2/20, 2/21/16

Domingo 2/21/16

The beach today was so beautiful, and according to Alejandro, not even close to the best that Cuba has to offer—we were just east of Havana, along the Playas de Este. Swimming in the ocean is one of my favorite things in the world to do, no matter where I am, so being able to swim today was a real treat. The water was so light and clear compared to the big, dark, cold Atlantic that I am use to diving into in Rhode Island. I love it just as much (dare I say more?). I regained so much of my energy by simply floating out there, looking back towards the shore. Standing on the rock bottom of the ocean, in water clear enough to see my toes, there were no condos nor hotels blocking my view of the sandy shoreline and the grassy barrier behind it, then the trees in the distance. There was no one charging us to gain access to the beach, no paying to park, and no solicitors aside from one lone man walking the beach carrying a satchel of hats for sale. If my Spanish was better I might have even bought one, but in Cuba you need to haggle for anything you buy outside of a grocery store, and I haven’t quite built up enough confidence in my ability to do that quite yet.

 

Sabado 2/20/16

Yesterday at the market Flores, about a 20-minute walk from home, we ran into Angie, our landlord; today, in the middle of busy Habana Vieja, we ran into Juliana and Emiliano, our San-Franciscan housemates. Small world or fate, who knows? But it is never a simple smile as you pass by here—it’s a hug and a kiss on the cheek, a genuine greeting, and a true pause from whatever you had been in the middle of doing. This is one of my favorite things about Cuba so far. Though it’s sort of weird for me (I’ve never been a touchy-feely person), it is normal here, and it makes every interaction much happier and more friendly. Angie and her family are the epitome of Cuban kindness—this morning she came up and gave us some tiny bananas fresh from the garden that fills the yard between our house and the neighbor to our south side. Trying to understand all she has to say to us is impossible, but with the help of exaggerated pronunciation and non-stop hand gestures, Rachel and I are learning how to understand Spanish one floundering conversation at a time.

Being in Habana Vieja was like being in a whole different world today—or at least in a whole different era. The architecture was beautiful, but even more beautiful was the fact that it is so full of life. Good lives, bad lives, lives of want, lives of satisfaction, who knows? But the city is full of every style of life. No big billboards nor skyscrapers packed with business offices—things that suck the real life out of many U.S. cities, like rents that are unaffordable for your everyday family. On the contrary in Havana, there are some first level shops topped with thousands of living, breathing apartments above them. Follow the chips of the colorful paint floating down from the towering walls of these buildings, and you’ll see them land in alleyways equally full of life. There are far more people than cars, and there are many roadways cars will never go down, either because the street vendors have taken it over as their own, or the crater-sized pot holes barricade them off. When leaving the city (11 students in our big old white van) the lively noises quickly fade, but the waving lines of drying laundry bid us a silent farewell; these colorful strands wave like garland off countless balconies, reminding us of each and every unique individual that makes this city such a special place.