Things like this still happen in Havana

The thing about Cuba is all the streets are so...Cuban. Roaming about, I often feel like large cities belong to the country of Citylandia, removed from the nations that surround them, but Havana? Havana is Havana, pure and simple and fragrant and musical and crumbly in the most beautiful way imaginable. To be honest, it’s rather preposterous, how Cuban la Habana is.

A piece of that (shall we call it Cubanity?) is that prime locations in city centers have not been monopolized by the monied class, especially not the international set of extra-home owners who are rarely even there (no offense, London) or chain-stores that feed without fertilizing. So along the Prado you find abuelas and abuelos, tio and tia live down near Obispo, and lining the malecon...well, those buildings are too salt-devoured to support much accommodation at the moment, but the point stands. It was on one of these streets in Havana, Cubanic in every unconscious detail, that we stepped into an average-looking house and found the studio of an internationally renowned artist.

Was he pretentious? Distant, too busy to talk, or irritated by our distraction? Not remotely. He was friends. For years with our organizer, and now with us as well. We mused about his studio and gathered around his table, having a shockingly normal conversation that just happened to touch on art, culture, and what it means to be Cuba.

That can happen in Cuba, or at least, that can happen on an Altruvistas & Ethical Traveler Interactive Arts Delegation where we benefit from 25 years of experience in the country.

Of course, we’re not the only outfit down there. Not by a long shot. Just a couple days ago I got an email from The Nation Magazine advertising their trip, which runs at nearly the same time as ours. Now, I love The Nation, and I’m sure they’ll have a great time, but I couldn’t help noticing that their trip doesn’t seem as connected as ours is. And in case you were wondering, theirs is substantially more expensive, for less days.

I don’t mean this to be a salespitch. My goal was to tell you more about that artist, but I’m overflowing with gratitude that I get to go back down there with this group, deeply honored at getting to lead it, and eager to see who is coming with me.

Are you? The link, for you or your friend who’s always wanted to go, is here.

Now serving number...

It might be racism, but I was pleasantly surprised by the calm rustle of business being conducted in the long room. The extra-tall venetian blinds swayed softly in the air conditioning, while women in the blue-walled cubicles sold plane tickets to Cubans waiting politely in the holding pen. Not the sort of ambiance I’m used to when purchasing tickets.

“How can I help you, Señor?” They even had an info guy! He heard my wish to fly to Santiago de Cuba, issued me a number from one of those red Take A Number machines you see in deli’s, and gestured me to a seat. I looked at the little paper tail in my hand: 22. The red LED display on the wall said 83. I sat down to wait.

The tour group was more fun than I'd expected

An hour earlier, my tour companions had departed for their trips home. New friends one and all, from my quirky roommate to the new neighbors back home, I had meant it every time I said “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

But now I was back on my own, the way I like to be, the way I know how, the way I roll. It felt like firing up the well-tested systems of a space shuttle as I prepared to launch my own trajectory, where to go and how to get there, how to spend my time, and where to eat, no longer able to brush off the touts and restaurant recruiters by saying “I’m with a group, it’s already planned.”

Havana was waiting for me

I felt the particular ecstatic nausea that normally comes on the first day of the trip, and got ready to master this island with a blend of uncompromising strength and gentle affection; I was the horse whisperer of travel, a powerhouse of dominant kindness.

The first thing I did was go back upstairs and use the toilet with the door open. Dominance!

After one more free meal (with extra potatoes to stock up for the likely food shortages of solo travel) I had come here, to the airline office to buy a domestic flight to the eastern side of the island, and the fabled city of Santiago, less than an hour by plane but at least 14 by unreliable bus.

The number on the wall still said 83.

The chairs were comfy, and immaculate despite being the sort of Chernobyl orange I associate with the 1970s. Maybe 60s? It was Cuba, after all. The chairs formed U-shaped pens opposite each vendor cubicle, and I’d chosen one where a lad with long bleach-and-blondified hair was chatting with the smiling employee. I had thus far noticed a trend both disappointing, familiar, and sadly understandable:

Cubans are extremely friendly people...unless they’re at work. Then they’re total dicks.

It's almost certain you'd make more
with an accordion on the tourist
street than you would as a surgeon.

But it seemed different here. Perhaps they earned more than the average wage of a state-regulated (ie non-tourist/tip) job, which worked out to about $20 per month. Maybe happy, but they weren’t in a hurry. I waited just over an hour; where did this guy want to go, anyway?

The number on the wall still said 83.

There was a problem with that. At least three desks had changed their customers, but the number remained static. Oh. It’s like that, is it? The system in place, but irrelevant? Take a number, then ignore it and rush the desk? Fine then, I can do that too.

