Sandy Beaches and Sia

After a deep deep sleep, dreaming of turning one of the closested kids from Glee, I was awoken to the sounds of Alicia Keys and Taylor Swift from both my and my travel pals cell phones respectively.

Though their sleep was restless mine was the sort from which you never think you'll emerge and after a hot shower and a fresh pair of leggings I was finally ready to face the world.

We were still in need of currency exchange, the biggest obstacle thus far, and my suspicions proved true because as we arrived at el banco there was a line out the door. Communism in theory sounds so fantastic I am never quite sure why it can't work it out in real life. But what we saw was not Bernie's Utopian view of socialism but a line a mile long to hold a $20.

Back to Casa Ivis for an enormous breakfast of unidentifiable fruit and old toast and our car was already outside awaiting us.

Ricardo, a 40 year old father of two with a penchant for hair gel and American pop music had an immaculate cab with functioning air conditioning and enough Akon and Justin Bieber to keep us bumping all the way to Veradaro.

The circuitous route allowed us to spot a gigantic Christ statue overlooking the city and Che's house from the back of our yellow cab and all before picking up our cab companions by way of a giggly young Cuban couple still in the early throes of love.

Music unsurprisingly turned to en Español and we were back on the highway, dotted with rainbow colored Cadillacs for 122 more miles.

The highway was flanked by lush green scenery with a smattering of skinny cows.

Despite the house music that Ricardo was now bumping the ride felt quiet and my mind couldn't help but wander.

There is nothing more dangerous than a wandering mind with a broken heart and the melancholy washed over me as I drank in the scenery.

Finally, we made it to Coconut Villa, a tiny abode nestled into 3rd Avenue and hosted by a woman who greeted us with a friendly smile and silicon breasts.

After we got the bilingual breakdown we threw on our bathing suits and hats and I hoped a major injection of vitamin d would make me miss my former injector of vitamin d (insert dirty joke here - pun intended) less.

First Avenue in Veradaro is the happening strip, lined with tiny shops to buy crap made in China and restaurants offering an assortment of cuisine. On 47th street is the commercial center where we were not only approached by someone who asked if my travel friend spoke English - much to their delight - but also where we were able to cambio some currency -after a siesta, of course.

This provided the perfect opportunity for a dip in the Caribbean Sea, today reflecting two separate but equally beautiful shades of blue and offering the restorative properties only large bodies of water seem to be able to do.

My father used to wax poetic about most everything and I can attest to the fact that since June 17th 2014 each and every experience I have had, both had and good, I have longed to share with him - but nothing feels quite as Chris Heard as the ocean. Using creative license here as I know this is a sea.

The undulating waves. The ebb and flow. The salty calm. Immersing myself into the shallow crystal waters made me miss my dad. Made me miss the life I once almost had. Made me miss you.

With storm clouds coming in and tummies rumbling we made our way back to 1^st Avenue and I made a couple cultural purchases by way of art for my home before we dined at Hotel Food Poisoning for one of the more repulsive meals of either of our lives...

Bellies still empty and regret looming large I felt it necessary to turn another shade of brown and enjoyed the more populated end of the beach - sunshine and American flag bikinis galore.

The skies opened up and wifi became a necessity as the realization that no transportation or accommodation had been made and the cash on hand was all we had to work with. Unsuccessful in our sojourn to the great equalizer we stopped at the Casa de Chocolate for a tiny bite of local fare, followed by a can of shared bootleg Pringles in the rain. Did I mention I'll be on the next Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue cover? Watch out Irina Shayek!

Never one to give up, an elderly woman with dyed red hair, an indistinguishable accent and a plastic bag cloak gave us some internet intel and the witch hunt began, up and down the main drag like two ladies of the evening looking to find the right Juan.

After much misdirection a we found the spot, a cafe in a darkened corner with a throng of zombies glued to their illuminated screens to the point of ignoring the Lisa Frank sunset happening right in front of them.

When I entered to inquire about wifi a man literally pulled me into the alley, slick with rain and pulled out a satchel to show me his goods.

If this isn't proof positive that technology is a growing epidemic I don't know what is.

We both procured a solid 30 minutes for a reasonable fee and shot up right there in the parking lot.

A good internet buzz gave us a few minutes to watch the sun set behind the cloudy horizon and locate some 'decent' eats for the evening where I needed to teach a cooking class on what tostones actually are - but 'Nsync en español was on the juke box - so it all came out in the wash.

The skies had dried and my comrade and I lackadaisically meandered home, discussing life and love before retiring to our uniquely designed living space for this particular night in our lives and it was hit the showers to wash the sand out of my special spots, and the hit the hay.

Buenos noches!

I rose in a sticky room with bright pink light and chickens having a squawk fight with the vagrant dogs roaming the hood.

I had just been dreaming of dating a Martin Skreli look-a-like and trying to like it and the morning was a welcome reprieve from this icky nightmare.

It was an awkward dream fraught with meaning, likely not so deep below the surface, but I chose to let it lie.

I lit a bit of a fire under my compatriot as we were burning daylight and I had some melanoma to obtain, not to mention we had bus tickets to buy, a room to secure and food to ingest.

Almost all marks were hit. Helpful hint - try to avoid breakfast menus at seafood restaurants.

With virtually nothing checked off of our today list, no proverbial ducks in a row – well, perhaps a lone mallard, I decided Carpe Diem and hit the beach. I needed it and I’d like to think it needed me too. We were fortunate enough to find a shady spot under a thatched roofed umbrella rooted deeply into the sandy ground and the only price we had to pay was to share it with a chatty young Brazilian upon who’s ass you could most certainly bounce pesos and who I could not take my creepy gaze off of. My youth behind me, I will always wonder what it is like to have a body like that – airbrushed by God.

Today’s sandy sojourn had a far more Jersey Shore vibe as the Caribbean Snooki and Pauly D brought the party, replete with cut out swimwear and a portable speaker bumping THEIR favorite jams at what was, in my opinion, an inappropriate volume. The day only got more Zen as a grandpa, usually my favorite type, tried to spit game in the shallow and then we both knew, it was time to go.

A quick re-up at the local Wi-Fi hot spot ala Chuck e Queso with rapid fire drug dealers looming near the entrance and it was a quick rinse off in our hostess’s own personal casa and what else but a horse and cart ride to the bus station.

I will say, I really do love the Whitman’s sampler of transportation I get to experience whilst traveling.

While attempting to purchase our bus tickets for the 4pm  Azul back to Havana Hustler McGhee came out of the woodwork, essentially setting up a private car with 2 other travelers, as soon as he could procure them. For $5 more I got shot gun and all people over 6 feet tall got to cuddle in the back of the family sedan for the next couple of hours.

Not long after the drive began the rain came in big heavy sheets and Sia serenely came on the soundsystem. Not only is my Spanish not good enough to explain deep emotional triggers to foreigners (which I was in the case here) but it seemed unnecessary to cause a scene so instead, I sat quietly and became overcome with emotion. When you cry as much as I do you know how to do it imperceptibly. If public displays of watery emotion were an Olympic sport, I would most certainly be Michael Phelps.

Sia in the rainstorm had me thinking of of my Ted, and my Dad (Holly, you're likely the only one who will get that one).

Clouds parted as if  a direct portal to heaven, and looking at the illuminated circle of warm inviting fluffy clouds I can help but think of what a nice concept heaven is - and how if it does exist I hope my dad is there.

I hope my other Christopher is too.

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?