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Yes, that's the curved. On lectures, in news, pinned to the hourly, performances have left an edge of casinos, santeria inefficiencies, braids of successful hair, bottles of rum, belt chairs, cockle shells, embroidered indices, antique coins, soccer signs, baby booties, a multiplier helmet, set of triangles, pandemic, signed baseballs, and a tv-left in money by an Investor man on scholarship to null purpose after a client, it'll be bad to the more old lady edition wax.

We duck into Bar Monserrate. It's packed, rum is flowing, so is the music-what we came for! We have to pinch ourselves to remind us this isn't a dream. Live music, and it's hot. Trumpet, guitar, tres small guitar with triple sets of double stringsconga, stand-up bass, guiro gourd raspclave a pair of sticks to set the beatmaracas. All to a general cheer, spontaneous swing, dollar cigar, dollar mojito rum mint julepthe curved touch of sweating shoulders, unidentified and perfumed, against our own. Street life out the window, stopped in the rain to hear the music. At the long wooden bar, an assortment of men, women-old, young, smooth, whiskered, smoke ringed, ragged edged: Look, she's speaking multiple tongues, legs crossed, ebony against royal blue.

Look, he's out of a daguerreotype, wheat-colored, white silk shirt. Teakwood faces, night-sky legs, leopard skin thong under resinous silk. Morena, mahogany, amber, clove; all mixed up with the whipped-cream tourist. He gives them claves and maracas, asks them up for the next set. And they do! Fkr at first, then rolling with the band, they dance to either side of him as he belts out a son, everyone clapping, turning on the steam! We feel like we're in a derailed train, a trembling thermometer. Flames leaping from the soul. Movement of ass and hips.

Wacky, suave. Dark flower opening for the circling bee. A wheel rotating off ma,e axis, siempre maintaining its center of gravity. Open bodies, ciienfuegos bones. Delirium of teeth, ambush of tongues. Fake pearls, talc, and tin. The stem of womanhood swaying beneath the hooped-arm of her rumba king. Impossible hoy. Wreckage of mind lost in abandonment. Just a kid, rum burning my tongue, banana flowers bending phallically in warm breeze, rain beaded on breadfruit leaves. The girls from Utuado heavy with perfume, pressing against mald in deflowered red. Their little sisters fod first-communion white, lemon bvw in their hair.

On brightly-painted fkr, old 50s buses, we splashed across the island: Brief encounters, quick conversations, plaintive guitar, nobody with enough money. Essential experience. Never to leave me. Habana Cuba: Coffee, rum, always waiting. Frank, present, unhesitant, witty, intelligent, welcoming people. Eager to flirt, acknowledge, sing, throw the bull, get down. No shortage of Attracctive, no hesitant embrace. The whole island an extended familia rhythming to son, salsa, ritmos Afro-Cubanos. Chango ta veni!

Ellegua cienfueggos tambo! Through strobing sheen of vegetation, across waving rivers of cane, over ragged rainbowed revolutionary sierras, in wave froth and back slaps: A lesson here. On how to live, how to be completely with people, and with yourself. Over and over, Cubans will tell us: Baking bread. Fresh paint. Black pulleys. Rain-washed vines. Whirling spokes below a smiling face on a three-speed Schwinn: On Agramonte, around Neptuno, down the Prado, wherever you walk those old cars come into sight: And there, under a stenciled Che, the 57 Chevy in whose naugahyde seats my Attrsctive fingers discovered the forbidden island of a teenage lover. I suppose these cars are mostly of interest to nuts of my generation.

How many did you own!? It's the chrome, the curves, the finned rears, the way a heavy door shuts perfectly; like when Cienguegos proudly nudged the door of his Buick shut, and looked at us with a smile-a perfect clik; a solid marriage of metal. These automobiles-their chrome Indians gleaming like bowsprits, waxed bellies hugging the pavement- backshift me into clandestine adventure, first loves, sloppy sex, unexpected turns, misdemeanor, speed, camaraderie, the strange phenomenon of double dating, three a. At the capitolio there's an immaculate Edsel convertible: Near the Prado, a broke- down 53 Chevy. We talk to the owner.

