La Americana Read online

  We also did headstands and handstands, which I had not attempted since my gymnast days. At twelve, I was the leader in the informal handstand competitions we held at state meets, but that failed to come into play more than a decade later.

  What I like about yoga is being in the moment. Though difficult for me in many aspects, I found that the focus on inner strength was vital to me at that point. My life was intense and I had to fight back intensely.

  At the end of class, we rolled to our backs as the lights went out. In near darkness, the room was silent and we were able to process our bodies’ cycles, what we had just accomplished, and to continue the notion of being in the present. At that time, my “present” was unbearable. No longer having muscles to exercise or poses to consider, I became vulnerable, overexposed, and, without fail, I would cry. Tears rolled down the sides of my face and dropped on the floor. My relaxed state released toxins buried deep inside me for months. It was scary to confront the emotions head-on, but I tried to focus on the deep breathing and pushing the flow of oxygen to my broken heart.

  Janti came to each of us and gently pushed our shoulders down or used his thumbs to press on our foreheads. I was so raw that I could feel the slightness of his fingers in the tips of my toes, as if he were tickling them in unison. After composing myself, I changed clothes (as spandex was not the height of sophistication on New York’s streets) and visited Dean & Deluca next door.

  One morning following my yoga retreat, I wandered the food aisles, looking for something healthy to eat. I was particularly frail, knowing I would have to go to back to work two days later. Back in the city after a brief trip home, the world was in full motion, but I hadn’t caught up. Yoga was my retreat to feel quiet and safe from New York, which was empty to me. I couldn’t go anywhere without looking for my mom. She was on every corner, every display, every crème brulee I smelled and every crevice I walked. Mom was New York.

  As I stood in the checkout line with fruit and water in hand, a middle-aged man in front of me turned and did a double-take. Ugh, here it comes, I thought, some stupid pick-up line and I thought it was apparent to any and everyone that I was in no mood.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “You look exactly like someone I know.” (His overemphasis on the exactly annoyed me.)

  Come on, go away, I thought. I imagined porcupine needles pressing through every pore in my body. LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE, I repeated in my head.

  But he didn’t. “It’s uncanny,” he said, all but shaking his head in disbelief. “You look just like my friend, Marti Bowden.”

  It felt like the subway underground smashed into me. My knees unhinged.

  I looked at him, right in the eye. “That’s my mom.”

  “That’s crazy. That’s totally crazy.” A pause, then: “How is she?”

  For the first time, I had to say it and there was no easy delivery.

  Coldly: “She passed away. Two weeks ago.”

  My chest tightened, I became light-headed, and I thought I’d knock out on the spot. The guy looked horrified.

  I don’t know what he said and I can’t remember his name or how he knew her. I only wondered, out of the eight million people living in New York City, why did I have to bump into him?

  Deepak Chopra suggests in his teachings that nothing is random—that our lives are full of signs and symbols. What hidden dimension of my life had been unlocked, and why was I a better person for that encounter? That never was clear to me.

  Chapter 14

  Castro the Artist

  “Cuba is a surreal painting and Castro is the artist,” Victor told us that night at dinner. “Everyone thinks he’s a politician, but he’s really an artist with installations and shows.”

  This came following raucous laughter that halted to a standstill, as another Swede, Inar, who had joined our group at the apartment in Havana, relayed his most recent experience in Cuba.

  Inar was in his early twenties and a good-looking, laid-back kind of guy. Humor rolled off him in a natural, light way, even when translated into his almost perfect English, making it easy for him to crisscross cultures. All of us, including a sweet, young Frenchman named Andre, who also had arrived that day, repeatedly laughed out loud.

  The six of us were seated at a wooden table made for eight, in a room that was pleasantly small and infinitely happy with bursts of bright colors painted by Victor himself. Our meal was exquisite, one that Victor had pieced together in no time, it seemed. We had good red wine, though I never knew what it was we were drinking. We were eating and laughing with mostly strangers, and yet the energy in the room became intimate, as if we had all traveled the world to find just this place, only to meet one another.