When Blond Guy finally got up and left, I charged, politely. No longer smiling, the employee looked up at me like I was carrying a rotten dog corpse. “He has just gone to the bank to get his money, he’ll be back.” Gone to the bank? Huh? I sat back down, determined not to fight the foreignness of the thing. We waited. She got progressively icier, staring at her screen with the diligence of someone pretending to work.

The number on the wall still-  No! With a BING it switched! 84! Why?!? No one moved, nothing else changed.

After another 30 minutes of waiting, while a dot matrix printer chittered and screamed somewhere in metallic agony, I had hypothesized that the delays must be due to international travel restrictions. I carefully approached the empty chair, and asked if there was a particular process for domestic flights.

“Any desk can help you!” she snapped at me without turning her head from her screen, and frost formed in my hair.

Just try cutting, punk. See how nice I stay.

I considered the other holding pens, and saw various demons with spiked axes and fiery whips whose eyes said plainly “Just try to cut in front of me, you little turista. Just try.”

I retook my orange seat. The number on the wall still said 84.

After the second hour had passed, the Ice Queen gave up on Blondie and gestured me forward, her mouth already twisted in distaste. “Good morning, thank you. I would like to fly to Santiago please.” I used every formal and respectful conjugation I could cram into the sentiment.

She was unimpressed as she began tapping her keyboard. “When.”

“Tomorrow maybe? Today if there is a seat.” Our guide had thought it wouldn’t be a problem to get a seat on such short notice, since there were at least four flights per day to Santiago.

“What?!? No! The first seat is….four weeks from now! You should have known this! Then you wouldn’t have wasted so much time!” I got the feeling she was talking about HER time.

Traveling alone, Mr. Adventure, was off to a rough start. But maybe it would get better once I reached….my brain considered the rough map in my head….Santa Clara. Yes. Things will get better when I reach Santa Clara…

Havana nights

It wasn’t the belly full of savory ropa vieja or the day spent in the sunshine glow of Cuba’s capital city. It wasn’t the colonial facades of buildings, crumbling in Caribbean splendor, nor the classic cars cruising past with heartfelt rumbles. You might think it was the mojitos, but it wasn’t that either. It was almost the notes of jazz, samba, and son that wandered the streets alongside the slapping of sandals.

It was very nearly the air, sultry as only the tropics can be, that lick of breath that knows your body better than you’ve ever dared to look, the perfect medium for the unapologetic sexiness of this island.

It was none of those apart, it was all of them together. And...more. Whatever Cuba is. That’s what it was.

I couldn’t put my finger on Cuba, but Cuba laid its hand on me. It skipped the pleasantries and went straight to caressing my awareness, groping my perceptions and sliding right up along the length of my love of travel.

The first night, the ineffable Jeff Greenwald (who has traveled more than FedEx) was telling me that Cuba reminded him of just how good travel can be. I understood the sentiment exactly.

It was a privilege to meet the people I did in Peru (blogs forthcoming), and El Salvador quickly climbed to the top of my favorite countries. Belgium still tasted like home, and Iceland was so beautiful it was almost crass. But despite these incomprehensibly blessed winter travels, on the BART train to San Francisco International Airport I found myself...tired. Lacking the exuberancy that normally carries my backpack for me.

Exuberance is great...but it takes a lot of energy. In Havana I found something more...sustainable. It was a languorous love of living, a symptom of a culture not ruled by, addicted to, fear. It was waves and wind that will keep coming in whatever strength they please, and will be welcomed or endured as necessary. It was buildings falling down, but people standing up. It was slow meals with nowhere else to be, and songs that will last until they’re done, not a second less.

Those songs lived in my steps, carried my feet from Prado to paladar to plaza. I gave no instructions, to musicians nor muscles, and let both lead me wherever they willed, my job merely to appreciate, enjoy, love whatever they chose to show me on the streets of a Havana night.

And eventually, the verses finished their succession, and the chorus was done for the night. As the melody trailed off, my legs would carry me back home, muscles warm with satisfaction, almost smug with the steps taken and sights witnessed.

I’d pass the sleepy guard and ascend in the Soviet elevator, humming to myself a song I didn’t quite know, but had quickly learned to love.

Gods and goddesses

“He is the grandson of one of Cuba’s most famous ballet dancers, the whole family does ballet, but he is having problems today. I am expecting a tantrum from him at any minute.”

The eyes of everyone in our small group moved past the iron-spined teacher in teal to the young dancer behind her, who showed no reaction to words nor gazes. “Does he not speak English, or is he just that poised, in mind and body?” we wondered.

Whatever the case, when the music started it was clear: we were no longer looking at a teenager both spoiled and bearing a crushing pressure, we were looking at an Afro-Cuban god of war, and his partner was no longer a beautiful Cuban girl, she was the matching sylvan goddess of love.