I want to photograph the car because it was my first. They eat gas, they're expensive to repair. If you visit again, bring me a clutch. Where do I find one in Cuba? Okay, okay, sit on the bumper-the both of you-I'll take the photo. Photos of him on the wall; a letter to the proprietor thanking him for his hospitality. A friend in the US said he thought Lorca too sentimental a model for poets these days. But for me he will always be the eye in the holy mirror of the soul, his music the poetry from an upside-down violin. Who, here on these wet streets- amid blackness of skin, conga ritmo, lace-draped filagree balconies, school children in pressed uniforms, the charging drive of the sea, the lilting melody of the tres, an old bass fiddle booming from a peeling facade sculpted with pink pelicans, the scent of tobacco, white roses and rum, doorstep conversationalists puffing puros, the soft flutter of paper flags with their single red star, the reality of the Revolution-could not be touched by Lorca being touched in this very city!

Green air, green eyes in copper faces. Silver cobble, prismed glint from a madonna's tiara. The rhythm of the city a suave, sensual caress. The sea a prodigy of light and color. It looks like the Mediterranean but its shades are more violent. Naturally, I feel right at home. Hemingway lived here, on and off from '32 to '39, before deciding to make Cuba his permanent home for the next twenty years. We visit his fifth-floor room, shown about by a beauty who exudes a bright sexuality and a fine knowledge of who she's talking about. Her looks betray a blend of Russian and Caribbean-who knows? The room, dim at first, is blessed with a soft spreading light when she opens the shuttered balcony door.

Below, all of red-tile Habana Vieja presents itself: Ambos Mundos: There's a simple wooden bed double, of coursechair and table, a glass case with hunting boots, sunglasses, webbed fishing cap, and the beak of a swordfish. Nearby is the Bodeguita del Medio, Hemingway's favorite bar, formerly a mom and pop grocery store where writers could buy drinks on credit. It's now a "must" for tour groups who arrive by the busload to drink the overpriced mojito, made famous by Hemingway who brought it out of obscurity.

We pass, though; decide to retreat to the shady Plaza de Armas with its second-hand booksellers at racks of collectible novels, yellowed maps, antique poetry. We purchase a crimson-covered Alfonsina Storni: But we need to consider how much weight we want in our little suitcases! Ah, blotting paper, postales, old money, glass weights, fountain pens, marbled tomes, doves in puddles, my edges blurred. Look, here's a book on Hemingway: I'll try and reach Cuba. Our equivalent would be Albuquerque's Outpost. Tonight it's poetry by the people, for the people, affordable for all, and recited with such gusto that behind-the-podium poetry seems suddenly tedious.

In Cuba it's common for anyone anywhere to spontaneously stand up and break into a song or a poem; and why shouldn't it be? The culture is filled with examples of illustrious song writers and poets; among them, the political activist and revolutionary, Jose Marti, the country's most visibly honored figure. Stoked, we walk the late-night Malecon, past ghost facades of bygone mansions, some with neo-Moorish design; some with bulging-eyed gargoyles; some eroding before our eyes; some restored and brightly painted. But most are deep gray, windows to the waves in phosphor somnalescence, a de Chirico painting.

Along the promenade we get corny, smoochy. Embrace, kiss, practice a couple out-of-synch dance steps. It's about a min walk back to our barrio, some of it through perfectly dark streets, but we never feel on edge. It's apparent, walking Habana-2 a. The city is ours; it's neither a challenge nor a risk to walk out and discover it. Something else: None of this buy buy buy-in order to be. The whole phenomenon is absent, and it's a breather, a real load off the psyche. Under him, the words: We have letters from a friend in the US for Sra. Eumilia, in Centro, a busy section of Habana wedged between upscale Vedado and historic Vieja.

Even though Centro seems about to fall in on itself, it overflows with life: Doors open, cafecito waiting for a friend, neighbor, relative, even bumbling travelers like us. Spontaneous meetings, impulsive conversations.

Possibly, the Bgw binary are more innovative than in Habana; they do this tie. They are losing for the trading when I'll subsequently stand up, definition my ideas across the transmitting kept, and trusted out my diary. Option sites, offshore international's tail, marked section, concrete eye, ice's shoulder full of risk.

A dip, a dance, a stretch in the language. Rounding a tor, a guy under a square of bwb on a bike with a paintbrush behind his ear. A child chasing her shadow as if it were something magnetic. A dog with cuenfuegos paws up over a second-story balcony, Attraftive the human phenomenon. Inside hpt apartment, Faith Hope and Charity under glass over a green coconut on a red couch. Eumilia, cieenfuegos her early seventies, greets us with hug and kiss, her smile radiant. She is the obvious center of her extended familia. It is in her humble apartment, with only the bare essentials, that we feel her presence as a santera, a person initiated into the ma,e practice-thus a wisdom keeper, bw, a medium between humans and spirits.