  We had all been laughing so hard that the tempo finally slowed, if for no other reason than to breathe. Following the pause, Inar began to tell us about the trip he had just taken to a western region of Cuba called Pinar del Rio, where tobacco is harvested and rolled into Cuba’s iconic cigars.

  He told us that he and a friend had rented a car to drive out of town and on the way picked up a young Cuban guy looking for a ride. They, too, joked, as Inar spoke some Spanish. Not long after a policeman’s sirens pulled them over. All attention was directed immediately to the Cuban in the backseat. He was drilled as to what he was doing, where he was going, and why he was with two foreigners. Inar didn’t understand his response, but whatever he said was useless; he was dragged out of the car and pulled behind a building that sat off to the side of the road. Inar didn’t know what had happened, but felt sick, and only could drive away. His face was uneasy retelling the tale. Shortly after, he said he was approached by a mother who offered her daughter as a bride, like a distressed but lovely Cuban token, as she rallied for a better life for her child.

  On the plane ride to Havana, I had read stories like his and other odd details about Cuban life, such as the fact that lobster and birthday cakes were illegal for Cuban consumption, but not for foreigners. I didn’t dare ask the couple who had served us just that in Trinidad, though the thought crossed my mind.

  American travel books also noted that the Cubans can’t enter hotels, their restaurants, or pools. The Internet was off limits. I was aware that emails I sent from the Hotel Nacional were monitored in some fashion and certainly no Cuban could afford the one-dollar-a-minute fee charged at the hotel. I knew that letters and packages from the US would never reach our new friends in Trinidad, as Cuba has no functioning postal system.

  It was difficult to decipher what was real, what was true, and if each Cuban shared the same existence. If so, did they accept their fate or simply fear their reality and therefore succumb to it? Did they even consider another way of life?

  The only person that I could really look to to answer my questions was Luis, but I didn’t feel like I had the right to push my curiosity on him. Yet, somehow I managed.

  One night, after a broken conversation about different places in the world, I asked him if he likes big or small cities. He replied, simply: “I don’t know.”

  I felt like one gigantic ass. How could I be so naive? I was so selfish talking about places I’ve seen, things that I do on a routine basis at home that he couldn’t do (or hadn’t done?) at all. I wanted to apologize, but I didn’t. I clammed up, unable to redirect the conversation.

  I didn’t know the rules. Had he not traveled because he didn’t want to or because he couldn’t? I was afraid to ask so I didn’t. He appeared unbothered. Or was he complacent? I didn’t know, so I sat there like a fool, unable to form words. I was terrified I’d say something idiotic again.

  Only one distinct thought remained.

  I had traveled to this country to feel free, ducking real life and American laws to go to the forbidden land, only to become muted. I did feel free from responsibility and reality, for only a short time, I knew, but not being able to talk about politics or ask questions, and being acutely aware that I could only say so much, made me crazy.

  A new sen
sation came over me as I suddenly felt unusually patriotic about my own country. Living in Spain and visiting other countries, I forever found myself apologizing for being an American. Frequently, I was compelled to explain that Americans are compassionate human beings interested in the rest of the world and that we do dine on more than fast food. We didn’t all vote for Bush.

  In many instances foreigners told me that I wasn’t like most Americans who visited their countries. While I was content to be accepted by my new peers, I was equally annoyed for the preceding reputation. I assured my new friends that many Americans are just as open as I am.

  Sitting across from Luis, I was overwhelmingly frustrated for him. The light and intelligence beaming from his eyes told me that he was underwhelmed living the way that he was. There was something too controlled under that calm he carried. I sensed that he only needed a new platform and he could soar.

