Moving to Boulder: Early Reflections & Observations

I recently completed three major life events in the span of three weeks:  leaving my job, getting married, and moving.  I managed the stress with CrossFit, massage, and yoga, and not only kept my sanity, but also enjoyed this rare stage.  It was full of change, and change for good, but not without sacrifice. I was careful to allow the variety of emotions these events brought…to process the loss of leaving my friends and life in Greenville, as well as to celebrate the joy of beginning a new chapter with the love of my life in Boulder.

The months leading up to our wedding were also full of change. I completed Catechism classes, confessed all the sins of my life thus far, and converted to Catholicism.  I studied Spanish with a wonderful Chilean instructor to brush up my conversation skills before meeting my fiancé’s family for the first time the week before our wedding. I left my dance team. I stopped volunteering to focus on wedding planning. I began my job search in Boulder, without much luck – only a couple of awkward video interviews. I moved most of my belongings to our new home in Boulder and moved in with my parents temporarily.

I appreciate routine, so the first few weeks in Boulder were somewhat challenging.  With so much unpacking, organizing, and housekeeping to do, I spent too much time home-bound and missed socializing, sunlight, and exercise. I’m goal-oriented, so I’m learning to both structure my days and to occasionally relax.

Now, we are training for a 5K, running two or three times per week, and hiking most weekends. I’m still job-hunting, starting to network, and looking forward to finding the right fit in time. The house is almost in order – we’ve finished the major furniture purchases and decorated the main living spaces, with just the basement rooms left to organize.

Which means – deep breath – I have a little time to sit down and reflect on my new hometown.

Let me start with rabbits. They are everywhere – scurrying around the trail next to the soccer fields, hiding behind my car in the shopping center parking lot, watching us pull into the garage from our front lawn. Deer are pretty common, too. We’ve seen them on our runs, in our front yard, and of course a herd of them trying to cross four lanes of traffic in the center of town, Estes Park. We were once descending from a park in the mountains outside of Denver, when an elk pranced in front of the Mercedes. Pablo slowed to a stop in time for us to be surrounded by a family of elk speedily making their way down the mountainside. While we’ve heard news of bear sightings, thankfully, we have not, yet, had that experience.  Although I did notice a temporary tent sign along our running trail that said, “Mountain lion active in this area.”

Summers in Boulder are absolutely beautiful. The weather is warm, dry, and sunny with a cool breeze at night. There’s an abundance of outdoor activities – free concerts downtown, Friday night partner dancing outside the landmark tea house, and more breweries than you can count. Pearl Street Mall, Boulder’s pedestrian-friendly main street, rivals Greenville’s downtown with its restaurants, art galleries, shops, entertaining buskers, and mountain views.

I’ve only started to get my feet wet in the community – Pablo and I took a West Coast Swing class and danced at the tea house, the Avalon, and a spirited Cuban dance party. I took a Samba dance course from a talented and passionate instructor who’s part of Samba Colorado. I attended an info session at Intercambio, a non-profit organization improving immigrants’ lives through English classes, citizenship classes, and intercultural events. We attended a Davidson Alumni event in Denver, where I reconnected with an old theatre friend. I met up with a grad school friend and auditioned as a singer for her band. I met a non-profit contact through Pablo’s colleague who introduced me to a local Director of Development, and both made recommendations for organizations, events, or people to possibly reach out to.

My days are usually very domestic. I’m either cooking and cleaning, or decorating the house. Podcasts are my companion in this domestic life – currently on tap:  TED Talks en español, writers on writing, and passive real estate investing. We eat at home 90% of the time, so my Pinterest recipe board is filling up with our favorites, from healthier options like honey-glazed salmon to game-day fun like French onion beef sliders. Our Bellini Kitchen Master, a wedding gift from Pablo’s aunt, also deserves a shout-out here. Pablo calls it the “kitchen robot” as cooking with it is 95% hands off.

I love living close to downtown. It seems that everywhere in Boulder is trail accessible. We’ve discovered the perfect 3.5 mile loop from our home and often leave in time to watch the sunset over the mountains along the trail. The trail passes a large cemetery with wild flowers growing in the ditch, soccer fields where children are training to compete, a bright yellow house on the corner we call “la casa amarilla,” and a small public park with a winding narrow trail. We are walking distance from an old lodge that was popular in the 70’s, with a pool, and from public tennis courts.

We are renting for now. The cost of housing in Boulder has skyrocketed in the past eight years. The median home price in Boulder has risen from $550,000 in 2011 to around $850,000 in 2017. (Median home value in Greenville is around $178,000.) Compared with national averages, Boulder County’s growth rate is relatively speedy. Due to a highly-educated workforce and strong entrepreneurism, the Boulder area has one of the nation’s largest concentrations of IT employment – 4.5 times the U.S. average. Other industries driving the economy are aerospace, bioscience, cleantech, natural products, and outdoor recreation. While the cost of living here is higher than in Greenville, we are nowhere near the cost of living in Sunnyvale, CA, where Pablo’s team’s home office is located. The median home price in Sunnyvale is $1,945,500.

Philanthropy here is different, too. While affluence is pervasive, generosity with cash contributions is not necessarily. The secular culture, high turnover rate amongst residents, and small local fundraising infrastructure are contributing factors. Those who do give generously tend to feel called by a sense of social justice or a spiritual motivation. Many were raised by parents who taught them to give back. The United Way plays a less significant role than in Greenville and church giving plays a much less significant role than in the Bible Belt.

Boulder may at first seem like a community of rich, white hippies.  Let’s look at some stats:  Boulder County is becoming a bit more diverse, from 90% Anglo in 1990 to 78% Anglo in 2015, with increases in Latino (14%) and Asian populations (5%). People of African descent make up only 0.6% of the population, compared to 18.1% in Greenville County. Boulder is a highly educated community. In the City of Boulder, there are more people with master’s degrees or higher than there are people with Bachelor’s degrees or lower. While the median family income in Boulder County is 50% higher than the national average, Anglo families are faring much better than Latino families in regards to income.

While Boulder is technically a smaller county than Greenville, its proximity to Denver (29.3 miles) lends a metropolitan feel. Pablo and I have plans to attend a Rockies baseball game there soon, and we have tickets to see Deshaun Watson and the Texans play vs. the Broncos. We plan to see Beck play at the Red Rocks Amphitheatre, acclaimed for its impeccable acoustics and stunning natural landscape. I’ve heard that Denver also has a world-class symphony orchestra, Broadway shows, and beautiful botanical gardens, so there’s lots left to explore.

