(a bird shit on my head this morning). i looked around to see if anyone was giggling, staring at me sympathetically or maybe even coming over to offer me something to wipe it off with. look to the left….nothing. look to the right….nobody. there was a group of cops across the street staring at my tits. that’s about it.
(last week, i was thrown to the ground when a fight broke out on a public bus). i gazed up at an outstretched hand and when i went to grab it, some giant cuban woman pushed me back down on the floor (ewwwww, so dirty) and grabbed it herself. hmmmm.
(at a party recently, i didn’t utter a single word for 7 ½ hours). i waited and waited to see if maybe ONE person at the party spoke english, but alas, that was not the case. so, i sat on the floor (in my very tight cuban jeans no less) watching a bunch of people play charades in spanish (i particularly loved them acting out the song ‘beat it’ (it’s not only movies when they play here) by “mikal janson”). hee. but that said, my mouth didn’t open for hours upon hours.
(every day, i wander in and out of fancy hotel bathrooms pretending i’m a guest). and every day, someone swings the giant door open for me and enthusiastically welcomes with me a “buenos tardes senorita” completely forgetting that they have already opened the door for me 6 other times that week. surely they will catch on that this sweaty girl with a bladder problem couldn’t possibly be a guest for 6 months at $185 bucks a night? nope.
(tomorrow, i am going to pick my nose in public). and you know what? who’s going to care? (ps: it’s actually not a gross thing to do here so if you dig it, you can get your fill next time you visit this idyllic little island).
can you see what i’m getting at here? i came to the realization today (not sure why it’s taken me six months for this grand epiphany) that i am completely anonymous here. and now, with only a month left, i feel the need to do all the disgusting things in public i normally wouldn’t get a chance to do. like talk about people when they are standing beside me because they don’t understand a word of english. or dress completely inappropriately for my age and size (not like that’s such a stretch) and do so proudly. let my belly hang out, not wash my hair, throw my garbage on the ground (just once, for the experience – i am actually horrified at the garbage situation here), make out with someone on the sidewalk, sneeze without covering my mouth…..fart in the movie theatre. who cares, right? do i know anyone? my point being, although anonymity, at times, can cause terminal loneliness, it also allows you complete freedom. to do what you want. to feel what you want. to be without hang ups, insecurity and most importantly, to make no apologies.
just between you and me, at times when i am in the more touristic areas of the city, i fantasize about running into someone i know. “heeeeeey, jamie!!” and throwing my arms around them. or more importantly, them throwing their arms around me. i am always watching cubans greet each other on the street so enthusiastically and when i am with friends, i am always the creepy foreign girl waiting on the corner for the 900th time that they have to stop for yet another encounter with a friend on the street. it’s so odd for me – i am actually quite popular at home (if i do say so myself) and often walk down the street and run into people i know. i have lots of friends, i can get myself around easily (speaking the language helps) and can confidently hold my own at a party. me, not speak for 7 hours in a room of people? never. me, a wallflower? ahem, i think not. but you know, i kinda like it. working in the entertainment biz, you do a lot of talking. a lot of “heeeeeey jamie’s”. being completely faceless here is a bit of a nice break. however, in the spirit of honesty, i must admit that when i think i might know someone on the street here - as i approach and realize that my friend would never wear stretchpant version of jeans or a banana clip and the cuban woman who i have accosted looks like she might scratch my eyes out with her 9 inch long acrylic nails, i have to bite my lower lip and choke back a tear or two.
but, you can save your violin playing because most of the time i feel super cool that i am now the timid gal. especially at parties. “hey, who’s your foreign friend? she’s so shy”. ha! that’s me. and even better, i now walk the streets without an iota of consciousness about who’s looking at me. if my shirt is too tight, i no longer pull at it. i am without makeup, without hair products, without a rabid preoccupation with how i look. although they terrify me, i am taking a page from the book of most cuban women – if someone makes a comment about how you look or how you behave that you don’t like, you just tell them to fuck off (or “jodete”). here, people struggle, like, a lot. they don’t have time to be self conscious, they need to eat. they need to figure out how to afford to buy dish soap. they need to scrounge for a peso to buy a razor so they can shave their legs that they need to rub up against rich foreigners. there is simply no time in the day to worry about all the mundane (and if we’re honest, most of the time quite meaningless) things we worry about at home all the time. and that my friends, i have learned from 6 months of anonymity. from months of sitting quietly (something that doesn’t come easily for me) and watching. and listening. and processing. and learning. and so now, i don’t cry from loneliness when i realize how alone i am here, i celebrate it. because i know in a month from now, when i am walking up yonge street and running into people i know, i will yearn for the days of quiet reflection on street corners.
and hey, if you run into me on the street when i return and i am lucky enough to maintain my state of bohemian-ness (read: not giving a shit about the stupid things anymore) and haven’t washed my hair….don’t dare ask me what new product i’m using to make my hair look so ‘natural’. cuz if you do, i am gonna go all cuban on your ass and tell you to “jodete!”. (after clutching you for 10 minutes out of relief that someone finally said hello to me).
so to all of you out there who are not lucky enough to live and wander the steets of a foreign country every day, here is my advice: go out for a walk today in a hat & sunglasses and embrace your anonymity. and for the love of god, pick your nose on the street. and enjoy it.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
(it’s rainin’ patos….halleluiah it’s rainin’ patos!)
