5/29 - Things not off to the best start, yet. Bag took 30 minutes to get to baggage claim, shuttle took 45 minutes to show up, I pass up authentic Greek food for dinner (in the hotel) because I want some plantains and Latin-style chicken and don't want to spend ten bucks for food (the lowest cost on the Greek menu) and end up spending eleven for dry chicken and gummy plantains. And then, to top it all off, I sit on the bed in the room and what does it do? Correct. It breaks. So I’m a fat Chicagoan with a stomach full of bad, overpriced food. I need a beer. I’ll be back.

Never got that beer, but met some of the people and got a much needed shower -- after spending all day at airports I felt like my skin was crawling with centipedes. Going to watch a little Iron Chef and go to sleep. 4AM's going to come early.

5/30 - So 4:00 came and felt exactly as it should - fucking early. But everyone was somewhat amazingly on time for the shuttle and we got here as expected at around 5:30 (we didn't leave until 5). So the check-in process went like this -- wait in line for the airline counter to check my bag in. We get 44 lbs for everything, whether you're checking it or not. With my carry-on, beset with books, I squeak by with 42 lbs. People behind me go over and have to pay $2/lb. (The woman's total bill right behind me was $25.12-worth lbs over, for close to 60 lbs total. Where the hell is she going and what is she packing? Cannonballs and gold ingots?) After that it's off to security (after, that is, the one easily discernible benefit of being at the airport before 6AM -- freshly made Cinnabon. Mmm...) where you stand in line for 45 minutes without moving. Other lines to other places move, but not yours. Not to Havana. When I finally get through the line I see why -- baggage is being scanned extremely thoroughly. (Think of a kid at fat camp searching every crevasse of a discarded candy wrapper for a shred of chocolate.) Bags are searched item by item -- cameras are looked through with the lens cap off to make sure they're valid, film canisters checked, books and papers rifled through, etc. and then they get to you -- seriously, I felt like I went five rounds with V after a pitcher of sangria. Lot of hands, lot of hands. :) ) Finally, though, the free inspection and grope fest is over and we have a couple of hours to chill before the plane leaves. It’s an 8AM flight and it's almost time -- Havana, here I come!

8:15 - Waiting for the plane to take off was pure comedy; when I get back we'll have to do it as a skit for your class. First, the seat lettering and assignments positively mystified people. Repeatedly people were saying, "que tengo? Adonde voy? Nueve-a. Donde esta? Ocho-a. Donde esta?" and the flight attendants (and passengers like me) kept pointing and saying, "Ah-Bay-Say. Mirame: A-B-C." Again and again. But this was inevitably greeted by a response of, "Ocho-a? Donde esta? Nueve-a? Donde esta?" and the cycle repeated. I’m not even sure if the seats were painted A-B-C in bright white stencils that it would have helped. So while this is going on, people are also putting their bags away as if stuck in molasses and again and again, the flight attendants get on the PA and say, "Senores y senoras, por favor, no ponen sus maletas en el compartamentos antes de sientese. Take your seat first and then put your bags away so we can clear the aisle." You could almost hear the words smacking the walls outside people's ears and dropping lifelessly to the floor. So five seconds later the frustrated voice comes on the PA again -- "Senores y senoras..." It was great. It was this endless chorus of comedy. "Senores y senoras..." "Nueve-a -- donde esta?" "Ah-bay-say." "Ah-bay-say." "Senores y senoras...." "Ocho-a, donde esta." On and on. Hilarious. Hopefully things are this entertaining on the ground. About to leave now. 90 miles to Havana!

11PM - So what happened today? Where to start? For starters, I had my heart wrenched a hundred times because I’m seeing all these great things and V wasn’t there to share them. Seriously, it was torture walking up and down the Malecon (the oceanside wall) and sitting at the pool. Everyone was kissing, hugging, fondling and I was like, "Awwww...I want to do that too!" D’oh! So what else happened today? I will tell you. So we fly in over the island and it's pretty -- nice trees, quaint, old style buildings, etc., but also a giant smokestack belching sandy brown smoke and an almost total lack of cars on the highways. Interesting juxtaposition. Not sure if there's no cars because people can't afford the car or the gas (or because it's Sunday. I suspect it's a mix of all three.) Either way, there is no real discernible activity -- it's like the entire island is asleep. So we touch down (to the raucous applause of those around me in the cabin) and taxi for a few minutes past various propaganda slogans ("Patria es humanidad," "el mundo necesito la globalizacion de la solidaridad," "los buenos con nosotros" (Jose Marti, the national hero, said this one), and "cumpliremos todos lo que juramos en Baragua," to name a few.)