  I didn’t know if he was happy or unhappy, but I didn’t feel I could ask him that either. To some extent he answered my question as we sat at an ice cream shop under neon lights. His twin sister, Anabel, married young and moved to Brescia, Italy, and Luis had petitioned the Italian embassy in Cuba for permission to move there.

  He did want more.

  Chapter 15

  Good-byes

  Two days before we were to go home, Luis came to meet us at the apartment. Cyn and I wanted to go to the beach and he suggested Playa del Este, which is about twenty-five minutes outside the city. He didn’t have his taxi that day, so he summoned a private car with an affixed taxi sign.

  However, ten minutes in, midcity, he asked the driver to stop so that we could get out. We had no idea what was going on, but followed him. Back on the street, he quickly hailed an official, government-sanctioned red taxi so that our first driver wouldn’t have any problems with the police, he told us. Tourists paying a driver of a privately owned car equates to free enterprise, something that can create a host of problems in Cuba.

  We were dropped directly on the beach’s white sands, overlooking a stunning vista of aquamarine waters. Luis paid the driver, buffering our attempts to do so. We walked a short distance to put our towels on the sand and kick off our tanks, shorts, and flip-flops. As we settled in, a well-armed military guard in the distance began to walk toward us.

  My throat swelled, and I was crazy nervous for Luis. Was he going to be in trouble? My mind raced, remembering the story Inar had told us about the kid getting dragged out of his car. The policeman stopped, staring hard at us. I was frozen in terror.

  The man asked Cynthia and I where we were from, unaffected by our response. His attention turned to Luis, who was asked the same. Luis’s reply was met with a hasty response: he needed to give the officer his ID.

  On the surface Luis was calm, but by then, breakfast had worked its way to the top of my throat. He handed him his ID, which Cubans have to have on them at all times. They spoke back and forth without any emotion in mumbled, terse language. I didn’t understand a word.

  The officer handed the card back to Luis and walked away.

  I couldn’t help it: “What did he want?” I asked Luis.

  “Nada,” he said, dismissively.

  What do you mean nothing? I thought, but didn’t say. Instead I respected his quietness and simply replied, “OK.”

  I was angry, really angry, that Luis had to live that way, absolute power always presiding over him. But I was also suddenly overjoyed that he might soon be with his sister in Italy.

  My nerves calmed and we all enjoyed the day immensely.

  That last night in town, Luis invited us to go to his house to have a drink and then go out. In her last matchmaking effort, Cynthia accepted the invite and then later declined, as she and Inar were going to go out on the town together.

  Victor answered the door and called me. When I came to the front parlor, Luis was sitting on the sofa. He smiled when he saw me and got up, tapping my cheek gently with a kiss.

  I had dressed in a black V-neck, paired with white pants that only allowed the tips of my black heels to peep out. Long, pencil-like silver earrings hung crisply from my ears, nearing the tips of my shoulders. My pale skin had turned two shades darker since arriving in Cuba, virtually erasing mounds of freckles that hid beneath.

  He was in pink. His dark skin played against the color that so many men from home wouldn’t touch. The shirt was balanced by light linen pants and European leather slippers.

  I introduced the guys, but the dynamic between the two was uncomfortable and I quickly noted how unfriendly Victor was with Luis, in stark contrast to his behavior with all of his guests. I couldn’t figure that one out because Victor, of course, was married to a Cuban.

  Cyn cut the ice, bounding in playfully to say hello. She said adios and we were off to Calle L where Luis lived with his mother, Ana.

  Luis easily flew six flights up, whereas I was embarrassed to be a bit out of breath. I regularly climbed my share of stairs in New York, but this was a killer.

  On the top floor of the building, a long balcony overlooking the Malecón bordered our walk. As we reached the second-to-last door, Luis pointed out the American consulate, located inside the Swiss embassy just below us. A racing thought: What would they do if they knew I was here?