“man, you can bounce a quarter off her ass! her legs are long and lean, her titties round and robust…..i’d do her, for sure”, exclaimed my very enthusiastic cuban compadre about the blonde strutting in front of us. “heeee heeeee”, i giggled to myself. “shit, really, i would so do her. i would bend her over my kitchen table….” i had to stop him. i knew this conversation would end in him taking a shower a-la-the crying game. “sorry chico, but that’s a dude”. silence. disappointment. utter horror. “QUE!?” he chokes. “yeah, sorry buddy but those long, lean legs lead all the way up to something you very much don’t want banging against your kitchen table”, i explained quasi-sympathetically. he spits in disgust. he shakes a little. and then….he makes a clucking sound. huh? what is this familiar clucking sound i have heard so many times?
this may come as a bit of a shock, but most latin american guys are a little on the machismo side. i know of a certain someone who was genuinely quite distraught that he might have AIDS because his gay barber accidentally knicked him with the razor while cutting his hair. i have come to learn that my very queer positive world that i once lived in no longer exists. at least while i live in this country. don’t get me wrong, there is an organization that works very hard to support gay rights (and run by none other than raul castro’s daughter no less) but the average jose, well, he don’t dig the gays. and don’t even get them started on the transgendered folk. not only do they call them names (maricas, playeros, locas, gueichas, pajaros, descarados, disfrazados), to name a few, they will happily dodge oncoming traffic to avoid walking by them. it’s bad enough that when i am with some of my new pals (who really are quite liberal by latin american standards) they literally cluck like chickens when two cute gay boys walk by holding hands. and the trans guys and gals? well, they get extra enthusiastic clucks.
i live in central havana, probably one of the poorest of the poor, hard core hoods in this city. most of the time i see families pouring out on to the street to escape the heat of their 2 bedroom apartment housing 17 people, dogs with one eye and no fur scratching themselves against the pavement, garbage dumpsters overflowing with things i shall not describe nor shall i divulge the odor that emanates from them…..and on every other corner on a saturday night, a gal with shockingly real tits (how can she afford them here?), a face full of make up and shorts so short they lead me to believe you can get your hands on some seriously strong duct tape here. and although they are getting clucked at, spit on, looked at with utter horror and disgust, they are strutting those long lean legs up and down the main drag lookin’ for some action. and in this city, i have come to learn, anyone with an ass in a pair of short shorts, regardless of what’s inside of them, can rustle up some action. i am told that cuba is actually one of the most liberal, tolerant countries in latin america when it comes to acceptance of the queer lifestyle. that being said, there still isn’t a legal gay or lezzie bar to be found. and if you want to hook up, the only place to go is hang out on the malecon (the sea wall) or the ‘gay’ movie theatre (it’s hard to really tell the difference between where the boys hang and where the ‘regular folk’ hang, they all have suspiciously sticky floors) on the weekend and see where the house party is for that evening. it’s super old school but we are in a communist country after all, where everything is indeed, super old school.
(as i write this, i am drinking a (delicious!) pineapple juice, juiced in none other than a 1952 russian blender. and that’s young for some appliances here. not to stray from my rant on the queers but as an aside, i have to say, things here are crazy old. and the cuban people, resourceful as they are, make these things work. like new. a bit of string and a glue stick and there you have it, a car muffler. or a rock in a sock and you have a baseball (watch your head on the street). or cut up pieces of condoms disguised as cheese on pizza during the ‘special period’ (i am told that latex can get quite stringy when heated – yuck) when there was no food. how about one bar of fluorescent green soap that is used to wash your dishes, , wash your clothes and wash your ass? yeah…resourceful. granted, you always have greasy dishes, crunchy underwear and an itchy bum. )
all this to say, if the cubans want to make it happen, they will find a way to make it happen. and that goes for all the carpet munching, fudge packing fun they can possibly have on a saturday night. and if you want fake tits, well 500 bucks can get you a pair and i can tell you this, there ain’t a canadian/italian/german perv around that doesn’t want to spend a few bucks on these very well endowed latinas that will give the gals on church street a serious run for their money.
and you know, in a country that is outrageously oppressive, repressed and utterly homophobic, i say “cluck, cluck, cluck!”
translation: “you go chicas!”
this may come as a bit of a shock, but most latin american guys are a little on the machismo side. i know of a certain someone who was genuinely quite distraught that he might have AIDS because his gay barber accidentally knicked him with the razor while cutting his hair. i have come to learn that my very queer positive world that i once lived in no longer exists. at least while i live in this country. don’t get me wrong, there is an organization that works very hard to support gay rights (and run by none other than raul castro’s daughter no less) but the average jose, well, he don’t dig the gays. and don’t even get them started on the transgendered folk. not only do they call them names (maricas, playeros, locas, gueichas, pajaros, descarados, disfrazados), to name a few, they will happily dodge oncoming traffic to avoid walking by them. it’s bad enough that when i am with some of my new pals (who really are quite liberal by latin american standards) they literally cluck like chickens when two cute gay boys walk by holding hands. and the trans guys and gals? well, they get extra enthusiastic clucks.
i live in central havana, probably one of the poorest of the poor, hard core hoods in this city. most of the time i see families pouring out on to the street to escape the heat of their 2 bedroom apartment housing 17 people, dogs with one eye and no fur scratching themselves against the pavement, garbage dumpsters overflowing with things i shall not describe nor shall i divulge the odor that emanates from them…..and on every other corner on a saturday night, a gal with shockingly real tits (how can she afford them here?), a face full of make up and shorts so short they lead me to believe you can get your hands on some seriously strong duct tape here. and although they are getting clucked at, spit on, looked at with utter horror and disgust, they are strutting those long lean legs up and down the main drag lookin’ for some action. and in this city, i have come to learn, anyone with an ass in a pair of short shorts, regardless of what’s inside of them, can rustle up some action. i am told that cuba is actually one of the most liberal, tolerant countries in latin america when it comes to acceptance of the queer lifestyle. that being said, there still isn’t a legal gay or lezzie bar to be found. and if you want to hook up, the only place to go is hang out on the malecon (the sea wall) or the ‘gay’ movie theatre (it’s hard to really tell the difference between where the boys hang and where the ‘regular folk’ hang, they all have suspiciously sticky floors) on the weekend and see where the house party is for that evening. it’s super old school but we are in a communist country after all, where everything is indeed, super old school.
(as i write this, i am drinking a (delicious!) pineapple juice, juiced in none other than a 1952 russian blender. and that’s young for some appliances here. not to stray from my rant on the queers but as an aside, i have to say, things here are crazy old. and the cuban people, resourceful as they are, make these things work. like new. a bit of string and a glue stick and there you have it, a car muffler. or a rock in a sock and you have a baseball (watch your head on the street). or cut up pieces of condoms disguised as cheese on pizza during the ‘special period’ (i am told that latex can get quite stringy when heated – yuck) when there was no food. how about one bar of fluorescent green soap that is used to wash your dishes, , wash your clothes and wash your ass? yeah…resourceful. granted, you always have greasy dishes, crunchy underwear and an itchy bum. )
all this to say, if the cubans want to make it happen, they will find a way to make it happen. and that goes for all the carpet munching, fudge packing fun they can possibly have on a saturday night. and if you want fake tits, well 500 bucks can get you a pair and i can tell you this, there ain’t a canadian/italian/german perv around that doesn’t want to spend a few bucks on these very well endowed latinas that will give the gals on church street a serious run for their money.
and you know, in a country that is outrageously oppressive, repressed and utterly homophobic, i say “cluck, cluck, cluck!”
translation: “you go chicas!”
