It is so inconceivable to me that Cuba is this far-away, unattainable, imaginary place. To me, Cuba is home. When I went to Benin, I didn’t miss Boston, Mass. I missed that sunshine balcony in habana, cuba.
Yes, it is crazy and hungry and desperate and backwards and hypocritical. But it’s also musical and smart and beautiful and politically aware. It’s hiphop and dancing and cuba light and fresh fruit all the time and the best beaches you have ever seen.
My friend Sarah, who went with me to Egypt, is going for the Dialogue. And Allyson might apply as well. It makes me so jealous. And beyond the obvious bit of I want Cuba to be mine and only mine, I just want to be back there. I want kisses on the cheek hello, no matter how inefficient I constantly complained they are. I want stars at night in the city, and stairs forever to get home. I want walking everywhere you go, and salsa with strangers, and ghetto spanish like you wouldn’t believe. I want Chango and fidel on tv and no ads and Victoria Hasta Siempre.
The Dominican will be amazing, and so will wherever I go next. But it won’t be home. It won’t be Egypt and it won’t be Cuba. It won’t be that feeling of never knowing what’s legal, of torn out parking meters, of instant friendship with strangers, of total impotence against the lack of facts, of surrendering to serendipity.
I’m putting on my shade to cover up my eyes. I’m riding solo. Te extrano, Cubita. Besitos y mucho ache