Briana Libre - The Cuba Edition

I'm on my way.

It's the middle of the night, balmy, and I can't sleep.

I leave for the airport in 2 short hours and head to a country I've been fantasizing about for over a decade.

I've read every book I could get my hands on detailing everything from the socialist arts programs that fund things like the ballet to the boarding school that, at one time, housed both Fidel Castro and Desi Arnez. I've watched movies, eaten food, had a failed attempt to make my way there which resulted in my lone impromptu trip to Mexico during swine flu season and even had a clandestine affair with a man who sang me love songs from his homeland while working as a carpenter in London many, many moons again.

Cuba.

That tiny country off the coast of Florida yet a million miles away.

The Alamo to my Herman.

And now, that the day is here and the adventure upon me I am utterly... indifferent.

Sure it could be my travel snobbery kicking in and some luster being lost now that Obama aided in making Havana the hottest weekend getaway for a wide breadth of New Yorker. But I think it's more than that.

I think it's that when life has been scooped out of you like a heaping serving of mint chip ice cream even those things that should excite, please and titillate you so often fall flat.

Luckily, my apathy rarely stops me from moving forward and so, Havana here I come. Please bring me more than additional freckles on my face and sweaty chaffing on my thighs.

With no sleep the airport is easily navigated and gregarious airport workers seem to have arrived for the job in droves.

Passenger Christopher Frederick is paged over and over again. And just the sound of His name sends shivers down my spine and nails deep into my heart.

Then flight 1295 to Los Angeles announces it is boarding and the circle is complete. No matter where in the world I am. No matter in what I am engaged - there is always a flight boarding for Los Angeles and I always want to get on it.

As destinations are rambled off over the intercom I feel like I'm trapped in a tragic version of this is your life and I'm dying for a commercial break.


The flight to Havana is smooth, or so I assume as I was knocked out in my premier member automatic upgrade seat for the 3.5 hours during which I soared over the Caribbean Sea.

The sleep was so deep I almost forgave the wretched flight attendant who's disregard for passengers and distaste for the friendly skies was so apparent, it was palpable.

After disembarking I made a left at the burros and succinctly moved through immigration and customs to arrive at Cuba Car, where I had reserved an economy car in hopes of covering more ground in the meager allotment of time I had on this island.

As we entered the shallow foyer the 'El Monty Python' episode was already well under way with 4 doors, 2 sets of 2, facing one another and seemingly dumb, deaf and blind employees exchanging one closed office door for the next on a rotating schedule with no real evident purpose or meaning and most certainly no acknowledgement of the throngs of waiting Latinos – me included!

Finally a friendly Cuban girl by way of Las Vegas suggested just going in, uninvited, and so I did. I was greeted by a total lack or reaction or interest in my presence. Luckily our minimal interaction resulted in minimal assistance and we stood in terminal 2 for over an hour while being given a litany of reasons as to what we were to do and when to expect the car conundrum to be resolved.

Around the 90 minute mark we were escorted to terminal 3 where a jovial man in a small box informed me that since I had failed to bring my driver’s license to Havana (did I mention I packed after a 20 hour day) we would not be permitted to leave with a vehicle and because life is just never that simple we were also informed that the reservation could in no way be transferred to my travel mate's name.

Small detail.

I fucked up (in sort of a big way).

Moving on.

Limited cash and hours without sustenance my forgiving travel homie and I hopped in an overpriced cab, equipped with large billed euros and headed for Casa Ivis, our humble abode for the evening.

Upon our arrival, Juan warmly greeted us at the door and excitedly described what I can only imagine were the amenities in rapid fire Spanish and, shortly thereafter we were deposited into room 1 and utilizing wifi whilst perched upon the iron wrought veranda.

After a brief respite we climbed down the stairs and took to the streets. Not knowing where exactly we were or where exactly we were headed we took to the war torn Kelly Moore coated streets and meandered blocks and blocks of restaurant and bar-less residential thoroughfares hoping, I think in equal parts, to find reprieve from the stickiness hanging tough in the air and a place to fill our bellies on our increasingly limited budget.