Sunday, May 2, 2010
(un momentico)
my sincerest apologies to all my newfound fans, i have been a little busy and unable to update my blog. in all honesty, it is hard to muster energy when you are lying in your underwear (my new cuban underwear, i might add, from the brand ‘zexy muchacha’) trying not to panic at the fact that i might actually perish from the heat. sure, i don’t dig the heat in the best of times but i’m talkin’ 975 degrees BEFORE the 1000% humidity. i have certainly looked more attractive than i do in these days. so cut me some slack.
hilarity to resume in un momentico.
ps: have you been to a country where they only sell polyester thongs in the undergarment section? do i need to elaborate on how comfy those are in this kind of heat? i thought not.
hilarity to resume in un momentico.
ps: have you been to a country where they only sell polyester thongs in the undergarment section? do i need to elaborate on how comfy those are in this kind of heat? i thought not.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
(un dia)
7:00AM: awaken to the sound of roosters clucking and pigs snorting. wonder why people in the bustling cosmopolitan (relatively speaking) city of havana have roosters on their balconies and pigs in their back yards. spend a moment contemplating how hygienic it can be to have farm animals in your home and make a mental note to stop eating things sold out of people’s windows.
7:01AM: take a second to have my daily panic about the fact that i actually have nothing to do today and seriously contemplate what the hell I am doing here and why i quit my job and sold my condo?
7:02AM: realize that i have nothing to do today and roll over in sheer delight at the fact that i have nothing to do today. what should I do? drink another mojito? go to the beach? read a book under a tree? work on my tan? who cares, i can do whatever the hell I want! fall in love with myself all over again for quitting my job, selling my condo, moving to a communist country and being so totally cool.
9:15AM: stir from the beating sun broiling my tender creamy skin and wonder why i am not only dripping in sweat but covered in itchy bumps? is it bed bugs? it IS 475 degrees with the humidity in here, after all, and surely that can’t do anything good for the 50 year old mattress i am sleeping on? or is it some crazy tropical disease carried by the filthy animals i am constantly caressing on the street? either way, another mental note is made to put calamine lotion on the next care package list and roll over again.
11AM: get up. it’s enough of being completely slovenly and indulgent. wander to the kitchen of the cuban family’s house that i am now living in and see none other than a spam sandwich on the counter waiting for me. now, if I make fun of the fact that there is a spam sandwich waiting for me then i sound like a total bitch and completely unappreciative of the fact that someone who has very little has taken the time to leave something for me, made with genuine affection before leaving at 6AM to work a 14 hour day and make 12 cents, so i won’t make any jokes about spam. and you know, to tell you the truth, when you’re hungry and you close your eyes, it doesn’t actually taste all that bad. chuckle to myself that i still call myself a vegetarian.
11:10AM: wonder why i am still hungry? realize that i am now starving in solidarity. cubans are obsessed with food, mainly because they actually don’t have enough and although i spend on groceries in a week what most people make in 6 months, i am still always starving. take a moment to yearn for a spicy tuna roll, look in the fridge, see nothing that resembles a spicy tuna roll and shuffle away in disappointment.
11:30AM: take my clothes off to get ready for my shower. look in the mirror and realize that my starving in solidarity is really getting me a hot bod. seriously consider extending my time here for no other reason than the malnourishment that will get me into a size 6.
11:45AM: take a shower. wash myself from a bucket in a bathroom without running water and holes in walls. marvel at the fact that, even though i have now done this 75 times, i am a super bohemian and remind myself never to let anyone call me neurotic again. however, have a brief moment of ‘former elana’ and feel disgust when i realize i boiled the shower water in a cooking pot and have to spend 20 minutes picking rice out of my bum.
1:00PM: what a surprise, i am hungry again. decide i am going to treat myself to a pizza and in a fit of laziness, decide to take the bus. stand at the bus stop with 950 other people and wonder how we’re all going to fit? feel the beads of sweat start to form on my upper lip. obsessively admire myself for giving everything up and taking the bus (and secretly and obsessively yearn for my honda civic with a/c). watch the bus pull up and in what doesn’t look safe at all, stuff 949 of those people on top of each other. decide that for safety, hair (it is VERY hot!) and personal space reasons, i shall take a pass. also note that the bus is from 1945, has german street names on the front and windows that don’t open. curious if it was used during the war? the sweaty, despondent faces pressed up against the glass look as some might have during that time. feel happy with my decision to walk.
2:00PM: realize it has taken me an hour to walk three blocks. perhaps my sedentary lifestyle at home, inability to acclimatize to the heat and the enormous and very dangerous potholes on every corner is affecting my efficiency on the roads. alas, skip in excitement around the corner to the pizza place but screech to a halt when i realize that this ain’t no normal pizza joint. one has to scream up (en espanol, i might add) what kind of pizza you want (hmmm, i better pick one that looks familiar from the list of unidentifiable pizza toppings – ‘hawaiana’ – again, there goes my vegetarianism) and then pray the guy 12 floors up heard and understood you amongst the starving, screaming cubans. wait and wait and wait and then panic when he starts to yell down in spanish and point at me. with trepidation and confusion, approach the bucket that is flying down overhead and realize, there’s a hawaian pizza inside! put 50 cents in the bucket and hope that i can always live in a place where your food is delivered to you in a flying pail.
4:00PM: walk by a book store and decide to browse. seriously contemplate buying the “O” magazine from 1998 out of sheer desperation for something in english. realize that my voracious appetite for pop culture has waned since living in an impoverished, communist country and feel excited that i am now ‘worldly’ and not shallow. try to remember to cancel my people magazine subscription when i get home out of my newfound ‘worldli-ness’ (and if i don’t remember, well, i should read it anyway, don’t you think? because my time here has taught me not to let things go to waste…you know. it’s not like i’d enjoy it. really.)
