Day 1

In the past 11 days, I've stepped into 6 unique airports ten times and traveled across 13 time zones. So far Im holding up well, and i hope my body doesnt revolt!

I caught an early morning flight out of PDX with a layover in LAX (with a dream and my cardigan) before walking down the steps from the airplane. The moist sea breeze offered me a warm welcome as I stepped across the tarmac to a quaint international airport. Customs and immigration went smoothly and I was interested to note that a high percentage of the workers were in their 20s. I had considered roughing it by myself to get to my airbnb casa particulares, but had the foresight that perhaps trekking across a developing country's capitol on a few hours of broken sleep might be a little less rewardingly gritty and more desparingly challenging. I had no regrets when i saw my name written on a cardboard sign.

After visiting multiple countries where I dont speak their language, my first experiences with locals in Cuba have been remarkable. I shouldnt be surprised that actually being able to express oneself would allow for interpersonal connections. But the memories of having to play charades to find shampoo or cut my hair cut are in stark contrast to conversations ive had with strangers. Im no AP level, mind you, but you can actually convey quite a bit with solid Spanish 2 skills. For example, i discussed thes topics with my driver:

How long ago Fidel died

If his brother Raul is a good President

The economic pressures facing cuba

Whether I have a girl in Cuba

If I want to arrange his driving services to the beach where, coincidentally,  there are beautiful women

The changing tourism scene in cuba

The cultural makeup of cuba

Really, arent these cuban women beautiful?

Cuban households have for years offered Casas Particulares, which is like a bed and breakfast. My host, Don Miguel, opened up a spare room in his 7th floor apartment to be a CP a bit over a year ago and got into the airbnb game. They are very affordable. I mean, i definitely shopped budget, but i got a room with AC, bathroom, access to sitting room and balcony for ~$25 per night. I mentioned to him that I wanted to visit cuba before loads of American tourisits change the place, but he responded that the economic influx could really inprove the area. It was a lesson in perspectives. The layout of the apartment is clever: much is concrete or tile with big exterior doors that can open for a cross breeze (my mom would be happy). Don Miguel's scramble to set up his CP is apparent in the hodge podge of decorations. One might look at the lack of continuity or class with condescension, but I think it reflects an earnestness on his part to be presentable and accommodating. The old place has an air of faded glory; the bathroom features crown moulding, a vaulted ceiling, and a vacant chandelier fitting.

Speaking of economics, if what I've observed so far is representative,  Cuba could really use a transformation. Granted I'm staying in Habana Vieja, but much of the area resembles a post-war region. The building retains their colonial archiecture, but many are crumbling or various states of paused repair. Further, many of the folls in the apartments around my CP live in squalor (?), with their front rooms totally immediately open to the street (for ventilation?). This affords an interesting setup where both residents and passer-bys are observers. The concrete shells of delipidated buildings allow for the occasionaly shack community within a building.

The intial reaction as an outsider is to look over my shoulder more attentively. But so far I didn't feel truly unsafe,  and this despite my,  ahem, obvious foreign status as i made multiple laps on the blocks looking did my CP. To the contrary, I had no negative interactions with strangers and multiple positive ones. While i people watched in the Parque de la Fraternidad, a grandpa sat next to me on the bench and asked what time it was. We followed that with a conversation about cute grandkids, the Havana architecture, debated the weather in different parts of the Americas, different brands of cars in Cuba, and that I look Russian. (Again its so nice to travel somewhere that i can have some tiny base level of conversation).

Now i lay on my bed, typing this entry on my phone, and reflect on the sounds I hear outside. The tropical birds and yelping baby have quieted down, but i hear a soccer game playing on someones tv, multiple small groups of residents chatting in the street, a child calling for her uncle, kids playing tag around parked cars, the chugging of old american cars somehow preserved, the whistle of a traffic cop, and a hearty chuckle occasionally punctuating the air. Oh and I hear my beautiful, beautiful AC unit, purring away.