On Sunday, October 12, I was invited to the birthday party of a close friend. A cousin of his had offered her apartment for the party. The apartment is close to Old Havana’s well-known Parque de la Fraternidad.
Warhol P’s Diary
I know several people who have never had a break in life. When I say “break”, I mean a good life. What’s a good life? For many, having a good life consists in the possibility of obtaining and having anything one wishes, material things, that is.
A friend and I went to a Christian party. We weren’t exactly invited. The pastor wanted the gathering filmed, and another friend of ours asked us to help in the recording as a favor. I had no objections, because I respect all of the world’s religions.
My friend Paula wrote me from the United States. “People are strange here, it’s not like down there” she told me. “Where we live, people are really snobbish. No one even looks at anyone. To many, we’re just a bunch of dirty immigrants…”
Whenever there is talk of Cuba’s camp facilities in any of our media, everything is looked at through rose-colored glasses. The reality, however, is quite different. This past Friday, August 29, campers who arrived at the Las Cuevas recreational center were able to confirm the deficiencies of the facility in person.
As it turns out, it seems everyone who leaves Cuba is having a rough time. Many of my old friends kept in touch and sent me the occasional email shortly after leaving, but, a few months later, next to no one writes me. When they do write, their messages are brief and do not offer much information about how they’re doing.
It was the fifth time I’d gone to the dentist’s that month. I’d gone that afternoon because I had an appointment, but the person who’d made this appointment for me hadn’t gone to work that day, so I had to go back another day.
I had two chipped teeth. I’d let time pass to see if I could live like that, at least for a few years, but it proved impossible. Soon, eating any kind of food became bothersome. I had to bite the bullet and go to a dentist at the Finlay polyclinic, in my Havana municipality of Marianao.
I have written before about the public square and market in the neighborhood of Marianao where vendors resell food product. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write an article that says something favorable about the place and consumers there.
There’s nothing better for a romantic reconciliation than doing something that breaks with routine. An invitation from some friends who had rented out a beach house (at the extremely low price of 30 CUC for an entire weekend) came to us like a gift from heaven.