One of my first observations - the streets of Havana are literally filled with American flags. Old ladies wearing spandexed red white and blue over their ample behinds, grown men sporting tank tops with stars and stripes nicely offsetting their biceped arms and toddlers in trainers waddling around declaring their love for my country around every bend. It was crazy and noticing it only made you notice it more. I thought to myself if I wore my own USA leggings that I proudly sported for a previous patriotic Christmas card maybe, just maybe, people would think I was Cuban too!

Hangriness setting in two neon signs revealed themselves and the latter was chosen. The Lotus Flower seemed like an ironic choice in Latin America but the ac was blasting and the menu was plentiful.

A shared appetizer and exotic cola beverage I've never seen before nicely offset the gargantuan portion of arroz con pollo upon which we both feasted along with a huge helping of maduros. Needless to say - yum.

Some minor currency issues, reminding us how desperately we would need to get to the bank in the morning, and we were back on the dusty streets filled with beautiful children, friendly men, and ancient cars proving that the disposable world in which we all live in now - where H&M offers quick fashion cheap enough to toss last season’s find, Apple comes out with a new product annually, immediately making those you previously owned obsolete, and apps like Tinder give you a smorgasbord of smashing options so if your bitch gets too intense, drop her - is a sad sad world indeed.

A strolll down the the malecon offered a candy colored sunset along the sea wall and a nice fisherman asked me to be his girlfriend - so I'd say it was a win all around.

With plans changing due to my idiocy in forgetting my driver’s license it was back to Casa Ivis to try to get on some wifi to make some moves. Though, with Internet only available during certain hours the streets were flanked with young lovers and boisterous families all enjoying sitting within close proximity to one another - but a million miles away, typing away on their respective devices. Ignoring one another and rendering it impossible for me to book a room or move a reservation. Oh well, when all else fails, go to bed. After all, tomorrow is another day - right Scarlett?

Misery Loves Company, But I'm Rolling Solo: The Vancouver Files

Quick, cheap and easy.

No, this is not the headline to my online dating profile, but the criteria for my latest, if not most exotic, international endeavor.

Never having visited our Northern neighbor and currently resting my head atop a mattress made of air on the West Coast, Vancouver seemed like a good escape from life and a viable new notch in my ever growing lipstick case. The 34th notch to be precise.

It's a bit of a chicken or egg situation in terms of life falling apart and international journeys  for me and my LAX to YVR  voyage was no different.

Knowing I have to get up at the crack of dawn always seems to allow for a "Keeping Up With The Karadashians" late night marathon watched directly on my ever aging iPhone 4, followed by fitful rest. Up before the sun and driving myself to the airport for the first time in I don't know how long, I found myself winding around a dilapidated parking lot guarded by construction workers I like to think were named Dumb and Dumber, both of whom insisted there was no possible way I had entered the structure, due to their construction, despite the physical evidence of my actually standing there. Once inside Terminal 2, I was greeted with a winding road of fellow travelers making their way up to the Air Canada counter. With a crowd like this, one would have thought the Great White North had suddenly become the sexiest destination on the planet, when in fact the airline's computer system has malfunctioned and now those of us wise enough to pack a single army navy surplus duffle were benefitted no speedy entrance to US Weekly and Chex Mix heaven, known as the interior of the airport, and instead were left with the plebeians this side of security who brought their entire winter wardrobe on their travels. Amateurs.

Security was its usual shit show , highlighted with a security guard telling me he 'detected' my sarcasm as if it were the Anthrax of the mouth, and witnessing a nun in full habit AND seated helplessly in a wheelchair asked to remove her orthotic shoes to be inspected for harmful materials. Is this not just a little ridiculous? As soon as I turned around I was met with a young mother trying to fold up her stroller and carry her newborn, a difficult task for anyone, especially when 4 TSA agents are standing idly by and insisting they can not legally offer any assistance. Not knowing how to finagle a quick fold up with the stroller I instead held a stranger's baby - totally normal right! When the less than helpful TSA agent commented that I looked good like that, with a sleeping baby in my arms, I knew it was time to get my dose of radiation and get the hell out of there before I either burst into tears or made a run for it with the lady's baby. Both seemed like less than desirable options.

