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?

Ta Ta I am Off to Thailand

Awaking before the sun lit the sky I knew I was in for a long day.

A day better suited for the likes of John Candy in my mother's favorite 'Planes Trains and Automobiles' fraught with the aforementioned, several time zones and what I can only imagine to be a cacophony of calories only sourced from places like airports and train depots.

Tightly swaddled in my freshly purchased fur lined leggings and delicately mixing it with every pattern and color scheme known to man, I was ready. I was ready to hit the road for what was bound to be yet another adventure, another chapter in my already schizophrenic memoir.

Or was I?

With personal tragedy comes lots of introspection and already possessing and over-sized cranium that works harder than the North Pole in Winter introspection, speculation and preponderance have pretty much over taken my life.

Some big decisions have been made and some big changes lay in wait, leaving me a month in South East Asia with  a couple pair of leggings, some beat to shit Converse, my camera and the time and space to figure out who I am without the person who made me.

I've contemplated teaching English in Costa Rica, priced out a ticket to take me 'round the world in a whole lot more than 80 days and considered moving to a number of domestic locations, most romantically New Orleans.

And this is where I landed, 1,000 pound bag on my back and my homeless chic attire in full bloom. Passport in hand and nothing but uncertainty as far as the eye can see.

An easy check in at ANA Airlines, a nickname from a dear friend, seems to be to be a good sign and free Halloween candy at the counter solidifies my suspicion.

And with a fun sized Milky Way in my breast pocket, I'm off. Off on the sort of flight bursting at the seems with people who so clearly look nothing like me, or me like them and who say things like 'thank you for your cooperation' when my inquiry into the procurement of hot tea is met with a disappointing no - as tea is saved for a later point in my 20 hour flight. I can only imagine this is more of a cultural 'lost in translation' than actual gratitude for me not throwing a full blown air fit.

One of my most favorite things about international flights is not the actual silverware or mandatory blanket and pillow but the extensive supply of current American movie titles I never got a chance to see but had accumulated on my mental 'gotta see at some point' list.

After watching a teen tearjerker about kids with cancer and not so much as a heavy mist in my big brown eyes I begin to flip through the options and seeing 'Taken 2' available in Japanese, Portuguese and English I burst into tears.

That is the funny thing about grief. That is the funny thing about loving someone despite the fact no longer at home reading, or working, or writing a report due on Monday, but gone. Gone completely. Gone in a way that can't be altered or adjusted or negotiated in any way. The kind of gone you just simply have to deal with it. And that is the kind of gone that elicits waterworks at the mere glimpse of a bad action sequel because your dad was, and will always be your own personal action hero.

10 minutes into the newly released film 'Dead Poets Society' and I can already tell Liam Neeson may have been the more prudent choice for an emotional woman like myself...

As I look out at the Japanese landscape during our decent I can't help but think back to my only other experience in Asia. Last year, en route to Vietnam I had a layover in China. Not one to get excited over much past the occasional 'Nsync concert in my teenage years I had a 'holy shit I am in China moment' and have a clear visual of calling my dad from the airport to share this rare wonderment. Wheels down in Tokyo evokes a similar sentiment and I cannot help but think the man that shared my experience via Face Time nearly a year ago will now only share experiences, like this one, in a small metal vessel tucked securely into my carry on and set for trips around the world. Life is so bitter sweet.

Bitter when you realize the love of your life is gone. Sweet when you discover a woman in her 60s seated across the aisle from you is dressed like a member of the lollipop guild sans any dash of irony, and ones faith in humanity is restored.

I wanted to be offended when I deboarded and the kind air hostesses switched immediately from their native tongue to thickly accented English. A  5'7" white girl with a Michael Jackson sweatshirt on is bound to stand out, at least a little, after all, I am in the Far East.

An extended layover in the Narita airport, offset by ramen and Instagram and the final 6 hour leg of my flight begins, through most of which I sleep. That is until those tiny paper immigration cards that seem awfully antiquated to somehow protect homeland security are handed out and I  am able to look around the plane a bit.

A man in line boarding mentioned all the 'Westerners' but I saw no chaps and spurs , heard no John Wayne impersonations,so I thought little of it. Now, as I sit here with the haze of awkward travel slumber hanging heavy over me I see Westerners really means while people and, as is the case here, old white people.

I knew Thailand had become a popular destination for those recently retired and ready to turn it up on a pre-booked tour and for the kids sporting shiny new North Face backpacks who chose a location 'safe' enough to have daddy bankroll their senior spring break abroad, but man - there are a lot of white people on this plane. Sam Jackson should make a sequel ...

Once safely on the ground in Bangkok I am not only met with the thick humidity that pulls at my pant legs as I traipse through the nighttime air, but also with my travel mate for the week, a woman part family, part friend, too complicated to explain but too amazing not to love.

She has taken advantage of my voyage and tagged along for the first week to get a taste of the Orient, and the hostel life. We will she if she survives either...

Happy Birthday, Dad.