Our new neighbors have welcomed us. In the summer, they often throw neighborhood potluck parties in our cul-de-sac. Next door is one of the founders of Boulder Beer, the first craft brewery in Boulder. He’s also a serious cycler. Across the cul-de-sac is a dentist. Next to him lives a friendly German lady and her husband. Caddy cornered, we have a tennis-playing widow and resident New Yorker living next to her daughter and son in-law, avid skiers.

I’m eight weeks into my new life in Boulder – so far so good! The beauty of the natural surroundings and proximity to outdoor recreation is remarkable. I look forward to learning more about the community here and my place in it.

The Agent Orange Room

My uncle told me this Christmas that he suspects one of the causes of his Parkinson’s Disease is his exposure to Agent Orange during his service in Vietnam.  He told me this as his shaking hands turned the pages of a small photo book that my friend Sam made from our recent two-week vacation to Vietnam, our bright faces gazing happily from over a pot of phở, with glasses of wine from the deck of a cruise ship, and over buckets of live seafood while pointing to our next meal.  Ha Long Bay was so beautiful, I told my uncle, and he said, but what about Cam Ranh Bay?  He spelled it out for me.  He wanted to see pictures of this former United States military base where he had spent days working on planes during the roughly 20 year-long Vietnam War.

When Sam suggested that we visit Vietnam a few months ago, I thought, great.  I had a friend who had taught English in Saigon and loved it, and I knew that the Vietnamese salsa community was growing.  It would be my first return to Asia since studying comparative religion and culture in Taiwan, India, and Turkey in college, and our friend Drew had already been and was eager to show us the ropes.  Jay was along for the ride, so we were sure to have a fabulous time while being documented by our personal photographer and Instagram enthusiast. 

And of course, there was the curiosity of this country that had victoriously withstood one of the longest and most controversial wars in U.S. history.

When our guide told us that our next stop on the city tour was the War Remnants Museum, we were all eager to absorb some history.  Our guide warned us, this museum used to be called the Museum of U.S. Evils (Wikipedia translates this to the Exhibition House for U.S. and Puppet Crimes, and both names are accurate.)  Our guide warned us, there’s a book at the end of the museum for people to write down their emotions after experiencing the museum.  You shouldn’t look at that book because it will upset you as Americans. 

The first room began on the third floor with massacres of women and children, photos blown up and on display of people who were killed or who were about to be killed.  Each room of the museum brought new horrors of war, and sorrow weighed visibly on the bodies of museum visitors.  The room that cut most deeply into my spirit was titled, “Agent Orange Aftermath in the U.S. Aggressive War in Vietnam.” Seeing the faces of innocent men, women, and children who were disfigured and disabled as a result of the U.S. spraying this herbicide over Vietnamese agricultural land was heart-wrenching.  Compelled to share, I returned to the room a second time to take photos.

The museum ended on the ground floor with an exhibition of peace and anti-war propaganda from around the world.  In the corner next to the exit was a little shop of souvenirs hand-crafted and sold by people who are disfigured as a result of Agent Orange.  I spent a dollar on a little Vietnamese girl key chain, who now hangs on the Christmas tree.

After the museum, we returned to our vacation—exploring beautiful nature and ancient temples, eating delicious and exotic meals, and enjoying the friendly and welcoming people. 

Times have really changed, my uncle commented after I showed him the little Vietnamese girl handicraft on the Christmas tree and told him how much we enjoyed traveling in Vietnam.  Until that moment, I didn’t realize that Agent Orange could be what stole my uncle’s health and mobility.  Here are some others who were affected:

Dance Community and Cultural Identity

Introduction

            Dance and music often play a role in creating community and affirming identity.  Recent research on dance communities explores the ways in which dance provides not only a space for cultural expression, but also a space for negotiating and transforming identity.  This paper reviews recent literature on dance communities, drawing special attention to four themes:  embodied social identity, cultural consciousness, performing sexuality, and global discourse.  These four themes give insight into the link between cultural identity and dance communities in the world today.  

Dance Community and Cultural Identity

Embodied Social Identity

            In the article “Ethnicity, identity, and music,” ethnomusicologist Martin Stokes (1994) follows writers such as Bourdieu (1977) and De Certeau (1984) to argue that music and dance do not simply reflect culture.  Rather, music and dance are social performance in which meanings are generated.  They provide the means by which the hierarchies of place are negotiated and transformed.  For example, a rural migrant to the city may begin to identify with urban music genres, thereby facilitating a transformation from proletarian to urbanite.

            Stokes (1994) describes how the places constructed through music involve notions of difference and social boundary, which helps to organize hierarchies of a moral and political order.   He examines the ways in which different social identities might be negotiated though music.  Questions around ethnicity often involve discussions regarding authenticity, or the “authentic” traces of identity “in” music.  Music is used by social actors in specific local situations to maintain distinctions between us and them, and terms such as authenticity are often used to justify these boundaries. 

            Music might also be used to propagate a national identity through state control or influence over universities, conservatories, and archives.  For example, during the national reforms in Turkey in 1935, village radio sets played educational programs disseminating “new” Turkish language, history, and folklore, as well as musical genres representing Turkey’s new “European” identity.  Just as musical performance enacts dominant communal values, it can also enact rival principles of social organization (Stokes, 1994).

            In sum, music and dance are invariably communal activities that bring people together in specific alignments.  The way in which people interact through music and dance with these social alignments can provide a powerful affective experience in which social identity is literally “embodied” (Stokes, 1994).                

            In the article “Moving identity: dance in the negotiation of sexuality and ethnicity in Cyprus,” Stavros Stavrou Karayanni (2006) uses Cyprus as a case study for a crossroad where ethnic, sexual, gender, and race politics are complex, interwoven, and endlessly negotiated.  The history of colonization in Cyprus not only scripts national manhood, but also exercises control over every individual’s body.  Karayanni (2006) eloquently describes the embodied nature of identity, especially as it relates to national history:

If our bodies are organic vessels that carry our personal history, our idiosyncrasies, our emotions and frustrations, signs that mark our national, gender and class identity, then when we set that body in motion the entire microcosm of the individual is on display; a microcosm replete with contradictions such as control and resistance, compliance and oppression.  In other words, in dance, the body resonates with its history, thus becoming a site where various meanings manifest themselves and cross paths with each other.  (p. 252)

Thus movement becomes a medium to process body memory, as well as to construct and mobilize social identity.