After being herded directly from security into a Starbuck's line where I was not only forced to purchase pastries, but also witness their caloric content on the helpful notecards placed beside them in the display case. It was then that I realized I had forgotten my father. Creepy, perhaps but you too will understand "Six Feet Under" in a new way when you lose your Nate. Overcome with guilt I tried to justify my oversight by explaining to myself that Dad had been here in life and, therefore, didn't need a repeat - though I knew the argument was weak. Not having officially repeated a country yet I already begun to think about a quick Toronto jaunt or Quebec getaway to make sure Dad gets to leave a piece of himself in every country he can. Sigh.

Luckily it was while experiencing this inherent Catholic guilt that I glanced over at a fellow patron. I wish I could apply this to life in general more often, but occasionally when I'm feeling low, I will see a very unfortunate looking woman, as I did in the line at Starbucks, and I'll think to myself - things could be worse. But then again she seemed to be married with children so who am I to judge...

Shallow, perhaps. Judgmental, maybe. Necessary to get through the day, occasionally. Human, absolutely.

I hope each and everyone of you gets the chance to board an Air Canada Rouge flight so you too can admire the flight attendant's kitschy plaid fedoras (part of the uniform - no joke) and visible panty lines while receiving safety instructions in both English and, what I can only imagine is a good healthy 8th grade education Francais. Oh La La.

My standard operating practice for flights is to fall asleep, open mouthed at take off and miss out on the complimentary beverages and, as was the case here, free WiFi, to be woken up by the captain announcing our final decent. This bilingual experience followed suit.

A nice Indian man who has been in Vancouver, by way of Houston, for 16 years deposited me safely at Hotel Buchan, my humble housing for the next few days and I immediately dropped my duffle in room 427 and headed to Stanley Park.

Stanley Park is a huge nature reserve in the city of Vancouver, and just a couple of blocks from my hotel - chosen for that reason. It seems to be on all of the googleable lists when searching the day before your departure on what to see in this city and it is the ONLY thing one of my besties Simone recommended I see. Hotel Buchan backs up to Lost Lagoon - all too fitting, I know.

Speaking of fitting, as I wander the wet and moody town I cannot help but think how fortuitous that I land in a city reflecting how I feel inside. Grey and gloomy, tears drenching the once blooming bushes and fruitful trees. Fresh fuchsia flowers bending under the weight of bullshit and rain. Depression make me poetic - I know!


Consciously, I chose Vancouver for its convenience; the bodega of destinations- but maybe the it's old adage that you attract what you are - beautiful and melancholy all at the same time.

As I began my umbrella accompanied walk around Lost Lagoon I felt a powerful presence. Here I must warn you I am entering some real #oprahgranolashit territory, but I felt my Dad. Before I had lost someone this important in my life and involved in my existence I sort of discounted people when they said things like that, or at least let it go in one ear and out the other - but here, I actually felt it. I felt it like a smack in the face - something my real Dad would never do but maybe my ghost Dad (copyrighting here for any future young adult novel I may want to pen and then option as a feature film) would. As I meandered down the muddied pathway and sat and watched a single swan prune itself with complete accuracy (also something my father would never have done in life) I felt him. It was visceral, and it was the definition of a happy sad moment, smiling through the sobs.

When in the quiet of solicitude, you witness the songs in every movement of nature. When in the presence of Maxwell, you witness the songs of lovemaking.