We get off the plane, disembarking onto the tarmac and past some innocuous military guys with Labradors, and into the customs line where the officer tells me, "Congratulations, you are the one millionth tourist! Have a wonderful trip!" This, I think, is pretty hilarious and a joke to see if the gringo understands Spanish. I laugh, he laughs, and we all move on. But when we get to the hotel a little bit later, it's the same thing. The housekeeping lady tells me, "Congrats! You’re the one millionth tourist and we're having a party in the lobby in 20 minutes to celebrate!" and I’m thinking, "Boy, there seems to be no lengths these people won't go to to stretch out a lame joke and have a little fun at the American’s expense." But then I get downstairs and there's a full band, costumed dancers, and signs saying the same thing. It’s crazy -- great music, people twirling around in explosively bright costumes, singing along to the songs, all in the lobby of this palatial old hotel. And that's when it finally dawns on me that they may be telling the truth -- I might be the one-millionth tourist this year according to some ministry of statistics announcement or something. (Definitely not overall, though. Since the island opened itself up to tourism in '94 following the death of its communist gravy train and the economic crisis this fall sparked four years prior, the island has received close to one million people a year, on average.) Whatever the impetus, joke or reality, the party was a blast -- they were playing songs from the Buena Vista guys, everyone was singing along; it was cool. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Before we go to the hotel (and actually, before we get off the plane there's one more interesting tale. As we're descending, the voice comes on the PA and speaks something rapid fire. Says it once and then says it again. Then everyone starts turning the air jets on high and closing tee shades on the windows. I’m thinking, "Hmm. What brand of communist obfuscation is this? What don't they want us to see? Are they beating people up on the runway? Shooting puppies and tossing kittens around in some demented game of football? Ridding burros with no underpants? What??? (Turns out it was all of the above. It's an ancient festival that dates back to the slavery era on the sugar plantations. (Actually, it was because the plane was going to sit in the sun and they didn't want it to get too hot. but I like my version better.))

Anyway, as we pick up our bags I notice that over half the bags of my fellow passengers are covered in bright blue saran wrap and I can't figure out why. They’re wrapped tight as can be w/ the stuff and I’m not sure if it's something our airport people did or theirs. (Turns out it was something ours did, but they were prompted to -- these passengers pay the airport to do this so Cuban attendants can't rifle though their things. It's apparently a remnant of the communist era and the special period when people were struggling to make ends meet and would steal stuff from bags to take home.) So we get our bags and head out on a little bus tour before going to the hotel. As we drive we pass a few cars, but not that many. When we do it's revolution-era jeeps and trucks, American cars from the 40s and 50s, and giant buses the size of semis. These latter vehicles are an invention of the special period as well, when gas was prohibitively expensive and no one could afford to drive. Rather than allow unrest to arise by his doing nothing, Castro created these "camels" of Cuba -- converted semi trailers that can hold upwards of 300 people in its belly. (This has obviously been changed to include windows (not many) and seats (even less)). People are piled on top of each other, visibly sweltering in the heat, looking balefully out at us in out plush air-conditioned minibus. These gigantic contraptions move extremely slowly, laboring under the load of its immense weight. The buses are actually tearing up the roads they're so heavy, but the government can't afford to suspend them because they're so heavily used and to do so would cause an immense uproar.

As we pass these lumbering beasts and a handful of bicyclists, we drive towards the city center, spying radiant flamboyantes that line the roads (trees that explode like firecrackers from the trunk into cascading plumes of brilliant red), more propaganda slogans (either of the inspirational (si se puede) or the celebratory -- at least towards the revolution -- variety, touting its continued success and glory), and urban agriculture farms (termed organiculture, according to our guide), little patches of land turned into vegetable gardens. These last items also emerged from the special period, another response to the hardships brought on by the soviet fall. Without their money or supplies, there were severe shortages or virtually everything in Havana, especially the necessities like food. So the government created these urban farms wherever they could to create their own supply of food. These farms have flourished despite their diminutive size (think several vacant city lots in a row and you've about got it) and have become a relied upon source of food to supplement the ration for Cuba’s citizens. The plots are accompanied by roadside farmstands and the goods are sold quite cheap, thus explaining their popularity.

We finally stop at the Plaza de la Revolucion, a central part of Havana and its history. Here there lies the massive statue and tower of José Marti, the hero of Cuba’s independence from Spain and its most hallowed intellectual, which sits atop the highest point in Havana. Also there is the national theater, a crumbling Soviet style building that allegedly belies the quality of its contents, the library (this sports a massive sign calling for the freedom of the Cuban five, the men arrested of spying in the US and a huge deal in this country, as we will see ad nauseum in the coming weeks.), a Che mural on the wall of the ministry of the interior, and scads of coco taxis, little coconut-shaped yellow taxis that are powered by a series of hamsters and Flintstone-style propulsion, judging by the speed. They’re bright little globes that flit around the street like tiny balls of sunshine and are supposed to be fun, cheap ways to travel around. The plaza is an important site to Cubans -- the pope visited here in '98 and spoke from the steps of the library, Fidel always gives his speeches -- protracted, statistic-ridden things they are -- from the plaza on the steps of the Marti memorial, and it was the site of major political rallies in the 60s.

