Habana

If you want to see the real Cuba, there are not many ways better than to make friends with a Cubano. I hardly speak Spanish but my pigeon speak is better than his English. When he slows down and explains things I understand what he means often without the words.

The real Cuba is not so easy to take. He is so proud that he can get everything Ba-Ra-To! and we trade off on buying things since touristas can pay for quality while Cubans can not, and often the price for Cubans for the equal value is just a fraction. However, this standard is a challenge for me, while I grin through it. It’s so fun for him to spend my money, and I’m happy to let him: habla suave.

Absolutely it’s against my better judgement. I follow him to his family’s farm after travelling by bici-taxi, car, bus and then taxi. No one would know if I dissapeared. Of course it is insane. Somehow I can trust him. Maybe it’s his aggressive adoration.

Cubans are obsessed with things and although they have no capitalism, they most definately have commerce. There I am, this tall blonde beacon of a currency they aren’t able to earn, but here it is well within their grasp. Senor Havana’s relationship with material things and superficial esthetics is remniscent of high school days.

And that is how the Cubans live. In near poverty while remaining so absolutely sophisticated. Because it wasn’t always like this. You can see it in the epic colonial architecture now crumbling into the streets.

He introduces me to his family. They speak too fast for me to understand even the smallest bit of Spanish. It’s all pronounced differently anyways, and I feel dumber than I am. Smoke definitely makes it difficult to speak Spanish.

He introduces me to his friend who speaks English.

“I used to live in Florida but I came back here in 1983. I think I’m going to go back. It’s not good here, this isn’t a good place to be.

• I like it here

• That’s because you don’t live here. Is he your boyfriend?

• No.

• He’s a good man.

• Is he? He seems like it.

• Be careful.

• That’s what everyone keeps saying.

• He’s a good man. Be careful, because he’s a good man. Know what I mean?”

It’s hard to not notice how this chills me to my toes. He’s completely hijacked my trip but has proven at every turn to be trust worthy and genuine. If perhaps also a little overly enthusiastic.

Everything about him is very fast. Everything about him. I beg him to slow down in every way. He personifies Habana perfectly.

I don’t smoke good cigars or drink good rum or lounge in the sun doing nothing. Cubans don’t do that so I didn’t either. Affluence doesn’t seem like something enjoyable to be proud of here. But my Cuban friend found me a better deal on good cigars and rum to bring home with me so I had more money to spend with him. He didn’t have to steal from me. He could work my cash from my fingers with such skill, I was glad to have some stashed away.

Yet I also felt I should have spent it all while I was there because I can earn more, they can’t, and I won’t be back again for some time. And now here I sit with no money. So of course it’s more complicated than that.

But while I had the opportunity I did let him talk me out of a pair of my pants, my running shoes, toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, deodorant and telephone. I returned home to find that these precious artifacts were all duplicated in the things I shipped home from Montreal. In fact all of these things were so abundant here. As is the delicious air. Ah Victoria, you really are the best city I’ve ever visited.