A calming melancholy poured over me as "Pretty Wings,"  began to play - a song to which I used to openly weep over a love lost. A love for which I no longer shed tears but from which I gained knowledge and wisdom. Through which I became a woman. My hope is one day, in the not to distant future I can hear another melodic tale of heartbreak and think of this period of time with nostalgic warmth as opposed to the deep blues of sadness with which I am currently consumed.

Everyone wants to believe Maxwell with he soulfully spills that someone better is gonna love you - but I suppose that is open to interpretation. I've lost many loves in the past 12 months. Loves of all sorts. Loves in all shapes and sizes, colors and cadences and I can say with absolute certainty that some will never be eclipsed by the shadow of another. It simply isn't possible.

Rounding the bend at Second Beach was a breakthrough moment. Not only because I was suppressing the whoa is me moment I was having, but I began to channel the pre-pubescent me. I could almost see the dimming light as the disco ball descended, almost smell the damp carpet and processed cheese. Sunrise Rollerland housed a lot of good memories, but not until this moment did I realize it held a lesson as well. Firstly, of course, always go to the bathroom in pairs because there are no doors on the stalls and you need your homie to mind the gap, but also a lesson in love. It was during those couple skates, clammy hand in hand that I listened to former beauty queen turned silky songstress Vanessa Williams and she told me that he went and saved the best for last. Though no one likes the be the last kid chosen for dodgeball, maybe all I need to do is be patient and pay the proper amount of homage to 90's adult contemporary, and everything would be ok.

The sun also came out.

Feeling like some light reading and light lunching would do me some good, I wandered the West End until I found a place - Central Bistro.

The feel of a British pub with the menu of the persnickety Pacific Northwest, this was the spot.

I ordered a chicken club sandwich, not exotic but also something I have never eaten before and cracked open a book, ready to settle in for a bit.

A lengthy break for iced tea, wifi and social commentary and the outdoors beckoned. I'm happy to spend endless hours in cafes reading, writing and watching but the clouds had parted, the drizzle ceased and, as I set out along the waters edge I saw what people spoke of when they called Vancouver beautiful.

The water sparkled like a sea of cz's off of the home shopping network while couples jogged, evidently no one walks in Vancouver - everyone runs - perhaps to free healthcare, and new mothers pushed strollers in unison with their mommy pals, all against a background of lush green mountains and Bob Ross happy trees.

I circumnavigated the peninsula in the late afternoon sun, taking off several layers of clothing and basking in the bright warmth. It was peaceful and lovely and exactly what you expect Canadian metropolises to be. Cute dogs and clean streets paved the way for me to literally walk the perimeter of the city. Only heading in when Robson Street - the main drag as I have been told, beckoned and the chill of evening set in. 

I managed to find a couple of Canuck souvenir stores while walking down Robson, which I had been told were littered with shops and cafes - translations: Old Navy's and Starbucks - its like America, but worse. Managing to pick up some obligatory souvenirs from my travels for those back stateside, I felt like my day had been productively unproductive and it was time to head back home. 

Cool, calm and quite is how I would characterize my first foray. With the exception of a homeless man in need of help telling me to fuck off and a fat fuck yelling at the gas station attendant for having to waddle his big behind INTO the station to pay, insisting he will never being his business back to this hell hole, it was easy like Sunday morning - on a Monday. 

With my 'foreign' candies  - another travel tradition - in hand I ascended the stairs to room 427 and set in for a quiet evening of television, writing and relaxing. For anyone from the states trying to do this in Canada please make note that A) hockey is ALWAYS on here and b) the pride of the Canadians is so great that it is mentioned in every advert and promo on television. Literally. I never hear - visit American Honda or watch American E! News - but these maple leaf loving maniacs love themselves some Canadian product placement. 

Drowsing off to sleep after some Instagram stalking and old repeats of of "How I Met Your Mother" - sexy, I know - and I was out like a light.

I woke to the dripping of the bathroom faucet and the disappointment of another day. It's amazing how one night of sleep can wipe away all the Wonder Woman shit and just leave a lonely little girl twisting in stranger's sheets.