5:00PM: notice across the street that ‘inglorious bastards’ (‘bastardos sin gloria’ – hee) is playing. decide it would be good to experience seeing an american blockbuster film in a communist, anti-US country. pay my 4 cents to get in, sit down and appreciate the minus 20 degree air conditioning. feel confused by the fact that on the screen i see someone press ‘play’ and ‘subtitles…spanish’. realize that they only play dvd’s in the theatres here. hmmmm, i did only pay 4 cents, i’ll give it a shot. reel in shock when i see a pirated version of the film being screened and giggle in disbelief when i realize that said pirater left the video camera on his seat for 20 minutes when he went to the bathroom and decide that it’s time to leave. sigh. socialist cinema isn’t as fun as i thought.
6:00PM: walk by 12 grocery stores looking for peanut butter. nope. remember that one can’t get used to buying anything here because even though you bought it once, you may never get that opportunity again. in fact, some products you may fall in love with and then when the foreign manufacturer realizes they are being paid in cuban monopoly money, they just pull it all off the shelves and split, leaving all of us here with a big whole in our hearts where 90 cent tetra packs of pina colada flavoured rum once lived. if i had known i would have to visit 12 grocery stores, multiple times a week looking for peanut butter again for the next 3 months, i would have certainly made love to each delicious spoonful when i had the chance. shuffle out in disappointment and prepare myself for spreading spam on my bread again tomorrow morning. mmmmm.
7:30PM: uh, why can’t i see anything? surely mr. ‘c’ can afford to keep the street lights on for foreign gals like myself who CANNOT navigate these insane crumbly streets during the day?? no. they need to save energy. so instead of turning the lights off at night in gigantic government office buildings, it’s much better to just turn off all the street lamps and watch everyone plummet to the bottom of the pot holes. at the very least, the cubans on the corners watching me fall on my ass every 12 seconds are amused. i take a moment to feel happy that i am contributing to boosting the morale here.
7:35PM: flutter my eyes at swarthy cuban on dark street corner while his eyes, as dark as the streets i have to navigate, slowly make their way over me. feel ever so slightly creeped out by him but very happy that my starvation hasn’t completely depleted my ample supply of tits and ass for the cuban admirer.
9:00PM: feel super excited that i actually have a friend and stop by his house to attend a party. happen upon the one group of cubans who don’t dig salsa and find a bunch of brown guys dancing around a bottle of hooch to bon jovi’s ‘wanted: dead or alive”. have a very hearty chuckle (internally) at how they are spanglish-ing the lyrics (“i am war-ned, deaf and arrive”) and partake in said hooch. a few swigs later, remember why i treat myself to the real stuff and say a silent prayer that i don’t barf on the way home.
2:00AM: drunkenly fall into the home of my new bed bug pets. desperately feel the urge to pee and trepidatiously make my way to the very scary bathroom. ahhhh, perch myself on the edge of the ‘toilet’ and relieve myself. feel relaxed from my day of being a lady of leisure when….huh? what’s that? did something just run over my foot? mid-stream, panicked, frantically look around the bathroom to see what it was. then, staring up at me, the size of my hand (literally):
la cucaracha, la cucaracha….ya no puede caminar
la cucaracha, la cucaracha….porque le falta la patica principal
2:01AM: completely lose my shit, pee all over my feet and race back into my bed. realize that i not only have giant cockroaches running around but my den of salvation has bugs in it. contemplate new bohemian status and tell myself it’s okay to be a little freaked out. i’m a jew from leaside living in squalor, it’s gotta take more than a few months to completely free yourself of all neuroses, no?
3:00AM: finally return heartbeat to normal. lulled to sleep by the sounds of chickens clucking, ancient car engines choking, whores counting their pennies. come to the realization that i am one of the luckiest gals around that i have been afforded the opportunity to stay in the home of such a generous and gracious family, have insightful, kind new friends and can live in a place where although there is no peanut butter, having a belly that hangs over your pants is a pre-requisite for being invited to a party.
7:01AM: take a second to have my daily panic about the fact that i actually have nothing to do today and seriously contemplate what the hell I am doing here and why i quit my job and sold my condo?
7:02AM: realize that i have nothing to do today and roll over in sheer delight at the fact that i have nothing to do today. what should I do? drink another mojito? go to the beach? read a book under a tree? work on my tan? who cares, i can do whatever the hell I want! fall in love with myself all over again for quitting my job, selling my condo, moving to a communist country and being so totally cool.
9:15AM: stir from the beating sun broiling my tender creamy skin and wonder why i am not only dripping in sweat but covered in itchy bumps? is it bed bugs? it IS 475 degrees with the humidity in here, after all, and surely that can’t do anything good for the 50 year old mattress i am sleeping on? or is it some crazy tropical disease carried by the filthy animals i am constantly caressing on the street? either way, another mental note is made to put calamine lotion on the next care package list and roll over again.
11AM: get up. it’s enough of being completely slovenly and indulgent. wander to the kitchen of the cuban family’s house that i am now living in and see none other than a spam sandwich on the counter waiting for me. now, if I make fun of the fact that there is a spam sandwich waiting for me then i sound like a total bitch and completely unappreciative of the fact that someone who has very little has taken the time to leave something for me, made with genuine affection before leaving at 6AM to work a 14 hour day and make 12 cents, so i won’t make any jokes about spam. and you know, to tell you the truth, when you’re hungry and you close your eyes, it doesn’t actually taste all that bad. chuckle to myself that i still call myself a vegetarian.
11:10AM: wonder why i am still hungry? realize that i am now starving in solidarity. cubans are obsessed with food, mainly because they actually don’t have enough and although i spend on groceries in a week what most people make in 6 months, i am still always starving. take a moment to yearn for a spicy tuna roll, look in the fridge, see nothing that resembles a spicy tuna roll and shuffle away in disappointment.
11:30AM: take my clothes off to get ready for my shower. look in the mirror and realize that my starving in solidarity is really getting me a hot bod. seriously consider extending my time here for no other reason than the malnourishment that will get me into a size 6.