Cultural Consciousness

            In the article “Dance as a means of cultural identity: A case of the Bukusu Kamabeka dance,” Mellitus Nyongesa Wanyama (2011) addresses the role that music education must play in order to preserve traditional Kenyan music and dance as valuable cultural identity treasures.  The Bukusu Kamabeka dance has a peculiar style that distinguishes it from similar shoulder dances by the Luo, Kamba, Gusii, Kuria, Giriama, and others.  This particular style of dance is therefore part of the cultural identity of the Bukusu people.  Wanyama (2011) explores the unique Bukusu cultural identities associated with the performance of Litunga music and the Kamabeka dance, including instruments, informal music education, communal rituals, timbre of voices, rhythm variations, idiosyncratic dance flares, and folk songs.

            Some of the songs in litunga music tell the story of the mythical-genealogical foundations of the Bukusu community.  Others allude to the historical continuum of events that the community has undergone.  Dancers, or as Wanyama calls them “culture owners,” dance their experiences, struggles, and aspirations.  In doing so, they not only mobilize their cultural identity, but also reshape their philosophy of life and hope as they dance the kamabeka (Wanyama, 2011).

            In the article “Identity Discourses on the Dancefloor,” Bryan Rill (2010) examines the Electronic Dance Music Culture (EDMC) as one of the largest subculture musical movements in history.   The article takes a psychological approach to the trance consciousness that occurs on the dance floor and argues that dancing re-constitutes the bodily self an as interaction rather than a corporeal body. 

            People who participate in raves describe it as a somatic experience, one that silences the inner language of our waking consciousness and moves the dancer into the present moment.  The egocentric “I” is superseded by “We” and thinking is second to feeling.  Rill (2010) uses scientific theories of human consciousness to articulate the phenomenological experience of musical trancing.  Using a radical departure from traditional cognitive theory, in which the world is objectively “out there” and people are a singular, bounded unitary consciousness, Rill (2010) points to neuroscientists who theorize an embodied context of the lived experience (Merleau-Ponty, 1968; Varela and Rosch, 1991; Maturana and Varela, 1987; Edelman, 1992; Freeman, 1997):

The neural networks upon which these interactions are mapped are not “hard-wired.”  The brain continually reconfigures its neural networks based on interaction with the world.  It is quite possible, then, to create new neural pathways as a result of the often-powerful trance experiences occurring on the dance floor.  (p. 148)

As such, dancing at a rave is ripe with transformative potential.  This potential is wrapped up in a collective sensual experience, as every dancer is aware that he or she is part of the collective body.

Performing Sexuality

            In the article “Sexuality and Sexual Identity:  Critical Possibilities for Teaching Dance Appreciation and Dance History,” Ann Dils (2004) asserts that dance history needs to be considered alongside the history of sexuality and that studying dance practice is important in understanding the performance of sexual identities.  Dils (2004) defines sexuality as “our desire for, fantasies about, and realized sexual contact with others” (p. 11).  Sexuality is non-determinate in that it cannot be contained within the heterosexual/homosexual binary and is variable over a lifespan.  Using her classroom experiences as a case study, she discusses ways in which to give students practice describing and thinking about the social messages of movement.  For example, some students may see the dance space as a feminized space, a place to appreciate beauty and be entertained.  As such, when men enter this space, they become feminized, appreciated for their visual appeal rather than their impact or productivity.

            In the article “Belly Dance, Gender Identity, and Social Activism:  Conceptualizing Free and Open Spaces,” Dennis J. Downey and Sandrine Zerbib (2008) investigate the influence of belly dance on participants’ gender identity and involvement in social activism.  The authors argue that leisure activities have an important link to participant identity, and that they can be the source of strong collective identity.

            Belly dance identity includes a basic tension between an “ancient earth woman” identity and a “harem sex symbol” identity.  While the earth woman is associated with matriarchal power and control over women’s own sexuality, the harem sex symbol represents an “Orientalized” symbol of women’s sexuality and availability.  This tension, which simultaneously challenges and reaffirms traditional gender roles, parallels tensions concerning sexuality in third wave feminism (Downey and Zerbib, 2008). 

Downey and Zerbib’s preliminary analysis indicates that length of involvement and level of dance are positively associated with dancers’ body image, and that many participants see belly dance as a means to social change (Downey and Zerbib, 2008).

Stokes (1994) discusses ways in which gender boundaries are performed in music and dance.  He points to Cowan’s recent study of Greek dance (1990), which views dance less as a domain of shared and agreed meaning than one of conflict and control.  While dance is a means of gender socialization, it is also an area where gender categories can be contested.  Social dance brings together unmarried men and women in public space, which is a problem in any society in which social and moral order is in terms of marriage and the confinement of sexuality within the domestic unit (Stokes, 1994).

Global Discourse

                        In the paper “An Insider’s Guide to the Street Dance Subculture in Singapore,” Wong Pao Yi Elke (2011) examines the vibrant subculture of street dance in Singapore, conceptualizing the social space of street dance through processes of construction, consumption, and contestation.  Elke draws attention to the interaction between the local and global street dance communities and studies how these interactions promote greater cultural appreciation:  “The international street dance community has become increasingly interconnected across time and space, resulting in a continuous two-way transmission of cultural production between the local and the global” (p. 8).  Elke argues that street dance subcultures not only transcend geographical borders to establish subculture identities, but also contribute to the flows across the global dancescape.

            In the article “Salsa Dance as Cosmopolitan Formation:  Cooperation, Conflict and Commerce in the Midwest United States,” Joanna Bosse (2013) examines the way in which salsa dance and music have entered a number of global social distribution networks, thereby accumulating meanings beyond its Latin American identity and complicating its associated Latina discourses.  Bosse (2013) presents a case study of a community of amateur salsa dancers in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, arguing that particular social and economic factors have the potential to undermine the genre’s capacity to serve as an expression of Latin American ethnic or racial identity.

            Internationally, salsa has become a music to be danced to rather than a music that is produced.  The popularity of salsa music around the world has led to local salsa dance scenes that are often socially and culturally diverse (Roman-Velazquez, 2002).  In small-town Illinois, Bosse (2013) describes how local salsero elites couched their marginalization of Mexicans in terms of aesthetics or authenticity—the Mexicans did not dance in a Cuban, Puerto Rican, or New York style, which was the style of white, middle-class newcomers, who were the paying customers. 