After this we check in at the opulent hotel Nacional, the most famous hotel in Havana and a national monument, host to celebrities, dignitaries, and dirty, smelly grad students alike. It boasts an art deco lobby from the 30s, wooden arches on the ceiling, great tiled floors, effervescent mosaics, and a spectacular view of the water. More on the hotel later (although I will say here is the first time I notice I’m in something of the land of opposites. faucet knobs turn the opposite way (counter clockwise), light switches go down to turn on, books are put on shelves so the titles read bottom to top. Very strange.) After this we ditch the bags and wander up La Rampa, a main strip of cafes and very few shops, in search of food. We settle on this tiny cafe with pizza, midnight and cheese sandwiches (no idea), beers, churrasco and tostones, the last three of which find their way into our gullets. (This experience was slightly nightmarish, but not because of the food -- that was quite nice. My dingleberry rooommate misheard the price of the food (trece, not tres), befriended a beggar and fed him table scraps and beer (what is he -- a puppy or a person?) who then would not leave us alone, and insisted on buying virtually everything the wandering street vendors were offering, be it poetry, a lighter, or whatever. One, who he kept feeding cigarettes and beer, was allegedly a friend and ex-military mate of Che Guevara. Right. You feed me booze and smokes and I’ll tell you I’m the Duchess of York and that I manufacture airplanes in a meth lab in my basement.)

So this got old after about ten minutes and eventually I got out of there and walked back along the Malecon. En route I passed an endless parade of decaying building and mansions that are beautiful in their decrepitude, each one seemingly prettier than the last. I also walk by the Plaza Tribuna Anti-Imperialista, the rather ugly series of rusting steel arches in formation erected solely to protest the US interests section (our version of an embassy in the embargoed country, the big building at the mouth of the mall) during the Elian hoo-hah. (Honestly, I will hear more about this kid over the first few days than I did back when I happened. Apparently this was a huge deal down here.) This building is also strongly guarded along its perimeter, rather ironically, by Cuban soldiers. There are tons of them -- one every six or seven feet -- and this seems like a big contradiction since we're the ones who are fighting with them. (I actually caught myself there -- I was going to say, "We're the ones they hate," but I quickly find out this is just an assumption certain politicians of ours want us to have and seems to be largely untrue.)

I spend a few more minutes sitting on the wall, breathing deep the salty, fishy air and admiring the beautiful mar before heading to the hotel pool for a swim and a cocktail. (I opt for a guarapo con ron, which is freshly ground sugarcane juice, lime juice, and rum. cold, sweet, and delicious!) After soaking up some rays and having my heart crushed a couple more times (it was sunny, beautiful -- where is V?!?) I head back out along the Malecon towards Habana Vieja. There’s a trumpeter playing the Godfather theme, people swimming in the mar, people selling art, kids playing baseball in the street, the capitol building, the castle and fortresses on the bay, and a ton of jineteros ("jockeys"), people who get their name for how they try to ride you for your money, be it for cigars, art, music, or even milk.

Our first unrelenting one was Raul and over a cold beer in one of the cafes from the Buena Vista Social Club documentary he held court with us on music, women, cigars, and the special period. It was all rather interesting, but his final push for us to buy cigars was the prize winner. He took us to this lady's tiny apartment a few blocks away -- allegedly a roller at one of the factories -- where he showed us the boxes of cigars in her dingy, spartan bedroom. Nothing was bought -- and "no" was an extremely unpopular answer, one that prompted much bartering ("Ok, $20." No. "Ok, $15." No. "Ok, $5 and you hug me and buy me a lolli." Um.........no.)

Once this was completed we went and grabbed some dinner after meeting jinetero #2, Orlando. He took us to this paladar (a restaurant in someone's apartment or house, something that was first ok'd back in '94/5 to jumpstart the economy again) that had excellent homemade food and cheap prices. I had some killer pollo asado (half a chicken showed up on my plate), arroz moro (black beans, rice, and bits of bacon or pork) and a Cristal (one of the two Cuban beers you can get here, this being of the pale ale variety.) for $12, plus a nice salad. These paladares are great -- they're in the person's house/dining room, they can only serve twelve people max, and ours was run by a tiny abuelita cooking in her kitchen. It had no sign (these a re strongly regulated by the government and the subterfuge is a way to avoid the operation tax, I am told), which was a little dodgy at first, I must admit. We talked politics, pop culture, and more with Orlando, and when he made his final push (Raul wanted us to buy cigars, Orlando wanted us to buy drinks, and possibly women, at a nearby bar.) to no avail, I returned to the hotel for a mojito looking out at the water before turning in. all in all it was a great, if painful, day. We rode the jinetero wave all day (still well worth it, despite the hassle of the closing haggle and the two or three buck tip you give at the end. You get to know the city, practice your Spanish, and see the real Havana, one that exists outside of the textbooks, political propaganda, and the government-approved bubble.) and saw a ton of great stuff. Not a bad start to things.