11:45AM: take a shower. wash myself from a bucket in a bathroom without running water and holes in walls. marvel at the fact that, even though i have now done this 75 times, i am a super bohemian and remind myself never to let anyone call me neurotic again. however, have a brief moment of ‘former elana’ and feel disgust when i realize i boiled the shower water in a cooking pot and have to spend 20 minutes picking rice out of my bum.
1:00PM: what a surprise, i am hungry again. decide i am going to treat myself to a pizza and in a fit of laziness, decide to take the bus. stand at the bus stop with 950 other people and wonder how we’re all going to fit? feel the beads of sweat start to form on my upper lip. obsessively admire myself for giving everything up and taking the bus (and secretly and obsessively yearn for my honda civic with a/c). watch the bus pull up and in what doesn’t look safe at all, stuff 949 of those people on top of each other. decide that for safety, hair (it is VERY hot!) and personal space reasons, i shall take a pass. also note that the bus is from 1945, has german street names on the front and windows that don’t open. curious if it was used during the war? the sweaty, despondent faces pressed up against the glass look as some might have during that time. feel happy with my decision to walk.
2:00PM: realize it has taken me an hour to walk three blocks. perhaps my sedentary lifestyle at home, inability to acclimatize to the heat and the enormous and very dangerous potholes on every corner is affecting my efficiency on the roads. alas, skip in excitement around the corner to the pizza place but screech to a halt when i realize that this ain’t no normal pizza joint. one has to scream up (en espanol, i might add) what kind of pizza you want (hmmm, i better pick one that looks familiar from the list of unidentifiable pizza toppings – ‘hawaiana’ – again, there goes my vegetarianism) and then pray the guy 12 floors up heard and understood you amongst the starving, screaming cubans. wait and wait and wait and then panic when he starts to yell down in spanish and point at me. with trepidation and confusion, approach the bucket that is flying down overhead and realize, there’s a hawaian pizza inside! put 50 cents in the bucket and hope that i can always live in a place where your food is delivered to you in a flying pail.
4:00PM: walk by a book store and decide to browse. seriously contemplate buying the “O” magazine from 1998 out of sheer desperation for something in english. realize that my voracious appetite for pop culture has waned since living in an impoverished, communist country and feel excited that i am now ‘worldly’ and not shallow. try to remember to cancel my people magazine subscription when i get home out of my newfound ‘worldli-ness’ (and if i don’t remember, well, i should read it anyway, don’t you think? because my time here has taught me not to let things go to waste…you know. it’s not like i’d enjoy it. really.)
5:00PM: notice across the street that ‘inglorious bastards’ (‘bastardos sin gloria’ – hee) is playing. decide it would be good to experience seeing an american blockbuster film in a communist, anti-US country. pay my 4 cents to get in, sit down and appreciate the minus 20 degree air conditioning. feel confused by the fact that on the screen i see someone press ‘play’ and ‘subtitles…spanish’. realize that they only play dvd’s in the theatres here. hmmmm, i did only pay 4 cents, i’ll give it a shot. reel in shock when i see a pirated version of the film being screened and giggle in disbelief when i realize that said pirater left the video camera on his seat for 20 minutes when he went to the bathroom and decide that it’s time to leave. sigh. socialist cinema isn’t as fun as i thought.
6:00PM: walk by 12 grocery stores looking for peanut butter. nope. remember that one can’t get used to buying anything here because even though you bought it once, you may never get that opportunity again. in fact, some products you may fall in love with and then when the foreign manufacturer realizes they are being paid in cuban monopoly money, they just pull it all off the shelves and split, leaving all of us here with a big whole in our hearts where 90 cent tetra packs of pina colada flavoured rum once lived. if i had known i would have to visit 12 grocery stores, multiple times a week looking for peanut butter again for the next 3 months, i would have certainly made love to each delicious spoonful when i had the chance. shuffle out in disappointment and prepare myself for spreading spam on my bread again tomorrow morning. mmmmm.
7:30PM: uh, why can’t i see anything? surely mr. ‘c’ can afford to keep the street lights on for foreign gals like myself who CANNOT navigate these insane crumbly streets during the day?? no. they need to save energy. so instead of turning the lights off at night in gigantic government office buildings, it’s much better to just turn off all the street lamps and watch everyone plummet to the bottom of the pot holes. at the very least, the cubans on the corners watching me fall on my ass every 12 seconds are amused. i take a moment to feel happy that i am contributing to boosting the morale here.
7:35PM: flutter my eyes at swarthy cuban on dark street corner while his eyes, as dark as the streets i have to navigate, slowly make their way over me. feel ever so slightly creeped out by him but very happy that my starvation hasn’t completely depleted my ample supply of tits and ass for the cuban admirer.
9:00PM: feel super excited that i actually have a friend and stop by his house to attend a party. happen upon the one group of cubans who don’t dig salsa and find a bunch of brown guys dancing around a bottle of hooch to bon jovi’s ‘wanted: dead or alive”. have a very hearty chuckle (internally) at how they are spanglish-ing the lyrics (“i am war-ned, deaf and arrive”) and partake in said hooch. a few swigs later, remember why i treat myself to the real stuff and say a silent prayer that i don’t barf on the way home.
2:00AM: drunkenly fall into the home of my new bed bug pets. desperately feel the urge to pee and trepidatiously make my way to the very scary bathroom. ahhhh, perch myself on the edge of the ‘toilet’ and relieve myself. feel relaxed from my day of being a lady of leisure when….huh? what’s that? did something just run over my foot? mid-stream, panicked, frantically look around the bathroom to see what it was. then, staring up at me, the size of my hand (literally):
la cucaracha, la cucaracha….ya no puede caminar
la cucaracha, la cucaracha….porque le falta la patica principal
2:01AM: completely lose my shit, pee all over my feet and race back into my bed. realize that i not only have giant cockroaches running around but my den of salvation has bugs in it. contemplate new bohemian status and tell myself it’s okay to be a little freaked out. i’m a jew from leaside living in squalor, it’s gotta take more than a few months to completely free yourself of all neuroses, no?