            “Cosmopolitanism” (Breckenridge, 2002) provides a framework for understanding how a shared set of class-based values joined the local economic and/or educational resident elites—whites, Latin Americans, and other ethnic groups—in opposition to the local working-class Mexicans.  Cosmopolitan formations are often described as “global” in common language.  Because a modernist-capitalist formation dominates much of the globe, commerce influenced the development of the salsa community in small-town Illinois.  Bosse (2013) explains:

So while salsa continued to serve as a signifier of Latino identity and shifting notions of ‘home’, it also became a powerful signifier of a particular type of ‘hip’ cosmopolitanism for a core group of ethnically diverse local elites.  To this latter constituency, fluency in salsa music and dance communicated a fluency in foreign lands and urban centres—a substantial currency for those living in a quiet, rural college town in central Illinois.  (p. 226)

Summary

            Recent literature on dance community and cultural identity explore the ways in which identities are embodied through dance movement.  Social identity is embodied through a powerful affective experience and dancers’ interactions with social alignments (Stokes, 1994).  Dance performance not only reflects culture, but also serves as a medium to negotiate and generate new meaning.  Dance movement processes body memory, and at times collective group memory, such as the national identity in Cyprus (Karayanni, 2006).  Dance may also be used to mobilize cultural identity and preserve unique features of a collective group, as with the Bukusu Kamabeka dance in Kenya (Wanyama, 2011).  Dance has the potential to both reinforce traditional gender roles and challenge them, as gender boundaries are explored and broadened in the performance of dance (Downey and Zerbib, 2008).  As a particular type of music and dance grows in popularity around the world, it becomes subject to global discourses of difference, giving local dance scenes the opportunity to renegotiate meaning in their local contexts (Elke, 2011; Bosse, 2013).  In sum, dance is a valuable area of academic inquiry that requires an interdisciplinary stance.  The links between dance community and cultural identity include its associated concerns with the politics of identity contained within the contested notions of race, class, gender and sexuality.

  

References

Bosse, Joanna. (2013). Salsa Dance as Cosmopolitan Formation:  Cooperation, Conflict and

Commerce in the Midwest United States. Ethnomusicology Forum, 22(2), 210-231.

Bourdieu, Pierre. (1977). Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press.

Breckenridge, Carol A. (2002). Cosmopolitanism. Chapel Hill: Duke University Press.

Certeau, M. de. (1984). The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Cowan, J. (1990). Dance and the Body Politic in Northern Greece. Princeton: Princeton

University Press.

Dils, Ann. (2004). Sexuality and Sexual Identity:  Critical Possibilities for Teaching Dance

Appreciation and Dance History. Journal of Dance Education, 4(1), 10-16.

Downey, Dennis J. and Sandrine Zerbib. (2008). Belly Dance, Gender Identity, and Social

Activism:  Conceptualizing Free and Open Spaces. American Sociological Association.

Edelman, Gerald M. (1992). Bright Air, Brilliant Fire: On the Matter of the Mind. New York: Basic

Books.

Elke, Wong Pao Yi. (2011). An Insider’s Guide to the Street Dance Subculture in Singapore.

(Graduation Project Number: HSa10_67). Nanyang Technological University, Singapore.

Freeman, Walter. (1997). Happiness Doesn’t Come in Bottles. Journal of Consciousness Studies,

4(1), 67-70.

Karayanni, Stavros Stavrou. (2006). Moving identity: dance in the negotiation of sexuality and

ethnicity in Cyprus. Postcolonial Studies, 9(3), 251-266.

Maturana, Humberto and Francisco Varela. (1987). Tree of Knowledge: The Biological Roots of

Human Understanding. Boston, London: New Science Library.

Merleau-Ponty. (1968). The Visible and the Invisible. Claude Lefort (Ed.) Alphonso Lingis,

translator. Evanston: Northwestern University Press.

Rill, Bryan. (2010). Identity Discourses on the Dancefloor. Anthropology of Consciousness, 21(2),

139-162.

Roman-Velazquez, Patria. (2002). Locating Salsa. In Popular Music Studies. L. Waxer (Ed.). New

York: Routledge.

Stokes, Martin. (1994). Ethnicity, identity, and music. Ethnicity, identity, and music: the musical

construction of place.

Varela, F.E. Thompson and Eleanor Rosch. (1991). The Embodied Mind: Cognitive Science and

Human Experience. Cambridge: MIT Press.

Wanyama, Mellitus Nyongesa. (2011). Dance as a means of cultural identity: A case of the

Bukusu Kamabeka dance. Muziki: Journal of Music Research in Africa, 5(2), 213-222.

Day in the Life, Cloud Forest Campus

I’m having my first glass of red wine since I arrived in San Luis to celebrate the weekend.  I live on an alcohol-free campus, so don’t tell anyone that I have a box of $6 Clos in my casita. 

I’m riding a couple of highs tonight.  The weekend began with a last minute decision to walk down the hill to the community center for Friday afternoon Zumba.  The road was rocky and windy, but once inside, I couldn’t stop smiling.  The large sunny room was full of women, young and middle-aged, following the enthusiastic lead of a young Tica with chestnut skin, dreads, and a sweet bright smile.  She told me after class that she, as well as other instructors, would be leading the classes in coming months because she had a baby on the way, as she rubbed her tiny protruding belly. 

I walked back up the hill after class, noting to myself that just the walk there and back was enough exercise for a day, but happy with my aching muscles and brain endorphins.  A middle-aged woman from class ran past me on the road with her earplugs in, smiled and waved; I was amazed at her stamina.  I panted my way back home, showered, then stuffed my belly with food and hot chocolate, watched Lord of the Rings with friends in the communal casita, and headed off to bed.

Saturday morning, I had my first interview with a student.  I’m doing a phenomenological study on how students use their senses to make meaning of their experiences abroad.  I’m exploring the links between a sensual embodiment of place and adaptation for students abroad.  The first interview went great, and I’m looking forward to more.  Afterwards, I designed an experiential learning workshop for the spring semester students.  The purpose of the workshop is to raise awareness of value differences across cultures.  I finished the agenda and sent it to the professors.  I’m looking forward to leading it on Wednesday. 

