The First of Many Cousins

When I'd been planning the trip to Havana from Canada, I assumed we'd stay in a casa particular, basically a Cuban bed and breakfast. Of course at that point, I did not yet know the size and national reach of Juan's family. Like some math-based nursery rhyme his great-grandpa had had 8 brothers who each had 8 sons who each had 8 sons and so on. It was a very male family line. But there were a few girls sprinkled in there. Two of them, with the matching names Odalys and Odalkys, had moved to Havana in their late teens about 15 years before and hadn't been back or seen Juan since. As soon as the travel plans had been set in motion Juan's mom had called ahead to the Os, arranging for us to stay with them and have them watch out for us in the big city. I had explained to her that I had traveled before, that Toronto was pretty big, that I'd lived in bigger cities. She was having none of it though, this was Havana and there was family to take care of us.

Living large in Vedado

We rolled up to their apartment around noon and a great flurry of hugging, rapid talking and hand gesturing began. They pinched and prodded and poked at Juan, and in simple words and gestures explained to me how they had babysat him all through his youth and how he had been soooo small and now he's all grown up. I smiled and nodded along with their excitement, honestly happy to be a part of this family reunion. As the cousins caught up on 15 years of news, I ended up deep in 'conversation' with Odalkys' four year old daughter Paola.

Paola had taken an instant interest in this this strange, pale creature in her midst who had a bag full of shiny jewelry, shoes and make-up but seemed unable to string together a sentence. She took pity on my odd inability to understand language and simply repeated her questions and statements over and over until I understood. Every day we would take some time to sit together on the bedroom floor, her rifling through my suitcase holding up each of my possessions asking '¿Que es eso?' until I found the name for it in my Spanish/English dictionary. She would then ask if it was mine. I'd answer 'Si' and she'd move on to the next item. What is this? It's sunscreen. Is it yours? Yes. What is this? It's a necklace. Is it yours? Yes. After each item was named she'd ponder it for awhile and then either place it on me or herself. For sharable items, lipgloss, nail polish, Canada flag stickers, we'd both get a turn, her using me as a walking, slowly-talking doll and then getting me to make her up in the same fashion.

I don't really know a lot of children and am never sure how to act around them. But with Paola I was comfortable and grateful. She was taking the time to try and understand me and to help me communicate. She was patient with me. When I couldn't get a point across she was happy to accept a goofy face or silly dance in its place. She would lead me around the apartment by hand pointing out and naming every detail. When I didn't understand, she'd start from the beginning until she saw a spark of understanding in my eyes. At meal times, she'd jump up on my lap and explain what I was eating and how I should eat it. When it was time to sleep, or to wake up, she'd appear at my side to let me know.

¿Que es eso? ¿Que es eso? ¿Que es eso? Spanish 101 with Paola

There wasn't much activity in our first couple days, the cousins were taking their guardian roles very seriously and seemed afraid that I would burst into flames if touched by sunlight, but I didn't mind. The Os, their boyfriends, Paola, Juan, me and the neighbours constantly popping in and out of the house was entertainment enough. We'd eat, we'd talk, we'd drink 1000 little coffees , we'd watch music videos that Odalys had danced in, rewinding and fast-forwarding to her parts again and again and again, Paola would direct all of us in her games and we'd obediently follow her directions. I would come up with excuses to buy water, bread, beer, anything just so I could throw the paper bag on a string out the 4th floor window and wait for the entrepreneurial boy on the street below to fill my order. They laughed at my excitement each time I got to lower and raise the delivery bag but it truly was the highlight of each day.

At night we'd walk over to La Rampa, drink a few beers and soak up the atmosphere. There was no rush to get anywhere and no rush to get home. There were just simple moments flowing together. It wasn't exciting and it didn't signify anything but for the first time in my life I didn't mind. The calm, insignificance of it all was soothing. There was no meaning to any of it, hidden or obvious, and I started to realize that I didn't need all this to mean anything. I just needed it.

The Love Bus

The drive from Camaguey to Havana is around 7 to 8 hours. Later, when were neck-deep in paperwork and bureaucracy and running back and forth to Havana constantly, my brother-in-law, our personal driver, would cut the drive down to 6 hours at top-speed. But back then, on our first trip, on the bus, it was a 12 hour trip.

I've taken rickety bus trips through the terraced fields of Southern China fearing for my life at every turn, I've taken the Greyhound all over Canada, once barely surviving a 4-day bus marathon from Montreal to Vancouver Island, I've traveled across the world on planes and trains and ferries and boats and even ended up sitting on a trucker's lap once as he let me, the deeply-stoned hitchhiker, steer his 18-wheeler down the highway towards Calgary. Some of these adventures were terrifying, some boring, some awe-inspiring...none of them came close to the pure bliss I felt curled up against Juan for 12 hours as we traveled halfway across Cuba.

See ya later striped building in Camaguey!!!

The air conditioning was too cold. I didn't care. The music too loud. I didn't care. I was hungry. I didn't care. All I cared about was the man in the seat next to me. We would take shifts, him sitting up with his arms around me, trying to make the small space as warm and comfortable as possible for me so that I could sleep. After an hour or two, I'd sit up and let him rest in my lap, softly rubbing his arms and back, twisting his frizzy hair up into funny shapes and then patting it back down. I'd catalogue every bit of him - here a small scar on his forehead, here the curve of his forearm, here the way his mouth opens slightly to push out breath while he sleeps, here the way he purses his lips to the left when he wants to kiss me, here the way he scrunches up the space under his nose to say 'Que?' (I did not yet know this was a mannerism shared by 11 million other Cubans). I wanted to memorize every part of him, build a sense memory of him that could either help me get through another separation from him or let me keep him with me as I moved on completely.

Yes, even in the midst of these simple, beautiful moments, I was still looking for a way out. I still believed that there was no future for us, that at the end of this trip I'd say goodbye and mean it. Every sweet word he said, every soft touch, every tender moment was tinged with both sadness and intensity....little memento moris peeking up behind everything whispering 'This will end this will end this will end'. I tried to block out their voices, enjoy the moment, not worry about the future but in every pause I'd hear a door slowly creaking shut.

'Alas poor Juan I knew him well'...picture it with orange hair and a sunburn and you've got me 

Around 3am, we pulled into a road-stop with a few fast-food type restaurants selling pizzas, ham and cheese sandwiches, burgers, hot dogs. As it was intended for Cubans they charged in national money (CUP), not the convertible pesos used by tourists (CUC). Juan told me to put away my money and walked off confidently to buy us each a hot dog and a pop with a dancing lime on the side. I was so proud as he reappeared back at my side with the food he'd purchased me. So happy to have our busmates see him paying for this meal. I didn't care that it was just a hot dog and a lukewarm sugary soda, it was him taking care of me, that was what mattered. To this day, it remains the best meal I've ever eaten.

As we finished our food and drinks the driver called out to those of us still lingering around outside the bus. We all hurried back on and found our seats. I don't know what the driver had eaten at that road-stop but his mood was just as good as mine as we drove off. He cranked the reggaeton music as loud as it would go and got on the loud-speaker. Juan interpreted for me but even without knowing Spanish I understood the gist of what he was saying...

'Hey sleepyheads, why aren't you drinking? Why aren't you dancing? We're on the road to Havana...let's have fun!!!'

I decided that bus-driver was right. I pushed my worries down as far as they could go, hugged Juan close and told him that I loved him. Sure everything in the world has to end at some point...but not on that bus and not on that night.