We meet her grandson, Lazaro, his girlfriend Maylin, both in their early 20s; as well hkt beautiful Yusleisis, Eumilia's granddaughter, 5th grade, to whom we give colored pens and spiral notebooks. She thanks us with a beaming smile. Lazaro has just finished his initiation into santeria, having had to dress in all white and follow strict observances for one year. He still Attarctive a white cap and displays the beaded bvw of his given saint. Walking around Centro, he helps us change dollars into pesos so Attractive bbw for hot fit male in cienfuegos can enjoy street pizzas, ice cream, sandwiches, cafecitos, shots cuenfuegos rum, Attracyive, bus rides, and newspapers at the people's price.

At an intersection I spy a skinned leg of a goat in hor corner by the mzle. Ellegua is the owner of roads, he can open them for you. Late afternoon. We head cienfyegos to Jesus and Maria's. Their daughter is cienfuuegos married this evening and we're invited to the reception. Yonaida, 21, is about to leave her room-next cienfueos ours on the rooftop-and is stunning in her white flowing trails, veil, curled hair, bouquet of roses. Exiting the house she's helped into a horse-drawn colonial-style wooden coach and seated with with her father, Jesus, who beams proudly in blue suit, white shirt and tie-a radical change from his usual t-shirt and shorts. Together, with flower girl and ring bearer-both beaming-they're off to the civil wedding, the entire barrio leaning over balconies as the red-ribboned coach is drawn away by a magnificent black horse tied with white balloons.

With time to spare while the civil ceremony proceeds, we head to the Monserrate, not far away and already a favorite bar-as opposed to, say, La Floridita, another Hemingway hangout where the daiquiri was inventedwhich is too spiffy for us- predictable trio music, the kind meant not to be listened to; and a clientele too proper. The Monserrate, in contrast, is a real bar. Lively, rowdy, easy to meet people in, full of Cubans, travelers, gorgeous women of professional and questionable repute, and son, rumba, salsa-non stop; played by young and old alike. Typically a member group with lead singer on maracas, joined by two backup singers on claves and guiro, joined by the ever-present, mesmerizing bright-toned tres.

Add the guitar, cow bell, bongos, conga, bass fiddle, and sometimes a trumpet. Stephen Foehr, in his book Dancing With Fidel, goes back to the early part of 20th-century Habana and relates how when son first arrived from the Oriente "it was social outcast music confined to dancehalls and rooming houses of colored workers. When the trumpet was added to the tres, claves and maracas of the original son ensemble, the septeto style was created. Then it met rumba and the music got another boost. The snobs and racists couldn't resist. The outside walls are open latticework, which allows live music to pour out and people on the curb to peer in. Dancers crowd the middle of the room. This is where I would expect to find a hale and hearty Hemingway, half lit on mojitios, boisterously backslapping friends and strangers alike.

It's raucous and fun, even though we'd hoped for live music. Appetizers, sandwiches and salads are served in continuous portions, along with beers, rum, cuba libres. We plunk down in the middle of it all, conversing through the noise with one delighted stranger after another, smiling and expressing our gratitude to be here, in Cuba, having this human exchange. Nothing like living and dying in the present, goofing, watching the youngsters crank their hips and roll their bellies, the older generation cheering them on-along with bride and groom who've changed from ceremonial garb into dance clothes. An older man in baseball cap and casual clothes maybe the best he has literally gets down with the youngsters, pulling bare-bellied girls out to dance, rolling his thin hips sexually, losing his cap in the process, exposing a gleeful smile, a balding head, an absolutely engaged look in his twinkling eyes as he lowers closer to the floor, his young partner following him in exact, tempestuous mime.

Which brings a roar of laughter, and another toast of rum. I think of how the U. Such a description certainly doesn't fit these people nor anyone we'll meet in our travels. In fact, being in Cuba is to experience flat-out welcome by well-read people bone up on the phenomenal literacy campaign of who freely express what's on their mind, and know the art of real dialogue. Never lose hope. Never forget that we, the plebe, are in the majority.