3:00AM: finally return heartbeat to normal. lulled to sleep by the sounds of chickens clucking, ancient car engines choking, whores counting their pennies. come to the realization that i am one of the luckiest gals around that i have been afforded the opportunity to stay in the home of such a generous and gracious family, have insightful, kind new friends and can live in a place where although there is no peanut butter, having a belly that hangs over your pants is a pre-requisite for being invited to a party.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
(dear john)
my dearest darling,
ahhhh, we’ve had some good times, no? you lured me into your embrace with your supple sand, your luscious ladies, your minty mouth watering mojitos, your curvy cobblestone streets, your sweet sound of salsa on every corner. you let me get cozy in your fancy hotels, spend my tourist dollars in your premium cigar shops, drink your high end rum. you gave me no choice but to fall in love with you. my sun drenched skin, gazed upon by some of the finest latinos, my aquamarine eyes fixed upon with every glance, my laughter coming out of many an establishment where the $8 daiquiri’s flow freely. sigh, what a time we had.
now, many months and numerous visits later, i am sorry to say mi amor, our love affair is starting to wane. my lust for your sultry socialism just ain’t cuttin’ it anymore.
now, i certainly can’t deny that you have helped me grow, that’s the truth. i can now drink havana club rum with gusto directly from the bottle and pee on a tree. i have learned how to take a shower from a bucket, eat rice and beans at every meal, use an empty tuna can as part of the interior design and look over my shoulder whenever i want to express an opinion. i have most definitely developed my skills as a keen negotiator (i was an agent after all) to not pay $2 for a few tomatoes when it should only cost me 12 cents. i have learned how to walk on the street and not fall into each pot hole on every corner and to dodge the crumbling buildings falling on my head as i go on my merry way. i have trained myself not to pick up and bring home every single baby animal that’s crying, starving, furless and diseased. i am now an expert at eating from the street without utensils and am likely the foreigner with the best ability to rip off a piece of greasy cardboard box and use it like a spoon. you have afforded me the opportunity to train my digestive system to be able to ingest anything i want, including the skin of animals fried into fancy shapes. when once before i may have said “hmmm, that might make me barf” now i say enthusiastically, “si, por favor!”. i have gained a better appreciation for how amazing my tits and ass can look in clothes that have Playboy logos on them and now fetishize lycra. i have acclimatized to the fact that most people here know very little of the outside world and don’t look at them in shock & disbelief anymore when they say things like “what’s a big mac?”. i am completely aware as i walk down the street, that i will very likely be hit in the head with a baseball made of string, hit by an excited kid with a bat made of bark or that someone will pour a bucket of their ‘bathroom water’ from their balcony on me because they have no running water. i don’t feel frightened anymore when my stomach churns because i treated myself to a $10 box of raisin bran so old that the 100s of bugs inside have buried themselves into my intestines. i just think, ‘shit, i’m super lucky to have been able to afford that box of cereal that’s so old because i’m likely the only one who can afford it and that’s why it’s been sitting on the shelf for the last 6 years’. no longer do i cringe when the plumes of black smoke from the 65 year old cars fill my lungs, i have just accepted the fact that i will feel horrific for as long as i remain in this city.
all that said, i also can’t deny that i have gained a newfound understanding for how lucky i am to simply hold the passport that i hold. i have a deep appreciation for everything in my life that i had and continue to have. not just the fancy job, leaside condo or comfortable leased car i so enthusiastically tossed aside but something more profound than that…..my freedom. the fact that i have the freedom of speech, to express my opinions about whatever i want and wherever i want without the fear of someone arresting me when i am sitting having a drink with my friends. the freedom to have a job that allows me to make a salary, no matter how meager, that will pay my rent and feed me. the freedom to move into a new apartment, travel out of the country, rent a DVD. i have gained the most amazing insight into how empathetic i can feel when there are people around me who have so little, who struggle so much, who would literally do anything to have what i have. and at this very moment, i really don’t have much - i have no home, no job, no car and here, no friends. but what I have is my freedom and my ability to have those things again, very easily. i, like so many others around me at home, spent most of my time trying to fill a void with a better job, more clothes, a nicer apartment – looking to some higher power in a yoga studio, a meditation retreat, a self help book, a shrink’s office to try to help me find much needed clarity. now, and with the most admiration, all i have to do for clarity is look around me. look at people trying to survive, not just in poverty but in the most extreme oppression. intelligent, creative, resourceful people who have no opportunity to grow in the way north americans are so desperate to (and with anything they need at their fingertips) because they simply have no means to do so. although i feel no need to run home and live in squalor out of solidarity, i certainly feel the need to embrace my newfound perspective on survival, my new understanding of the difference between what I ‘want’ and what i ‘need’ and my ability to seriously appreciate the opportunities available to me that so many others have no access to.
so, my darling, i do love and appreciate you but soon, i will have to take said opportunity to get the hell out and you know….get the hell out. and as my parting gift, i shall leave to you my lyra so you will always remember me. as much as i love it, i can’t deny that it really doesn’t breathe nicely in 45 degree heat.
yours, most sincerely,
elanita
ahhhh, we’ve had some good times, no? you lured me into your embrace with your supple sand, your luscious ladies, your minty mouth watering mojitos, your curvy cobblestone streets, your sweet sound of salsa on every corner. you let me get cozy in your fancy hotels, spend my tourist dollars in your premium cigar shops, drink your high end rum. you gave me no choice but to fall in love with you. my sun drenched skin, gazed upon by some of the finest latinos, my aquamarine eyes fixed upon with every glance, my laughter coming out of many an establishment where the $8 daiquiri’s flow freely. sigh, what a time we had.
now, many months and numerous visits later, i am sorry to say mi amor, our love affair is starting to wane. my lust for your sultry socialism just ain’t cuttin’ it anymore.
