Filed under: Travel
Simple Question: How was the conference in Cuba?
Short Answer: Good.
Real Answer: It was a one week version of going away for camp in a socialist, propaganda tinged, musically magical country, in a city that is a historical marvel, with a bunch of absolutely brilliant 50-ish year old therapists from at least 5 different countries (12+ if you count the countries of origins for us immigrants) gone wild and entranced by the dancing and rhythms and mojitos and cigar smoke that could only be Cubano.
I met some famous (in the psych field) authors, whacked one in the backside with a door whilst he stood innocently at a urinal, danced the conga with Ukraine children affected by Chernobyl in a building beside a beautiful beach, and was served coffee & given art created from dried grasses and a Johnny Walker Red box at a school for juvenile offenders.I was a peon presenting in a panel among giants about post-disaster trauma work.I was on the receiving end of the most intimate and wonderful therapeutic consult as I learned from wiser mentors- particularly the superwomen who shared their views on working mommyhood (or not).
I ate lobster and drank cocktails in a land where the average citizen is rationed limited rice and beans.I brought packets of soy sauce and siracha, Chinese and Japanese green tea bags to ease my longings for Asian food.We networked with Cuban social workers by dancing.Canadians were running wild all over Havana.We were welcomed to come inside by the President of the Hebrew community, and I found myself inside a Cuban Jewish library and synagogue. There was a park with long waves of leaves that draped seductively like hair or curtains.We sat through powerpoints that ended with quotes from Fidel Castro.Children dressed as bumblebees danced and sang in the convention hall where we, and sometimes parliament meets. We watched a psycho-ballet, Los Van Van, and the dazzling Tropicana show which once entertained old time mobsters.I drew piripos, calls of “China Linda”, invitations to dance, dine, and wondered if I had ever been hit on with this sort of frequency, within one week before in my entire life…which at near 35, is pretty darn funny.
WeI sought out Barrio Chino, where women screamed out “Ni Hao!!” and I photographed a little open air shack that served as a hardware store (P’s familia business is a Chinatown hardware store).After something like 14 years of being tobacco free, I smoked a cigar.We laughed like idiots as if we were in high school.We talked about clients and spouses.Walked in the footsteps of Hemingway.Questioned each taxi driver and tour guide about their views and personal experience under 50 years of revolution.I rode in a dinky Skoda, a Czech car I had never heard of before, as well as a red 1954 Chevy (with original engine!).I ran my hands over Italian marble, dense and gorgeous, and no longer available in Necropolis de Christopher Colon.We visited the grave of Amelia, an unofficial saint of sorts, and made a donation and wish for goodwill.I fed a little skinny street cat a sizable portion of my fish dinner because she looked like a version of Mimi who I bought for mom, and because she was graceful with luminous, if hungry, eyes.I was foiled in my goal to walk along the entire Malecon seawall – because freak weather was sending waves crashing over the wall clear onto the cars.I introduced myself to a table of 4 Chinese youth, who were in Cuba for 10 months from Xian.I ate fresh pink guava and dreamed of Taiwan.I took close to 500 photographs, and it would have been 700 if I had had a better flash.My last Havana night I decided to forgo sleep entirely for live jazz and Cuba Libres instead.At 4:30 in the morning my New Kiwi friend and I drank double espressos, watched a Mexican standoff of bad manners regarding the shuttle transport, and had a good laugh before spending forever in a communist length queque and then spending our last CUC’s on Che and Havana Club shirts. Outside of the club were young men in blue vest reading “Promotor de Salud” handing out condoms.I bought maracas and claves.We wondered if we were being followed.Policia encircled the hotel at all hours, and it was whispered that Fidel himself sometimes stayed in one the nearby gated mansions.I handed out over the counter meds, soaps, pens, pencils, every possible item I could expend without maxing my luggage weight limit (actually air Mexican let me slide with a slight excess) to those in need.My new friend Jaime exclaimed “God Bless you” for my generosity, but I felt choked up about the opportunity to give. I have such a good life.In places like these I am acutely aware of how rabidly, randomly, fortunate I am…I have so much to share.I came home fuller in the head. Lighter in both wallet and luggage. With the music of Chan chan in my heart, and my quads and abs knackered from undulating.
A magnificent twilight zone. I can not wait to go back. Havana, is indeed, the siren she is reputed to be.
And back at SFO : a handsome man and a loving mom awaited with hand written signs:
Latina back from the Revolution & Asian Food available here!
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