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.