of us end up spending the whole night together walking, talking, laughing, and sharing our hearts, stories and strangely our astrology.  I am in love with them by the end of the night, perhaps more her than him.  She is so bubbly, so adorably cute, so sassy and fun, so like me that I can’t help but enjoy her wildness. 

On the way back to my place after sitting at the Malacon chatting for hours, we come across a guitar player who serenades us and somehow entices me into some freestyle hip hop over the top of his Latin grooves.  We are all singing together, laughing and falling in love.  The guitar player and my new girlfriend kiss in front of her brother, and I can tell he is not impressed with his sister’s openness, but she is an untameable wild woman and she just laughs at her brother’s scowls. I find my mind wandering in the midst of this comical drama unfolding. 

Perhaps one of the most fascinating contradictions to me here is this sense of hopelessness and surrender that seems to create also this ability to shift into gratitude and appreciation for things that we in the US often take for granted.  Albeit it is indeed a sort of resigned acceptance here, but somewhere in it, Cubans have found an ability to be at peace in spite of their challenges, to find innovative solutions and to learn something from it that we in the US would be wise to consider: the willingness to stop complaining and find acceptance and peace regardless of the external conditions.  To appreciate the good things and focus on them rather than wasting a lifetime complaining and being pissed off about what is. 

I’ve been reading an incredible book, “Havana Real” by Yoani Sanchez, a woman here in Cuba who started a blog called Generation Y.  It’s a fascinating read and has been giving me deep insight into Cuban life from the perspective of someone who shares her story fearlessly in spite of her oppression.  She puts it this way, “A widespread call to inaction, in the name of preserving mental hygiene, has taken over Cubans’ ability to act.  The person who complains or demands is seen as “some kind of weirdo.”” 

People here have learned to find gratitude even in the midst of a pile of shit.  That to me is perhaps one of the things that makes this island so special. 

Life is to Live

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November 17-Day 5

I’ve been looking all over Habana for something that feels authentic and Roots connected that’s not stupidly commercialized and degraded.  I’m frustrated that I’ve spent my nights walking endlessly in search of that which feels authentic, juicy and exciting, and the best I can find is a disco with reggaeton or an overglamorized tourist scene with pasty plump whitey’s who just took their first salsa class this afternoon in the hotel lobby.  

There is Casa De Musica which is good, but at $10-50 a show, the value isn’t great.  The shows are short and it’s disappointing to think it’s a set break and then see everyone starting to leave as the DJ comes back on bumping the reggaeton.   It’s a lot like a Cuban sandwich, mostly bread with a wispy thin barely visible piece of meat inside and overpriced for it’s nutritional content. 

Today my heart is low.  I think I am in the wrong place, the city is not for me.  It’s too crazy, too many people moving too fast and with only one thing on their mind: making a buck.  It’s not so different from any other city.   Cities are cities and I’ve personally never found them a satisfying or soul fulfilling place to spend much time.  Get in and get out has always been my city philosophy and Habana, even with all it’s magic and beauty is not the place I want to be for much longer.

I find myself wondering about my intentions for this trip and deeply questioning everything I came here to do.  I feel a fear of failure surfacing then  find myself laughing at my own western neurosis of thinking too much as I pass a little old toothless lady dressed in a ridiculous red dress with a weird looking shaved dog in her lap waving at me joyfully.  I am reminded that there is nothing to fail at.  Life is to live not to achieve. 

I remind myself that I have to accept the reality that intentions and plans aside, the journey will reveal itself to me as it unfolds and that what I think I’m here for and what I’m really here for, may, indeed be different realities.  I know I have to be open to what is present rather that stuck on an agenda.  I remind myself that my project is a lifetime of unfolding not something I am going to have some completion on in 3 weeks with one trip to Cuba and I remind myself that everything already is perfect just the way it is and if I do nothing at all, that too is perfect. 

Here in Habana, modern culture is most definetly finding it’s way in thru the cracks in the crumbling walls of this city.  I can see the difference in just two years here.  Fancy stores with new modern store fronts, expensive clothes and even a few “brand” name store fronts have found a place in Old Habana now. 

The youth are displaying an ultra hip city vibe that I remember seeing a little bit before, but now it’s common to see young people with tatoos, piercings and cell phones glued to their ears.   Here they are ready, and ripe for the change and again, understandably so.  A few people are getting illegal internet, cable TV and US programs in their homes.  The system here is so out of control and in explicably complicated and still  Habana is already well on the track to modernization. 

The shift is in process here in Habana, and I sense, in myself as well