now, i certainly can’t deny that you have helped me grow, that’s the truth. i can now drink havana club rum with gusto directly from the bottle and pee on a tree. i have learned how to take a shower from a bucket, eat rice and beans at every meal, use an empty tuna can as part of the interior design and look over my shoulder whenever i want to express an opinion. i have most definitely developed my skills as a keen negotiator (i was an agent after all) to not pay $2 for a few tomatoes when it should only cost me 12 cents. i have learned how to walk on the street and not fall into each pot hole on every corner and to dodge the crumbling buildings falling on my head as i go on my merry way. i have trained myself not to pick up and bring home every single baby animal that’s crying, starving, furless and diseased. i am now an expert at eating from the street without utensils and am likely the foreigner with the best ability to rip off a piece of greasy cardboard box and use it like a spoon. you have afforded me the opportunity to train my digestive system to be able to ingest anything i want, including the skin of animals fried into fancy shapes. when once before i may have said “hmmm, that might make me barf” now i say enthusiastically, “si, por favor!”. i have gained a better appreciation for how amazing my tits and ass can look in clothes that have Playboy logos on them and now fetishize lycra. i have acclimatized to the fact that most people here know very little of the outside world and don’t look at them in shock & disbelief anymore when they say things like “what’s a big mac?”. i am completely aware as i walk down the street, that i will very likely be hit in the head with a baseball made of string, hit by an excited kid with a bat made of bark or that someone will pour a bucket of their ‘bathroom water’ from their balcony on me because they have no running water. i don’t feel frightened anymore when my stomach churns because i treated myself to a $10 box of raisin bran so old that the 100s of bugs inside have buried themselves into my intestines. i just think, ‘shit, i’m super lucky to have been able to afford that box of cereal that’s so old because i’m likely the only one who can afford it and that’s why it’s been sitting on the shelf for the last 6 years’. no longer do i cringe when the plumes of black smoke from the 65 year old cars fill my lungs, i have just accepted the fact that i will feel horrific for as long as i remain in this city.
all that said, i also can’t deny that i have gained a newfound understanding for how lucky i am to simply hold the passport that i hold. i have a deep appreciation for everything in my life that i had and continue to have. not just the fancy job, leaside condo or comfortable leased car i so enthusiastically tossed aside but something more profound than that…..my freedom. the fact that i have the freedom of speech, to express my opinions about whatever i want and wherever i want without the fear of someone arresting me when i am sitting having a drink with my friends. the freedom to have a job that allows me to make a salary, no matter how meager, that will pay my rent and feed me. the freedom to move into a new apartment, travel out of the country, rent a DVD. i have gained the most amazing insight into how empathetic i can feel when there are people around me who have so little, who struggle so much, who would literally do anything to have what i have. and at this very moment, i really don’t have much - i have no home, no job, no car and here, no friends. but what I have is my freedom and my ability to have those things again, very easily. i, like so many others around me at home, spent most of my time trying to fill a void with a better job, more clothes, a nicer apartment – looking to some higher power in a yoga studio, a meditation retreat, a self help book, a shrink’s office to try to help me find much needed clarity. now, and with the most admiration, all i have to do for clarity is look around me. look at people trying to survive, not just in poverty but in the most extreme oppression. intelligent, creative, resourceful people who have no opportunity to grow in the way north americans are so desperate to (and with anything they need at their fingertips) because they simply have no means to do so. although i feel no need to run home and live in squalor out of solidarity, i certainly feel the need to embrace my newfound perspective on survival, my new understanding of the difference between what I ‘want’ and what i ‘need’ and my ability to seriously appreciate the opportunities available to me that so many others have no access to.
so, my darling, i do love and appreciate you but soon, i will have to take said opportunity to get the hell out and you know….get the hell out. and as my parting gift, i shall leave to you my lyra so you will always remember me. as much as i love it, i can’t deny that it really doesn’t breathe nicely in 45 degree heat.
yours, most sincerely,
elanita
Sunday, March 28, 2010
(omitted)
here lay an entry that i thought held some value and importance in really expressing my feelings about how things work in this country (and, in my humble opinion, was quite amusing), however, i have decided to remove it. it has been suggested to me (in not so hushed tones, as most things here are suggested), by a number of those really in the know, that perhaps, for my own security, i keep my opinions (on higher powers) to myself. or at least until i am nestled safely in the bosom of my homeland. so, while i am a guest on socialist soil, i shall respect the way things are done and censor myself before i am told to do so. cuz, by the time they knock on your door to tell you to shut the hell up, you’re pretty much fucked.
musings and such to resume momentarily.
ps: the post was about my friend getting arrested on the beach for doing nothing. and that really sucks. (that’s not offensive, right?)
musings and such to resume momentarily.
ps: the post was about my friend getting arrested on the beach for doing nothing. and that really sucks. (that’s not offensive, right?)
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
(all the single ladies, all the single ladies)
so, i am back from a whirlwind, month long trip across the country and i have seen a lot of things. a lot. and traveling with cuban friends helps you see things that the average traveler just doesn’t see. things that are right in front of you. i suppose that’s the case when you spend time with a local person anywhere but for me, uncovering some of the mysteries of navigating life in a communist country is seemingly a little more complicated than where to find the best juice or hottest salsa club. and for me, far more important. having said all of that, i really pondered on where to start my tale of fidel’s fine land and i think i will start with the unwavering desperation of people to get the hell out of here. and what they will do to get the hell out of here. it’s a lot. i recently spent a saturday night with a group of young-ish cuban men and was dismayed at how very desperate they were to be free of what they feel are the shackles of communist life. one young man ran his elevator eyes over me and exclaimed, “hmmmmm, i usually like skinny blondes but you’re canadian, right? you’ll do”. well, muchas gracias.
here is how i might imagine an ad on lavalife-cuba looking:
gender: male
age: 28
occupation: bio chemist (by day), raging, homicidal dissident (by night)
salary: $11 per month
hobbies: repairing my bike with picture wire that came from the portrait of my grandmother in 1932, drawing stick figures of government officials and setting them on fire, pondering another creative way to make rice and beans super delectable, fixing my 8 year old flip flops with duct tape and lying in my bedroom that i share with my six siblings and dreaming of a land that allows a bio chemist to afford to have a bedroom without six siblings in it.
profile: ladies, i am the man for you! i am looking for a (preferably desperate), attractive (but you don’t have to be that attractive) woman to share my life with. i will take you out (well, you’ll pay for everything) and show you a good time and tell you all about how completely miserable my life is and how insanely fraught with anxiety i am about getting the hell out of this country. i will tell you anything you want to hear and promise you that i will stay with you for life if you just marry me and bring me to your country that i hear is “the most beautiful country in the world”. i will make you feel like a princess and even though i will likely split as soon as you get me to your native land, the sex will be hot and we’ll salsa dance into the night. so, pick me, pick me! don’t be swayed by the thousands of other tight pant wearing sweet talkers on the street, i’m for real!