Feeling productive, I wondered what to do with the rest of my Saturday.  Not able to settle on one activity, I did it all.  First, I backed up my computer and closed my eyes for a cat nap.  Then, I found a nearby hammock and read “Women’s Ways of Knowing,” a study about how women develop their self, voice, and mind, with implications for education for women.  I decided I needed to move, so I grabbed the basketball and went down to shoot a few hoops.  Feeling a bit restless, I walked down to the lower part of campus that I had yet to explore and found a better, more secluded hammock.  I sprawled out in the hammock as the sun lowered in the sky and read another chapter.  Then, I walked down to the biggest biodigester on campus, which is in construction.  In case you haven’t heard, a biodigester uses bacteria to break down waste and release methane gas.  So, all the “waste” produced by humans (or animals) on campus could be used to make gas (to fuel the fires in the kitchen and cook our food) at no cost to us.  Yay, sustainability!  Walking back from the biodigester, I was struck by the view of the mountains from this side of campus.  Typically, I spend a lot of time shuffling between the casita village, dining hall, library, and rec center.  I hadn’t spent a lot of time on this, the lower side of campus, and gazing up into the hills, as they rose high above with the clouds passing overhead and mist falling, was an impactful experience.

It was an hour until dinner, and I was still feeling a bit restless.  It was a quiet afternoon, so I decided to go to Perezoso, our open-aired rec center, and do some Hatha yoga and Japa yoga before dinner.  I chose the view towards the mountains for my sun salutations and was happy that I did.  I had 20 minutes before dinner, so I called my parents from the wifi at the communal casita.  They were having a lazy day in South Carolina, watching the snow melt and napping the afternoon away.  Buster was sitting in Mom’s lap.  They were thrilled to hear that I had not only learned how to milk a cow, but that I was also teaching the tourists how to milk our cow.  “Granddaddy would be proud!  He’d go around poking people in the chests saying, ‘My granddaughter is teaching people how to milk cows!!’”  (Granddaddy made his living with a dairy farm in Bush River, South Carolina.)

After dinner, or after hot chocolate, rather, (made from our cows’ boiled milk), I couldn’t be kept from the community dance class in the rec center.  We could hear the music from the porch, so Kathryn and I made our way down to watch.  The instructor swept me up from my seat and used me to demonstrate some merengue moves.  “Como se llama?”  I asked him.

“Javier,” he replied. 

I found Javier!  You see, the last time I made the journey into town, I asked around for an advanced salsa dancer.  I was looking…because no one here dances salsa.  They all dance cumbia, which is fun, but it doesn’t help me get my salsa fix.  The guys on the street said that Javier was the one.  They didn’t have his number, but they would give me their numbers, and I could call them to get Javier’s number.

But I didn’t call them.  I meant to, but I didn’t…so….I had found Javier in person at last, teaching the community dance class on campus.  He was a great lead, fun and energetic.  He invited everyone to go out tonight to Bar Amigos for dancing.  I couldn’t go tonight, so I asked him for his number or some way to keep in touch.  He searched through his bag, but couldn’t find his card.  A man standing nearby said that he could give me Javier’s number!  He worked on campus, so he could give me Javier’s number on Monday!

Ah well, so I still don’t have Javier’s number, but I know his face, and we’ve had our first dance.  I also met a cool girl from Miami at the class who clearly loves to dance, and is an amazing dancer, but hasn’t yet caught the salsa bug.  Let’s see if we can get her bit. 

  

It’s funny how things unfold.  The girl who is from Miami, Iyanna, is in school at Mt. Holyoke near Springfield, MA, which is where my Dominican friend, who I dated last spring, is from, who I met in a salsa bar in Northampton, MA, which I recommended to her to check out when she returns to school in a few months.  My Dominican friend had just sent me a message yesterday, a warning about a girl who was studying at the Monteverde Institute and was raped in the beach town of Montezuma.  I mentioned the incident to Iyanna, who is also studying at the Monteverde Institute, and she knew of it and wondered how I knew.  We decided to be extra careful in the beach towns, and she’s decided to check out the Tuesday night salsa at the Iron Horse in Northampton.

And so it’s 10:30 now, way past my bedtime.  Time to take a flashlight and scan the corners off my room for tarantulas, look under the bed for snakes, usher out of my room any lizards or frogs who may have encroached upon my territory, and kill any bug or spider who may have found its way under my sheets or pillows.  Jamie and Emily come back tomorrow from their visa trips to Nicaragua.  Louise, the new naturalist from Scotland, arrived today.  There’s a lot to look forward to…a party that we’re planning in Perezoso for next weekend, laying out with Kelly tomorrow at the farm, teaching another salsa class on Thursday, more $3 boxes of Clos Cabernet, swimming in the river, more Friday afternoon Zumba, and always…dancing, dancing, dancing.  Good night, sweet dreams, until next time.

Bienvenidos a San Luis, Costa Rica

A hairy tarantula the size of my hand gave me a proper welcome to my rustic one-bedroom abode on my second night in San Luis.  This is going to be life in the woods at the foot of a cloud forest:  shooing tarantulas into trash cans and releasing them outside; walking to the bathroom at night with a flashlight hoping not to see any vipers; bundling up in three layers to keep warm; going to sleep to the sound of insects and strong wind; waking up to bird calls; being greeted by white-faced monkeys on the way to breakfast; eating beans and rice every meal every day; running along rocky roads with views of the Pacific; admiring colorful sunsets over the mountains before dinner; hiking two hours uphill to the nearest town; dancing cumbia, merengue, and mas cumbia.

The University of Georgia has a 155-acre campus in small-town San Luis, including an organic farm and biodigester that recycles waste into methane gas for cooking.  Two cows are milked each morning, the milk is boiled in the kitchen, and visitors swarm to stand in line for hot chocolate after dinner.  15-20% of the food we eat, we grow, and the rest is local. 

I live in the casita village with the other interns—naturalists, researchers, and administrative staff.  We are the lucky ones with room and board for our extended stays, plenty to keep us busy, and plenty more to distract us…namely the beauty of our natural surroundings or an occasional game of competitive Ping-Pong.

So far in the past week and a half, I’ve begun my master’s degree research project; taught a salsa class; led morning yoga; attended mass; made a new friend with a car who gave me a ride up the mountain; sang “Vivir la Vida” by Marc Anthony at karaoke; beat Jamie at basketball; starting making plans for a campus-wide Ping-Pong tournament; smiled at a monkey and accidently pissed him off; met a whole lot of great people; acquired the ability to recognize more birds than ever before; milked a cow for the first time; cleaned dishes in the kitchen twice; made plans to learn “Tu Amor Me Hace Bien” and “Quizas, Quizas, Quizas” for the next karaoke night; realized what I’ve gotten myself into; read a lot about intercultural competence and place-based education; started reading “Water for Elephants,” “Women’s Ways of Knowing,” and “El Libro de la Selva”; planned a two-week trip to travel around the country with my parents; gotten sick; gotten better; gone out for dancing three times; had a hummingbird land on my hand; walked a lot; and walked a lot more.

