That time I "broke the law" and went to Cuba

It was 2 p.m. on a Wednesday and I was about to go to Lexington to watch Ben for a few days when, in an attempt to delay our goodbye, Shannon said, "Come to Cuba..."

An impromptu airfare search led to an impromptu text message which led to an impromptu ticket purchase which led to an impromptu vacation with Shannon in Cuba. It was an incredible experience, one that started with being pulled over within minutes of getting off the plane, featured a dramatic foot pursuit, and culminated in a day at the beach.
I didn't really know that much about Cuba. I knew that it's under embargo from the U.S. because of Fidel Castro, that it's known for its rum and cigars and that toilet paper, as well as aspirin and sunscreen, is scarce. Beyond that, I was an idiot, especially when it came to Spanish.

The first thing I noticed about the country was definitely its politics. There were Viva la Revolucion billboards everywhere along the highway. Here we have billboards for Love's Truck Stop; there it's pro-Fidel propaganda everywhere you look. It reminds me of Iran in that way, but without the mask of religion. And since religion isn't the driving force, there is sex and art and music and drinking and a hussling so intense it makes you appreciate the cardboard messaging tactics that our beggars use. It wasn't until the end of our trip that I finally learned how to say, "Leave me alone," a phrase that could've saved us a lot of headache when Shannon wasn't around to be our guide.

That being said, when we were with Shannon, I loved Habana. I loved the antique cars that give their passengers an air of class (because of the embargo, Cuba hasn't been able to import many new cars and have kept models from the '50s and '60s on the roads). I loved the swanky hotels with outdated upholstery that's stained with decades-old activity. I loved the mojitos and the national beers (there are two, Bucanero and Cristal).
I loved the crumbling facades on the outskirts of the pristine and antique Habana Vieja and I loved wandering from plaza to plaza and remembering what it was like that time we visited Madrid.
I loved visiting the Necropolis de Cristobal Colon and walking up and down the streets of the dead. I loved stepping into the very U.S.-influenced El Capitolio and gawking at the tense nipple that the enormous bronze female sculpture was sporting, wishing aloud the Ashcroft was there to squirm underneath it. I loved sitting on the steps and having a "romantico" photo taken of the three of us with a 100-year-old pinhole camera.
I loved spending a day on the beach even though the high winds threatened us with Portugese Man O' War jellyfish. I loved touring the Castillo del Morro and realizing how ridiculous a weapon the cannon was. I loved chatting with the man in the watchtower and looking through his gigantic binculars at the Bacardi building and the lovers on the Malecon. I loved watching the sun set from a patio on the sea and will never forget the fishermen pulling up fish after fish from their intertube boats long after the water turned black from darkness.

And, even though it was shattered by theft, I loved the night I spent drinking rum on the Malecon with new friends and my older sister and listening to musicians parading up and down the sea wall. My camera was snatched by a sea crocodile and his accomplice, forcing me to dig into my memory for those precious moments I had during the trip and giving me a great story to tell about CSI: Havana starring Norlin Garcia and Mack Thomas. It sucked to lose my mementos, but even that eruption of tears and the consequential 7 hours at the police station couldn't undo the joy I felt watching Shannon eat $1 cheese pizza at El Rapido.
** If you're a government/legal/prosecution monger type, this is all fictional and a lie.