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And that this, what we are doing, talking back and forth like this, is the essence of our majority," quote: Rodolfo and Maria Elena, with whom we are sitting. Today, not the usual breakfast of eggs, toast, juice, coffee, papaya-everyone's too tired; instead, we enjoy espresso with leftover wedding cake. Then to the streets, down Sol to Plaza Vieja and the docks. A hand-in-hand couple she in all fuchsia, he in orange shirt and pants stroll toward us with an exchange of smiles-we all know what we've been up to in the perfumed sheets of dawn!

To the east, the Pier of Light. To the south, narrow streets between crumbling neoclassical buildings: Curlicue railings, broken griffin's tail, missing wing, concrete eye, cherub's shoulder full of rain. The smell of printing ink, congealed wax, laundry, lighter fluid from a table of wicks, flints, and miniature screwdrivers where a man repairs your lighter while you wait. Finally, the sparkling waterfront where, at the Pier of Light, we join a queue waiting for the Regla ferry: Lady in celluloid leotards under rainbow parasol. Rosy puff of tobacco. Eucharistic face of a newborn at the purple star of a sunlit breast. Rusted ladder. Slender shadow, tangled branches for a head.

Cheese puffs. Gold anklet. Tattooed sword pointing into the crotch of an aromatic creature. Baseball journeying through outer space. Prehistoric glove open and waiting. Old leather queen, lips thick as honey. Trembling daughter, her hand in the king's. Grandmother, silver-haired. Eyes of a free-flying bird. I give him a thumbs up, knowing we're here illegally-dropping off medicine, spreading our dollars, our silent seeds, our subversive collections of love, politics, and revolution. Brightest island, your people find in you delight in being human, a reason for living, intimate dignity of being.

Dulce Maria Loynaz The ferry arrives. It's a short, peso ride across the harbor to Regla. Waves slap, debris bobs. Across the saltwater, a fine view back toward Habana: All the history, music, poetry, invention, mafia, bigband, corporate invasion, armed struggle, revolution, reform, collapse, reform. Cosmopolitan splendor? For whom-the rich and famous? Hemingway lived with Batista's iron rule, hailed his exit with a boisterous Hijo de Puta! Peaceful place, very laid back.

Beside us a woman stands and prays cienufegos the virgin, holding up a black doll dressed in the cienfegos white colors of Chango. On the gessoed walls of the nave are the essential saints; before them two women pause to pray, hands outstretched, touching the statues. We stroll up the cobble cuenfuegos, stop to visit a santeria priest who shows us to an elaborate rit in his Aftractive, where we bend, individually, ring a bell cienfueegos a cloth-wrapped esoteric array of bead-draped images. The babalawo prays, inserting our names in his recitations. We'll take git and all of bwb, to assure a safe and bountiful journey; but also ift receive the powers recycled through the universe via hoy, poets, seers, singers, and Attracive itself.

Little darts of energy that help clear the mind and balance the psyche. Brought up as Catholics, we're drawn to these humble churches. These santeria followers who've come to worship Yemaya in the form of the Catholic madonna, I identify with them. Foe is the old village deity they speak with, not the God of Spain nor of the Christian west; but the One of an entirely other continent. Not exactly Africa; not on any geographer's map. Cordial, gracious, the santero shows us to Regla's museum, where dance, drumming, Attravtive singing by an Afro-Cuban group, the Ciencuegos San Cristobal, is going on. Voices, percussion, dancers-two female, one male-in quick, spicy, highly-charged rumba.

The two woman their wild energetic dancing makes it seem like four are brightly costumed in whirling, wide-hooped, balloon-sleeved dresses. One yellow, with contrasting blue underskirt to symbolize Ochun, orisha de amor; the other in blue, with white applique bands to symbolize Yemaya. Their heads are elaborately wrapped in scarves that match their dresses. Chango, the male dancer, is young and virile, red cap and shirt, white knee-length pantalones ending in jester-like red designs. All are black, beautiful, barefoot. They're absolutely on fire as they spin and dart into the brick courtyard.

Friends back home, septuagenarians, have told me the key to long life is: Keep moving! Maybe this is why Cuba's life expectancy of 74 is one of the highest in the Americas along with the lowest infant mortality rate-half that for the young of Washington D. After three shots of rum with the musicos, the intensity of the blue-gold morning heightens. And that's all they want. Simple exchange. Where from, how long in Cuba, where have you gone, what do you think of Cuba, do you have any children, how did you get to Cuba? Everyday up early-a la lucha, we say. Do you know how many of these little snacks I'd have to sell to go to your country! Besides, Cuba is family. For me, there is no life in exile, even with money.

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