This is an alcohol-free campus with healthy food, clean water, and pure air.  It’s a good place for me to heal, reflect, and focus on the things that matter.  Follow me here on the Belle to find out what those things might be and what adventures may come.  I haven’t seen a puma…yet!

Amor Se Vende, Cuba

My intentions that day were to go to the black sand beach, because it was nearby and cheap, and because it was the first day of what I was determined to make into a week-long vacation.  The tourists go to the white sand beach, Daniel explains to me, as we walk side by side.  The white sand beach is beautiful and secluded, and he lives near it.  He is on the way home, so it’s no problem to take me there.  He smiles, and the many wrinkles around his small blue eyes betray his baby face.  He’s inches shorter than me, with a bag full of souvenir woodwork that he is desperately hoping to sell to me once he gains my trust. 

As we cross the black sand beach, disappear into a lightly forested area, and board a shared canoe across the river, I wonder what Daniel hopes for in exchange for this friendly guide-service that was neither requested nor discussed.  One peso goes to the make-shift tourist stand constructed in the middle of a small village, three more pesos if you want to swim in the cave.  We walk up the dirt road, past a small village school, the strong Caribbean sun beating down on our shoulders.  How much further?  Daniel’s trying to sell me the cave experience.  I didn’t bring much money today.  I thought I was just going to the nearby black sand beach to relax.  I was robbed in Havana.  They stole my cameras.  Oh no, that’s terrible.  I don’t have much on me because I don’t want to be robbed again.  No problem, we’re almost there.  You’ll like this beach.  It’s tranquila.  No problems.  Don’t worry.

The trail disappears into a beach side forest then opens up again to reveal the white sand beach and blue-green ocean beyond, with waves breaking over jagged rocks into a private cove.  There’s only one other person making use of the tiny paradise today.  A young man sits on a blanket in his swimsuit, looking out over the water.  Daniel tells me not to worry about this guy.  He’s a friend.  He won’t bother you.  I know him.  He’s a good guy.  He won’t bother you.  Go take a swim.  Later when you’re relaxing on the beach, I’ll show you my woodwork.  Don’t worry.   

I don’t trust anyone in Cuba.  The past five weeks have knocked me down and washed over me, and I’ve emerged gasping for air, my nostrils full of salt, eyes blurred and squinting into the oppressive heat of an angry sun that’s bronzed me.  My lily-white skin didn’t even burn; it just turned brown in submission to the heat, over night, before I even knew it had happened.  I’m angry that I was robbed in a salsa school where I trusted people.  I’m angry about the constant cat-calling the moment I step outside.  I’m angry about the aggressive and patronizing way that men treat women.  I’m angry that I can’t enjoy myself, but that the social environment necessitates that I have a man to protect me.  I’m angry that friendship is for sale, and that economics taint the sincerity of every interaction that I have.  I’m angry that I didn’t fall in love with Cuba, as I had fully expected to, but that instead of love, I feel disheartened, disappointed, and betrayed. 

I strip down to my hot pink bikini and hesitantly wade into the warm water to see what enjoyment might be had.  I look out over the ocean to the expansive view of Baracoa’s coast, the strangely-shaped mountains, one like a top-hat, the other like a woman generously endowed.  I look back to the beach where Daniel chats with the young man on the blanket.  He was right.  This place is beautiful.  It’s much better than being alone on the black sand beach, where god knows who would try to befriend me in god knows what way.  I’ll spend nine dollars on some woodwork from Daniel.  Furthermore, I fully expect his friend to bother me, and I’m curious to know his strategies as he makes his way down the beach.

Reserved, self-possessed, determined, the young man wades confidently into the water with his snorkeling gear.  He’s cute enough to make me smile but not so much to intimidate me, so I ask him if there are any dangerous currents here.  No, todo tranquilo.  I notice his rich deep voice and accommodating manner as he explains the nature of the ocean in this cove then dives into the water and swims out to sea.  I watch him snorkel while the waves wash over me.  When he returns, we talk some more, and he offers me his snorkeling gear.  He says there’s a school of shrimp next to the rocks over there, and not to worry, that he’ll come with me and show them to me.  We swim together out to sea.

After Daniel closes his sale, he heads home, and Yuni and I spend the day together on the white sand beach.  Daniel was right, Yuni doesn’t bother me.  Instead, he waits patiently for me to engage him, and when I do, he responds fully, with interest.  I thoroughly enjoy our conversations and appreciate his patience, respect, and intellect.  When I’m ready to go home, he accompanies me home and pays for our canoe taxi.  We make plans to meet that night for music and dancing.

I was introduced to jineterismo in Havana when a friend named Michel asked me to pay his entry into a salsa club.  I had already paid Michel for a salsa class and paid for our shared taxi to the club.  His assumption that I would also pay his club entry insulted me, and I refused to do it.  We had a tiff in the street in old Havana, and I left him there and went home.  When I saw Michel again on a different night in a different salsa club, he called out to me, I love you so much!  Then, I knew what he was selling, and I knew I wasn’t buying it.

After a few weeks, I realized how normal it was for foreign women to pay the way for their Cuban men.  I heard a story about a beautiful Swiss woman who suspected that her Cuban boyfriend stole her camera.  In the end she chose to believe that he didn’t steal it, and stayed with him, paying for his lifestyle.  An Ethiopian man living in Havana told me this story as we watched her dance, swinging her long blonde hair from side to side over her tight curvy jean shorts.  Her Cuban boyfriend was there, too.  He’s a baseball player, a gorgeous man, who sat and watched, because he doesn’t dance.  I wondered if she was actually convinced that he didn’t steal the camera, or if she simply agreed to the exchange.  I suspect it was the latter.  The more time I spend in Cuba, the less my moralistic, middle-class, capitalist viewpoint on exchange serves me. 

