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?

Pink Cheeks and Dusty Rose Skies

A sleepless night of American television, gradual and sustained jet lag and thoughts swirling through my head like a kaleidoscope of mayhem made for plenty of tossing and turning in my itty bitty bed.

The alarm went off at 8:30 am, but I did not rise until nearly an hour later, waiting for the clean ocean air and bright morning sun to permeate my cavern of solitude by way of room 18 before once again donning my cat suit for a morning run along the ocean front. A travel tradition of mine that continues to be one of my favorite.

I've found that this is the quietest hour in any given city - the morning run hour. My brief experience in Uruguay has shown me that perhaps there is not a noisy one here, or maybe it is just the fact that I have city hopped since I was a teenager and San Francisco, New York and Los Angeles all begin to bustle at some point. Not only does this allow for time to clear my head and get my sweat on, but there are always sights to be seen. 

A lone Guadelupe sits out upon a mountain of shattered shells a few hundred meters past Los Dedos; two blocks over from my hotel. A small shrine built to the Virgin; an amphitheater filled with fake flowers and placards expressing gratitude where this beautiful lady stands. If you've ever had the privilege of visiting my living space you know I have a penchant for religious imagery, Guadalupe in particular. A tattered canvas of her from Peru currently hangs on my wall in New York, the large crucifix from Guatemala put away years ago after my then paramour didn't like the idea of it hanging ominously over my bed. Understood.

So she was a welcomed pit stop this morning. A buenas dia to my soul.

Not too far down the road there was a  fisherman of maybe 45, perched atop the rocky shore flanked by his son, wrapped in a fire engine red coat; his handy assistant riffling through the tackle box. 

My father bought me my own rod and feel many years ago. We would fish on the American River and used vegetarian bait. Needless to say our journeys were not terribly fruitful but memories I have kept close to my heart. Seeing this father and son continuing our tradition without knowing it seemed fitting on Father's Day, 2015. I'm eternally grateful to have had a father who took me on new and exciting excursions and my heart is warmed when I see other fathers who do the same. Sometimes I think i'll be wasted as a mother, as I would certainly have been a fantastic father.

Please don't see this as a cry for help or a reason to call Vanity Fair - that was not a Caitlyn Jenner moment by any stretch of the imagination.

Allow me to paint a picture for you of how mellow an off season Sunday is in Punta Del Este. The street lights, scattered every few blocks are turned off. Not the flashing red or yellow, as you may have seen stateside, they are literally off - evidently trusting your fellow man really means something down here.

Part California beach town part Santorini, the architecture here is confused, but beautiful. Couples come out hand in hand, dog leash laws be damned, carting their mate gourd glasses and thermoses to walk the perimeter of the peninsula seemingly just for the enjoyment of it. Imagine that!

Noisy birds and slow moving cars are the only distraction from the tranquility this town has to offer.

After returning back to Milano I bathed under the rain showewr and gathered myself. Ready to face the day. Retracing my steps from my morning run I meandered the roads looking for nourishment, as I was hungry and chairs were just being set out and dusted off at for business at noon! I made my way back out to the far end of town where I had spotted two statues facing the crashing waves. Upon closer inspection I saw that they were terribly dilapidated mermaids, built from stone and tile into the rock formations that guard the shore. With pert exposed breasts, naked and facing the sun I realized my instincts were right and this was the perfect place to leave a part of my father on this particular journey; on this particular day. Having lived in a childhood home where ladies in various states of undress were either hung on the wall or hanging from his arm I knew my dad would be pleased with my selection and most definitely let out one of his distinctive lion laughs. 

Out on the rocky cliff I dropped bits of grey dust and bone into the ocean. As I watched the sprinkled remnants sink to the sea floor I hoped some fish would swallow them whole and that my father could live on in more than just me (and my sister, of course).

Neil Young allowed me a moment of my own, alone on the cliff with my 'Old Man.'

Back past the Virgin again and I finally located food, and wifi in the way of El Pasiva. I had warmed from the walk, going so far as to take off my jacket for the first time this week but quickly found when seated on the patio at this laid back eatery I would not only need to re-bundle, but exercise patience - needless to say speedy service was not their strong suit.

Served the very specific and unique part of the chicken that seems to consist mostly of oil as skin coupled with a salad, the bulk of which was sliced onion, accompanied by some shredded carrots and an egg - no lettuce in sight - was disappointing. Famished, not having eaten for well over 12 hours I devoured the papas fritas and picked around the healthy parts of the meal, for which I had been immensely proud of myself for ordering. When the bill came and totaled over 800 pesos my pride faded.