fact: if you walk down the streets of havana, on most street corners (especially in the tourists areas) you will see jineteros/jineteras (hustlers) doing what they do best, hustling. some will manhandle you in the most obvious of ways and you’ll keep walking and others….well, they are no chumps in the art of persuasion. you’ll have your pants and your bank card in their hands in a matter of moments and you won’t see it coming from a mile away. as you wander this fine city, you’ll see young taye diggs looking black men running their hands through the hair of older heavy-set white women, young (i am talking as young as 14 sometimes), beautiful, cuban woman with their tits high, asses on display like a candy store, hair in a fancy giant flower and smellin’ real good, laughing and canoodling with wrinkly ooooooold men who can only create a bulge down below by the size of their wallets. they will not only canoodle with them, they will have sexual intercourse with them. like, again and again and again! why? because life for them here is so full of misery and discontentment that they would rather sacrifice themselves to these shamefully desperate men than spend another day in what feels like a prison to most people here. it’s said that only 5% of cuban/foreign relationships are based on real affection and emotional connection. 50% of the population is said to be hustling foreigners and of the other 50% actually going to work everyday, any of them can easily be lured into these types of relationships if they see the opportunity. what saddens me the most is that of the cubans i have met, are some of the kindest, most generous and loving people around. but, this life, the desperation here really messes with the ability for some of them to form meaningful, genuine relationships because the lure of the dollar is just too great. and too necessary. i met a really lovely, loving couple recently who although very much in love, supported one of them forming a relationship with a foreigner in the hopes that one day, down the road, it will help them all get out. so, ladies, if you’re spinning wildly out of control in love with a cuban man, make sure his really sweet sister that you met isn’t actually his wife. kids start to hustle as young as 14-15 but the majority of people hit the streets around 20, when they have finished their education and realize that being a biochemist lands you a salary of 11 bucks a month.
you know, i am pretty sure that if i was a cuban bio chemist working 12 hours a day for a tenner, i’d be puttin’ on my best push up bra and lip gloss, saddling up to a drunk old tourist and closing my eyes. tight.
want more wacky cuban adventures? well, hold on for more….
• why being too hot on the beach gets you arrested. literally.
PS: This is totally unrelated but I have to tell you – the other night I went to buy a drink and was waiting patiently for my change of 75 cents. I waited and waited and when she finally returned she said in Spanish “sorry, we don’t have any change but here, take this instead” and dumped a pile of pina colada flavoured hard candies on the counter. Need I say more?
here is how i might imagine an ad on lavalife-cuba looking:
gender: male
age: 28
occupation: bio chemist (by day), raging, homicidal dissident (by night)
salary: $11 per month
hobbies: repairing my bike with picture wire that came from the portrait of my grandmother in 1932, drawing stick figures of government officials and setting them on fire, pondering another creative way to make rice and beans super delectable, fixing my 8 year old flip flops with duct tape and lying in my bedroom that i share with my six siblings and dreaming of a land that allows a bio chemist to afford to have a bedroom without six siblings in it.
profile: ladies, i am the man for you! i am looking for a (preferably desperate), attractive (but you don’t have to be that attractive) woman to share my life with. i will take you out (well, you’ll pay for everything) and show you a good time and tell you all about how completely miserable my life is and how insanely fraught with anxiety i am about getting the hell out of this country. i will tell you anything you want to hear and promise you that i will stay with you for life if you just marry me and bring me to your country that i hear is “the most beautiful country in the world”. i will make you feel like a princess and even though i will likely split as soon as you get me to your native land, the sex will be hot and we’ll salsa dance into the night. so, pick me, pick me! don’t be swayed by the thousands of other tight pant wearing sweet talkers on the street, i’m for real!
fact: if you walk down the streets of havana, on most street corners (especially in the tourists areas) you will see jineteros/jineteras (hustlers) doing what they do best, hustling. some will manhandle you in the most obvious of ways and you’ll keep walking and others….well, they are no chumps in the art of persuasion. you’ll have your pants and your bank card in their hands in a matter of moments and you won’t see it coming from a mile away. as you wander this fine city, you’ll see young taye diggs looking black men running their hands through the hair of older heavy-set white women, young (i am talking as young as 14 sometimes), beautiful, cuban woman with their tits high, asses on display like a candy store, hair in a fancy giant flower and smellin’ real good, laughing and canoodling with wrinkly ooooooold men who can only create a bulge down below by the size of their wallets. they will not only canoodle with them, they will have sexual intercourse with them. like, again and again and again! why? because life for them here is so full of misery and discontentment that they would rather sacrifice themselves to these shamefully desperate men than spend another day in what feels like a prison to most people here. it’s said that only 5% of cuban/foreign relationships are based on real affection and emotional connection. 50% of the population is said to be hustling foreigners and of the other 50% actually going to work everyday, any of them can easily be lured into these types of relationships if they see the opportunity. what saddens me the most is that of the cubans i have met, are some of the kindest, most generous and loving people around. but, this life, the desperation here really messes with the ability for some of them to form meaningful, genuine relationships because the lure of the dollar is just too great. and too necessary. i met a really lovely, loving couple recently who although very much in love, supported one of them forming a relationship with a foreigner in the hopes that one day, down the road, it will help them all get out. so, ladies, if you’re spinning wildly out of control in love with a cuban man, make sure his really sweet sister that you met isn’t actually his wife. kids start to hustle as young as 14-15 but the majority of people hit the streets around 20, when they have finished their education and realize that being a biochemist lands you a salary of 11 bucks a month.
you know, i am pretty sure that if i was a cuban bio chemist working 12 hours a day for a tenner, i’d be puttin’ on my best push up bra and lip gloss, saddling up to a drunk old tourist and closing my eyes. tight.
want more wacky cuban adventures? well, hold on for more….
• why being too hot on the beach gets you arrested. literally.
PS: This is totally unrelated but I have to tell you – the other night I went to buy a drink and was waiting patiently for my change of 75 cents. I waited and waited and when she finally returned she said in Spanish “sorry, we don’t have any change but here, take this instead” and dumped a pile of pina colada flavoured hard candies on the counter. Need I say more?
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