Wandering the cobblestone plaza in the center of La Habana, I was struck by the beauty around me. The colorful sheets hanging from clothes lines, balcony to balcony. The children playing catch while the old men sit in lawn chairs and talk about baseball. The 6'3", black chiseled face, black arms, back, neck-- Jesus! Who the hell is that guy?
I, ahem, thought to myself as I embraced the culture of this foreign, dare I say, forbidden land. He leaned casually against the brick wall behind him. He is laughing, joking with his friend. He is facing the half wall the divides the city edge from the ocean.
It is not until he looks directly at me that I realize I have been staring, no, I'll be honest, gawking. I immediately look away and pretend to read a book off of a vendor's cart. I decide I love this country and must return as soon as possible.
A shadow covers my book page (which I couldn't understand anyway with my limited spanish). I look to my left to see the most defined triceps I had ever seen that not on television. I look up too see the strong jaw, smiling, looking down at me. Calmly he says, "Blah blah, garbldi-gook, mucho gusto, blah blah, eres bonita, me llamo Alain."
I was in love.
He took me by the arm and we walk to the edge of the square. I realize I had now stolen the book I was pretending to read. I say in stilted spanish, "Not so good, my Spanish." He says something I roughly interpret as, "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." I, in fact, have no idea what he said, and never will, so I choose to remember my initial rough interpretation.
He walks me back to the convent that was lodging myself and the rest of my study abroad group. I suddenly want to be fluent in Spanish in a way I never thought possible. If only my friend Christina was here, I thought, her Spanish is perfect. Although I barely understand anything he says, though some grace of God I understand loud and clear, "When can I see you again?"
My mind is racing. I'm certain this is against every rule laid out by the Latin American study Program guidelines, my own university's behavior contract, President George W. Bush's War on Terror, and Jesus Christ's general expectations of young ladies.
"Seven o'clock tonight, bring a friend for my friend," I said in my most careful spanish. "See you tonight, I can't wait!" ("I can't wait" does not translate in Spanish. I actually told him "I am incapable of hope.")
I race up the wide, marble convent staircase to the room I shared with six other students. "Where is Christina?" I say breathlessly, attempting to be casual. A blonde girl I dislike greatly says, "Why? What's going on?"
"Nothing. Nothing." (pause) "Nothing."
Eventually I find Christina and inform her she has a date tonight and she's not allowed to wear a baggy shirt.
Christina's little face goes wide eyed. Her eyes are such an honest blue. Her tiny mouth and kind cheeks are pursed. She is one of the most pure and well-intended people I have ever known.
"It'll be great," I gush. "These really nice (sexy) boys (men) are going to take us out (try to sleep with us) to dinner (at someone's cousin's house)." I really can't remember which parts of the truth I offered her initially.
"Oh, I don't know, Sarita. Are we allowed? How did you meet them?"
I briefly tell her a story that sounds way less sketchy than what actually happened. Then, I tell her I'm sure that our teachers want us to study the culture in new and creative ways. That it is our gift to ourselves, neigh!, our gift to God, to be accepting of this culture and build new international relationships that could potentially completely repair the tensions between our two countries.
With great reluctance Christina joins the group for our double date. The boys were right on time, Alain brought his cousin, and most importantly, he was wearing a sleeveless shirt. The four of us strolled Havana. The lights were beautiful, glistening off of the water. People are dancing salsa in the street, music is spilling out of clubs and restaurants.
Christina is an impeccable translator. I learn that Alain is a volleyball player (hotttt), thinks that I look like an Elizabethan painting (but skinnier, right?), thinks that my hair looks like fire and sunshine (I'll show you some fire, Mr. Sunshine), thinks that we would have beautiful children (clearly), thinks that we should go somewhere more private to further discuss our new life together.
For a brief but terrifically exciting three minutes, Alain and I are alone. By alone I mean we are partially hidden behind a concrete pillar. We embrace, we need no words to express how we feel about US-Cuban relations. We are interrupted, however, by a ghostly pale Christina.
"Sarita, we should probably, um, you know, go," she said in freaked out english.
Seeing as how this was the first time on record Christina had ever requested anything, I squeezed Alain's fantastically bulky bicep one more time and we left.
Back at the convent Christina was somber and silent. We sat outside at a cafe style table in the courtyard and she slowly began to tell me what she had just been through.
"When I was a little girl," she began. "My pastor told us that all young women are gardens. That God has created each of us in a very special way. We all have special flowers in our gardens. There is a fence around our gardens, but there is a gate in this fence. And that each time," she pauses and her eyes avert to the ground with shame, "we allow a man to open that gate-"
"What the hell did he do to you?!" I ask far too loudly.
"He, well, he, uh, picked some of my flowers."
"What the hell did he do, Christina? I am so sorry. I never should have made you come, God, what the hell did he do??"
"He kissed me here," she points to her forehead. "And here," she points to her left cheek. "And he tried to kiss me here," she points to her top lip. "But I ran to get you and we left."
I sigh with relief. I sit back in my chair and try to find a way to explain to Christina that the church has irreparably damaged her and she will feel guilty the rest of her life. Then I decide that is the wrong approach.
"Christina, you know, your pastor is right. We are all gardens, for sure. I'm totally a garden. But, just like real gardens you don't want all the plants to get overgrown or the weeds will kill all the roses. You gotta let a gardner come in the gate every once in a while to prune the hedge. You know? You know what I mean? I'm a garden too, just," I break into spanish, "un poco cultivado."