I meet Yuni at Casa de la Trova at ten p.m., and already there’s a crowd assembled at the windows, watching the white foreign girls dance salsa with the black Cuban boys.  It’s a tiny music venue, with room for three or four couples to dance, a live local band, and a zany host with a wide nose and long stringy hair who insists on meeting everyone and cracking jokes at everyone’s expense.  I realize that I know the girls.  They’re the Dutch girls I met on the bus from Trinidad to Holguin, and they’re overjoyed to see me.  They introduce me to their Cuban guys, and invite me to sit with them.  I order a beer for myself and Yuni.  We drink, dance, chat, laugh, dance, listen, drink, laugh, and at the end of the night, the Dutch girls want to go to the dance club on the hill that my host dad warned me about.  He said that the guys who go there are no good, which I mention to Yuni, but he says that in a group and with him, I’ll be fine, so we all go and walk the stairs to the sketchy nightclub on the hill, where Yuni starts drinking rum with his friends.  Nikkie gives me a refresco with rum, and I sit down during a reggaeton.  An aggressive Cuban man approaches me and asks me to dance.  I tell him I don’t want to, but he insists, and says that we should dance to enjoy the moment.  I tell him to get lost, which he does.  Yuni remembers that I prefer salsa or bachata, and asks me to dance accordingly.

The club closes early, and we all make our way back down the stairs to the bottom of the hill where the ring leader of the Cuban boyfriends, Rosalie’s man, has assembled the other two men.  We have something for you, he announces to the Dutch girls, not for you, he says to me.  We’ll just watch, I say, pulling Yuni to my side.  What?  What’s happening??  The Dutch girls wait in suspense as their Cuban guys line up in front of them.  The ringleader announces in a loud voice:  We want you to stay another night in Baracoa!  The three Cuban guys get down on one knee and beg as the Dutch girls smile and giggle.  But no, how can we come to Cuba and not know Santiago?  We go to Santiago tomorrow.  How can we not know Santiago?  As the Cuban men stand up again, the Dutch girls get down on one knee and beg in return:  Come with us to Santiago!  The three or four bicycle taxi drivers surrounding us are engrossed in the drama; one even films the exchange from his camera phone.  After a short deliberation, a friend of the boyfriends announces to the group:  Listen, you know that these guys don’t have any money.  If you want them to come with you to Santiago, then you have to pay their way.  There it is.  The ask.  The reality.  Sweet Rosalie gets upset, don’t talk to us like we are stupid!  We already said that we have paid the taxi.  Why did they have to mess it all up, she says to me as I’m leaving, and I wonder if they’ll stay or go…or if they’ll pay the way for their Baracoan men to accompany them to Santiago. 

Yuni walks me home, and I fully expect him to kiss me goodnight, which he does, passionately, much more aggressively than I expect, which leads to a conversation about the nature of our relationship over the next week, which I had been determined to make into a vacation.  He’s persuasive.  I’m reluctant.  He’s charming.  I’m skeptical.  He’s respectful.  I’m moved.  He’s negotiable.  I’m negotiable.  He’s happy.  I’m happy.  We decide to go to the river tomorrow.

We spend the next week together.  We go to the beach and the river during the day and to the music venues at night.  What strikes me about Yuni is that he’s constant.  He shows up half an hour early, he takes my hand in his, he answers every inquiry thoughtfully, he remembers everything.  I observe the economic exchange:   he pays for our transportation in Cuban pesos; I pay for our drinks in convertible pesos.  He never asks me for money, but assumes that I’ll spend a few dollars a day on beer or rum.  I watch the social and cultural exchange:  we speak Spanish 99.7% of the time; he introduces me to the most beautiful natural places to visit for free and tells me the local stories; he takes me to the best night spots and introduces me to his friends; he entertains me and pleases me; I entertain and please him.   

I don’t realize that I’ve fallen for Yuni until it’s too late.  Our last day together we spend on the river, just as we had spent our first.  I meet him in the main square, and we walk hand in hand out of town, about forty minutes to the best place to take the bicycle taxi to the river.  We walk another hour or so along the river, crossing it two or three times, passing women cleaning clothes, rural homes with children playing in the dirt road, chickens, pigs, horses, gardens, small fields, boys jumping from embankments into the river below, to his favorite natural swimming hole, pristine, surrounded by mountains.  The river is crystal clear, warm, slow-moving, perfect.  Yuni catches a shrimp for me, then a small fish, which he drops into my lap as I giggle.   Towards the end of daylight, the water turns cool, and I think it may be time to go.  Listo?  I ask, thinking that he’s ready, too, but he turns, wide-eyed, surprised.  Yeah, sure, of course, let’s go.  On our way back to town, a friend calls to him from where she’s sitting on the front porch.  He stops to light her cigarette.  You’re leaving the river early?  The sun is gone, he mumbles in reply as he returns to me and takes my hand in his.  He puts me in the shared horse-drawn carriage as he chats with another friend, then sits across from me and takes both my hands in his, holding them in his for the hour or so ride back into town.  I didn’t realize it then, but now I wish I could go back and spend two more hours with Yuni on the river that day. 

Cubans are skilled opportunists.  Especially in Havana or Santiago, if you smile, expect someone to ask you for money.  If you’re enjoying yourself, expect someone to try and sell you something.  If you’re happy, expect someone to charge you a peso.  There are always those who are ready to turn your emotional capital into economic capital immediately…or later, depending on the strategy. 

Half an hour before my taxi leaves for the airport, I’m sitting next to Yuni on a bench in an ocean-front park, with my head on his shoulder and tears in my eyes.  I lift my head, and there’s a man standing in front of us with a large bag.  He drops the bag to the ground in front of us and starts pulling out the cheap handmade jewelry that he sells to tourists as he launches into his sales-pitch.  Look at what I have.  Just look.  You don’t have to buy.  He will buy something for you.  Don’t worry.  I have bracelets.  A necklace.  A belt.  Handmade.  Beautiful.  He’ll get you something.  Normally, I would just tell this random salesman that I’m not interested, but when I turn to laugh at the situation with Yuni, he doesn’t say a word, and allows the salesman to continue his pitch, so I remain quiet, as well, and watch the exchange. 

 Man, I don’t have any money.  I don’t have anything.  The negotiation begins.  I sell this stuff, too.  Who makes it?  Yeah, I work with her.  The most simple.  The salesman picks up a bracelet with black beads.  No, not that one.  But she likes black.  She’s wearing black.  It matches her dress.  No.  Something simple.  I don’t have any money.  She likes black.  He picks up the black bracelet again.  No!  Yuni picks up a bracelet with red flowers and black beads and puts it on my wrist.  I’ll pay you later.  Man, that’s one peso.  But I don’t have any money.  Man, you know.  I can get you that same bracelet later.  But that’s one peso.  You help me out; I help you out.  Man.  You know.   

The salesman packs up his bag, one bracelet short and one peso poorer and stands tall in front of me, taking me in.  She’s beautiful.  It’s beautiful, I say, pointing at the bracelet.  No, you’re beautiful, he says, pointing at me.  I smile and hide behind Yuni.  You know he really cares about you, he says as he walks away.  