Back to the bus terminal I painfully fumbled through my ever decaying Spanish and hopped another COT bus for the low low price of about 3 bucks to head 30 minutes outside of town to Casapueblo.

As a hotel I had seen this Spanish-inspired structure and considered staying here as a hotel guest, but when I saw they were booked until I'd likely be in the throws of menopause I made it a day trip out to see Carols Paez Vilano's masterpiece and get to catch the sunset from the cliffs, a must do when visiting the south of Uruguay.

A handsome man with fantastically bushy caterpillar eyebrows assisted in my exit from the bus along the highway, casually pointing to a blue sign saying Bienvenedos a Casapueblo. I took a right and rambled down a very long, very poorly labeled road in hopes of reaching my destination; of reaching a destination before night fell and the well mannered dogs that roam the streets free here would not have my carcass upon which to feast - lord knows they could eat for weeks!

Finally, I reached my the end of the road, part parking lot, part awe inspiring architecture. A quick right and you're at Casapueblo. To say breathtaking is an understatement. Built into the side of a mountain, on a perfect central coast California day, the water sparkled like tinsel on a tree and the stark white building, Gaudi meets Greece, is both literally and figuratively a work of art.

For 200 pesos you can gain entrance to the gallery and purchase over priced reproductions of Carlos Paez Vilaro's work, as I did. Sadly most of the property seems to be closed off either for construction or for privacy, but the view is gorgeous and you can sweet talk your way into the terrace to enjoy a Coca Cola Lite an an alfajor, a treat easily found in these parts. A merengue covered cookie filled with something icky, so I just pick around it like a petulant child, was delicious. They sell these at my local bodega as well, but I can say with absolute certainty they look nothing like this!

Basking in the late afternoon sun, feeling the freckles multiply on my browning face I consumed massive amounts of sugar, listened to Brazilian jazz, and sat. Sat in the sun. Sat in the quiet. Sat in the solitude.

Tears once again invaded my big brown eyes, as they are wont to do - but for a couple opposing reasons. It is so beautiful here and in this moment I am content. As at peace as I felt, I will admit, my heart yearn for someone with whom to share these moments - a feeling I used to be ashamed of, as I saw wanting a partner as a sign of weakness but a subject on which I have since changed my tune.

The way I see it, I am a compassionate, witty, adventurous  woman and truth be told, a champ in the sack (sorry, Mom). Knowing that I want a man, an equal, a partner to share my already fairly kick ass life with is a sign of strength, not weakness. As I mentioned the other day, I believe in my heart I've already met this man - now we just need to wait for things to fall into place and for his spirit to commingle with mine. It will happen. Of this I am sure. After all, thoughts are physical.

After a few more moments of tranquil peace selfie season began and the Brazilian tourists descended upon my nice little terrace and took a barrage of shots in every combination known to man. Luckily they also have no sense of personal space (insert Lee Greenwood jam here), so the fact that their altered butts and sweatered elbows hit me multiple times not only didn't give them a moments pause, it didn't even elicit a brief pardon. Reading a chapter in Bobos In Paradise about everyone thinking themselves a celebrity couldn't have come at a better time.

With about an hour to spare before sunset, I made my way out of Casapueblo and hiked down the hill to hopefully get a better vantage point of the property and have some moments with the sunset. The deck had been so warm my cheeks pinked but as the sky turned a dusty rose my face blanched a grInga white once again.

Despite some kids smoking a joint (legally everywhere in Uruguay, I might add), the sunset was lovely and I became acutely aware that I have witnessed countless beautiful sunsets all over this planet and for that I was filled with gratitude.

After the show was over, so to speak, a line of cars made their way out and I, the only sunset enthusiast on foot, hightailed it back to the bus stops in Chucks, making it to the parrara just in time to catch the city bus, a significantly lower fair than the posh COT but just as functional.

I drank in the light lined the coast as I headed back to Punta Del Este, knowing with sweet melancholy that this would be my last night in a city I've so thoroughly, if not leisurely, enjoyed.

Back in town I made a pit stop at the local minimart to have my own little corporate picnic back in my hotel room, purchasing goods from a man eager to talk about New York and California (I claimed to be from 'los dos') and, after getting my third converter on this trip, camped out for the evening.

Nerds, salami and sparking water in bed. Who could ask for more?