He was talented, she was stunning, immaculate.

As I mentioned in my other ballet post, I don’t have much experience with ballet, but I’m pretty sure it’s not normally like this. The technical elements of movement and physical prowess were there, yes, but so was an overriding sensuality and ripe humanity that I don’t associate with the stiff-faced dancers of broad cultural lore.

The goddess entreated him forward with cupped hands, which then lifted and slid down the curves of her body, over chest ribs hips, while his movements seemed designed to pursue, catch, possess their goal.

But the power clearly belonged to her. She pulled him forward, then pushed him aside, or set him to wait. He was on his knees, stretched on the ground, then lifting her high overhead, and always the sheer balance and grace of control was hers.

In the end she stood over him, calmly victorious, and we all remembered to breathe.

The teacher, guide of both the dance and the personalities, came forward, eyebrows sharp, something terribly falcon-like in her merciless eyes. She stood in front of him, dominating him from her shorter stature, and held up first one finger, then two, explaining in minute detail what he needed to improve.

So they did it again. Another round of enticing, approaching, diverting and controlling. Another series of movements painfully precise, carefully controlled and deliberately designed. Her feet on point, a feat I am starting to comprehend, and their spines so supple I suspect cartilage (if not rubber) has replaced bone.

It was just as hard to breathe the second time.

We applauded. Heartily. The raptor teacher turned to us “Thank you for that applause, it will help him. He has a performance on Saturday, and thinks he cannot do it. But I will not let him run away.” He stood behind her, spoiled, talented, dedicated, under intense pressure, and in precisely the right place, on this unique island of art and passion.

Cuba doesn't let your eyes get bored

Pics OF tuktuks while IN a tuktuk!
Asia's gonna be so much fun!

When you first get to Southeast Asia, you can’t stop taking pictures of tuktuks. They’re just so...interesting! A week later, maybe two, and you barely notice the three-wheeled vermin. This is often the case when traveling: some local item grabs your attention at first, before blending completely into the background.

But, as is so often the case: it’s different in Cuba.

This is one of the first pictures I took, on the bus ride in from the airport, and the eye-catching was just getting started.

These are all from my first day.

Nearly three weeks went by, with art, music, and dance, not to mention culture, experience, and friendship.

I was saturated. I felt overstuffed with experiences and images; I’d need a spare lifetime to process the photos alone.

A neighbor gave me a ride to the bus station in his clunky Moskvitch, a Soviet block of metal homage to the right angle.

I rode to the Che Guevara Memorial in an antique Peugeot with hand-carved wooden arm rests, walked past Russian Ladas more ubiquitous than sandals, and ridden five hours in some dude’s claptrap Hyundai (which he claimed was a legal shared taxi, but when we’d pass a police checkpoint he’d roll the windows up and say “If they ask you, we are friends, and you have been staying at my house for a week. My name is Javier, what is yours?”)

And finally, I’d ridden in a couple of the classic “Yank Tank” American cars, first a Pontiac, then a Chevrolet from the 1950s. Both now chug along all day as shared taxis, which will take you anywhere along their route for 20 Cuban pesos, about $0.80, and were two of only four times I got to use the national Cuban currency, instead of the “Convertible Peso” used by the tourism industry.

And yet, after all those days, all that sweat, all those miles and exhaust pipes, here are some of the pictures from my last day.

I’m not normally a car guy. At all. I would happily drive a Honda Civic until my dying day (hopefully unrelated to the aforementioned Civic), but there is just something about those cars, in that place…

It’s just different in Cuba.

Cubans are magical

Did you know Cubans can fly? I knew about the salsa dancing and the talking fast, but the flying, that surprised me.

I didn't think much of the ballet during my first three decades of life. Didn't think about it at all, in fact. It was an archetype assigned to a gender not my own, a cliché for generic jewelry boxes and little sisters' Halloween costumes, nothing of interest to me.

Then I met a real-life ballerina. Instead of mincing around talking like Glinda from the Wizard of Oz, she showed me the practice and persistence required to get the foot to tap at just the right place at just the right time, and somehow a dance that had been prancing, became art.

So I walked into Prodanza, one of the schools in Cuba’s world-renowned ballet tradition, with cautious optimism that I might see something cool. That was when the teenagers started flying. The first was a boy built from rebar and hickory, sailing through warm air soaked with sweat and dedication. After he eventually consented to gravity, the other boy followed his flight path, leaving a twin con trail through the room’s stratosphere.

Four girls followed, their legs unhooked like snakes’ jaws, so that their knees tended to float around at ear level. They spun in impossible circles, arched in implausible directions, and their faces reflected a devotion and poise beyond their years.

And it was only warm-ups.