  The two-storied apartment was not terribly different from that of Maria Victoria’s, where we had eaten lunch our first week in Havana. The granite floors were clean and the dining room table was made of solid wood and marble. Two armoires filled with chotskies—bits of religious this and mundane that—took me back to Spain. The Spanish woman I had lived with also collected numerous items and put them on display.

  Ana, a beautiful woman in her late forties, sat on the sofa, smoking.

  I noticed something inherently elegant about her, just as I had with Luis, though she was dressed casually. However, unlike Luis, she was exotic and inaccessible in a way that he wasn’t. I had no idea what she thought of me, only that I must have been as foreign to her as she was to me. I sat on the opposite end of the sofa and tried to make small talk with her while Luis went into the kitchen for drinks.

  I was uncomfortable, even though Ana was friendly and seemingly open to my broken bits of Spanish. Cynthia wasn’t there to fill in gaps or transform my mishaps into coherent sentences. It was just me in a stranger’s home in Cuba.

  Luis turned the corner, rum and Cokes in hand, his pink shirt draped on his arm. A bright, white undershirt in its place played against the darkness of his skin, making it all the more pronounced. My soul floated, barely touching anything in its path, but my reaction to him was visceral.

  He got it, a wink buried in his smile.

  I must have turned a shade of hot pink, thankful for the shroud of burned skin that masked my embarrassment. Yet, my eyes stayed with his. He handed us each a rocks glass, based with a linen napkin, and pulled a chair up to sit directly in front of me.

  “Mami, she’s so pretty, isn’t she?” he said, never moving his eyes from me. He called me Pecosa. Freckles.

  I flashed like a bulb again and quickly changed the subject. I wanted to know why Victor had been so rude to him back at the apartment.

  “He thinks I’m only with you to leave the country,” he explained.

  I was horrified. “Why would he think that?”

  Prejudice among their own exists greatly in Cuba, he explained. Victor assumed that Luis was there to find me, an ultimate escape from his country. At that point in my life, my entire existence was raw, childlike, and clean in its accuracy. I knew there wasn’t one contrived bone in Luis’s body. He was as pure as I was in that sense.

  Soon after, we left to listen to live salsa. Again we danced for most of the night and again we connected, but I took the moment for what it was and not what it could be. I would return to Mexico the next day.

  Our final day in Havana, Luis met us at our apartment and hailed a cab bound for the airport. Cynthia and I were quiet, digesting our trip and brief evolution within the boundar
ies of another country and culture.

  Riding along the Malecón, the driver pointed to a house buried in the thick green of a side street, noting it was one of Fidel Castro’s fifty-two houses. Cynthia asked the driver to stop so she could take a picture. Walking up onto a large median in the middle of the street, she raised a large lens, focused, and snapped. Two armed guards immediately rushed to her side, bantering, questioning what she was doing. They didn’t take her camera, but I thought they would.

  In the car Cynthia kept her camera to her side. Our mental images would be all we would carry with us from that last ride in the city. Presumably, there were no good or bad parts of Havana, just everything in shambles. No one can unravel a culture in a matter of days, but I felt as if the Cubans, who manage a level of grace and dignity in the midst of it all, were lost in the mix.

  As we rode along the coast, the cab driver toyed with the radio until he was able to tune in to a Miami station playing Barry White. He sang the US National Anthem, and Cynthia and I remained quiet, neither of us commenting on the huge irony. But perhaps she quietly respected our own country a bit more than before, just as I did.

  At the airport Luis asked me to call him when I landed in Cancun and to email him from home. He would be in Italy within six months and maybe we could find each other again, he said. Six months was so far away and this friendship so seemingly out of the realm of possibility that I graciously accepted his words and inherent sincerity, but my heart couldn’t fully buy into the notion. I didn’t even know what I would do when I got back to Savannah, much less six months later. And really, I wasn’t sure he’d even remember me much by then.

  We said our good-byes and I was genuinely sorry to leave. Able to sense a bit of humanity again, the thought of returning to the real world was bitter.