The bracelet with the red flowers and the black beads that Yuni gave me fifteen days ago sits on my bedside table.  Yuni writes me every other day to tell me how much he misses me and how much he cares about me and to remind me to never forget him and to remind me to take just three minutes to write him because he waits for my message and he’s always thinking of me and to always think of him because even though we spent only a little time together, it feels like he’s known me for a long time and to dream of a time when I’ll be by his side again, as he does, as it is his desire to make me the happiest woman alive because, with me by his side, he will certainly be the happiest man.

Villa Ariel...Viñales, Cuba

“¿Tienes familia en Viñales?” Ariel asks me jovially with a big smile on his face as we walk into town.  “Sí, soy tu familia,” is his exuberant answer and his goal for the one night I booked in his home.  He had become the ultimate host from the moment I stepped off the bus from Havana and chose him from among the hordes of people lining the sidewalk, ready to pounce at the opportunity to host a tourist in their casa particular for $15-$25 a night.  I was the first person off the bus, and Ariel was the first pitch I heard:  “Hey lady!!!  I have everything you need!  Private room, air conditioning, $15 a night!”  I glanced quickly at his business card and laminated color advertisement that he was extending to me as far as he could, leaning over on tip-toes from the sidewalk that was the enforced limit for the vendedores.  “It’s the BEST house in town!!!!” he offered at last, desperately, sincerely, and I believed him.   

“Vamos,” I said.  This story he told again and again to his friends and family.  It was the first time that the first person off the bus chose him promptly.  

Walking through town, it seemed that every other house was a casa particular, and it’s no wonder that so many Cubans welcome the money coming from tourism.  A surgeon’s salary in Cuba is around $30 a month, the same as what I paid for one night in Villa Ariel, after a delicious dinner his mother cooked for me and huge breakfast to prepare me for my excursion to the nearby caves. 

We walked quickly through town, Ariel carrying my bag and chatting jovially, as was his manner.  We left the paved streets and crossed a small stream, and walked up a dirt road over rocks and horse shit, to a brightly colored house at the end of the road.  “Villa Ariel, El Musico,” the sign said next to the door.  Ariel proudly showed me around the house.  My room, with a wall AC unit and two fans constantly on swing mode, was shiny orange, decorated with heart-shaped stuffed animal pillows.  The bathroom had been cleaned meticulously, as Ariel boasted and presented the hot water heater.  He offered me something to drink, went to the kitchen and cut up a mango, which he blended with sugar, and gave to me to enjoy as we worked out the paperwork. 

“I want you to be happy and enjoy everything.  I want you to be happy here and return here.  When you come to Viñales, you come here.  A French girl just left this morning.  She was here for 21 days.  I cried and cried when she left.  People love Viñales.  They come back to stay.  You should stay more than one night.  There’s so much to see her, so much to do.  It’s very beautiful.  Tonight, I’ll take you town, and we’ll go dancing.  For dinner, what do you like?  Do you like fish?  What time for dinner?  Excursions, yes, don’t worry.  I do everything here.  We have whatever you want.  I recommend you go by horse this afternoon through the mountains.  You see the mountains; it’s beautiful; you go to tabaco factory; it’s all organic, and see how it’s made; you can go to the lake and take a swim; drink the best mojito in town.”

Seemingly always in sales-mode, Ariel has already asked me to go online and recommend his home and to distribute his business cards to all my friends in Havana, especially if I have friends who are travel agents.  A family member will pick me up and take me to the cave excursion in the morning.  The taxi will cost me another $30, but after the overwhelming hospitality that Ariel has shown me, I don’t dare complain. 

The feast that Ariel’s mother prepares for me that evening is the best meal I’ve had in Cuba so far.  Everything is abundant and delicious, which is the way of the casas particulares.  The family seems to live in the back of the house or in a smaller house in the backyard.  The family is all very friendly and welcoming.  Curious about the foreigner staying in their home, there is often someone standing off in the distance, watching me.

As I’m eating dinner in the kitchen at the front of the house, Ariel is preparing for his night out performing.  The family are all musicians, and Ariel plays the guitar and sings in restaurants, often for free, he explains as he slicks back his black hair in the mirror.  He’s wearing jeans, a black and grey striped t-shirt, and black suspenders.  He swings his guitar case over his shoulder, wishes me well with a huge smile on his face, and says that he’ll wait for me in the restaurant where he’s performing. 

The before suggested companions into town don’t happen as Ariel is already in town and his brother Adrian isn’t ready to go out.  Ariel’s parents are sitting in the living room, on the new living room furniture that Ariel told me was very expensive, watching a popular Brazilian soap opera on TV, which has been dubbed in Spanish.  As I walk into town alone in the dark, I realize that everyone else in town is watching the same Brazilian soap opera.  Through open doors and windows, I see small families gathered around TVs as the drama unfolds.  From Ariel’s remote section of the neighborhood, a person could walk the ten minutes into town and still watch the show.  The houses are close enough together, the TVs are turned up loud enough, and the windows and doors are open often enough to not miss any of the melodrama.

Surreal moments like these are frequent in the small town of Viñales: a boy on a bicycle turning the corner with a pizza balanced on his palm, horse drawn carriages with leathered old men from ages past, a man named Eddie on a horse showing up at the door and asking me to follow him.  The town has its charm, despite being overrun by tourism.  The land surrounding the town has even more charm, and the mountains, beaches, lakes and caves welcome travelers far and wide.

Ariel is singing his heart out to the one couple who are eating there, and he beckons me to come and sit.  It seems that everything Ariel does, he does whole-heartedly.  A kind and compassionate soul, as all his friends remark of him, Ariel is also a romantic and a dreamer. 

“I’m 23.  I’m young.  I’m talented.  I don’t think I have opportunities here, and I want to go to another country for my chance.”  Ariel and I are walking back from our night out on the town.  It’s Fidel Castro’s birthday, and there was a party downtown.  We went to the salsa club to watch the performances, live music, and entertainment.  On the way home, Ariel shares his plans with me.  “I want to go and sing in another country, but I don’t have the money to travel or to buy the ticket.  I’m going to start another casa particular, get lots of clients, and save money to travel.”  I can tell that he’s exhausted from a long, hot day, but he manages to prepare everything for me for the morning and wish me a good night as we part ways.

The next day, Ariel is off to the bus stop once again to search for another client, but he arrives a few minutes too late and finds no one to rent his room for the night.