Santiago de Cuba
I am sitting on a park bench in one of the leafy squares that dot the city, eating a big hunk of white bread and a slice of squeaky cheese. There really isn’t a lot of food to choose from. There is rice, pizza and bread everywhere, but already, on day one, I feel my body yearning for something with a bit more fiber, and truthfully a bit more flavor.
“Where are you from?”, comes a beckoning call from across the park. I inwardly grown, expecting to be bamboozled by offers of cheap taxi rides, bargain socks for sale or a tour that I can’t miss.
“Estados Unidos.” I call back, trying to be polite and uninterested at the same time.
A lanky, dark skinned man ambles over and introduces himself. “I am Ariel, a teacher. May I speak with you here in the shade?”
I start to stutter out an excuse in Spanish about how I was just leaving, when he interrupts me and corrects my Spanish. I try again, and again he stops me, slowing me down and making me use the correct conjugations.
He smiles warmly and tells me that he just wants to practice English and it seems as though I could practice my Spanish as well. He projects respect and kindness, so I laugh and move over on the bench to make room for him.
We discuss the usual subjects like how crazy Trump is, why I like Cuba so much and what he does for a living.
“For a job, I teach fencing. One of my students has gone to the Olympics. But for a living, all day, all any of us can think about is how to find food. That is how we make a living.“
To be clear, there is food, at least where I am, but it is devoid of nutritional value. White bread, and only little scraps of other bits. I don’t quite know what to say and grimace, feeling guilty by association.
“Life is hard here, but it is not your fault. People who beg from you, they have little choice. You have much more than them. People who come here from the United States are always kind. They are good people. You are not your politicians.” I have heard that many time while traveling Cuba. It seems incredibly forgiving. “Here, we are all family and we take care of each other. We suffer together, and celebrate together.”
This also rings true. The school children are out for lunch and they run down the sidewalks and through the park with their flip-flops flapping. There are several games of chess happening in this square and a game of cards. Women lean into each other when they speak. Everyone does seem like part of one large extended family.
After another few minutes, I rise to leave, having exhausted my Spanish brain, and Ariel takes my hand in his and kisses it warmly. It isn’t creepy or weird, just gentle and welcoming. “Buen viaje.”, he says and I know he means it. I am so glad to be here.
