Broken Spanish
BROKEN SPANISH
A Love Story
Havana, 1957. I could see it as crisp and clear in my mind as I could taste the crisp Cuban cigar in my mouth that night atop my rooftop in 2017. The brown paper and tobacco leaves crinkled beneath the fumes of my inhale, intensifying a fire that had burned inside my heart for 15 long years – always fueled by the same sepia daydream of a past I didn’t live. I could all but touch the brass trumpets inside Hotel Nacional, the scent of rum, and the tension of fear and decadence disguised as class and sophistication in the air.
I looked out across the city that first night in Havana Vieja atop my rooftop, and exhaled. The smoke stream passed through my pursed, red lips and gave life to two intertwining bodies wisping about each other in the moonlight. Sultry. They seemed to move with the beat of the conga drum playing in the streets below, taunting me silently to go and indulge in the music.
Now, they whispered.
A romance was coming. I could feel it in the pulses of my wide-open heart. I was ready to surrender mind, body, and soul to the country that whispered beautiful secrets I heard only in my daydreams – to Cuba. I was certain this love affair would be with the land itself and its relentless history. But as the days unfolded, it was clear Mama Luna had something a little different in mind for me. Something so different, it would brutally shape the beat of my heart for years to come.
I will never forget the first time I heard Gloria Estefan sing about her Tierra. I was 12 years old. She painted a picture of her people – a people with bold passion, a complex history, and a deep longing for freedom expressed through music. A music whose rhythm seemed embedded into their very skin. I wanted to meet them because I knew I was one of them – spiritually, emotionally, and soulfully craving revolution. A romantic reality just within my grasp but for the haze of a dream and a Communistic barrier established in 1963 keeping me out.
The very word, Havana, invokes vivid collections of ideas and imagery for most of us. Perceptions and presumptions that are a blend of the real and the wildly romanticized. My heart told me that the two were not so very different at all; and I wanted nothing more than to trade in all speculation for my own raw truths. Once the political gates to Cuba were open for Americans, no one could stop me from finally putting my theory to the test.
My friend and I giggled over a few Cuba Libres at our casa particular that night, our hearts still aflutter in disbelief that we had actually arrived. Our room seemed symbolic of the living time-capsule that was Havana. Its chipping turquoise and honey amber sponge-painted walls, the tarnished Victorian-styled chandelier hanging above, the wooden, three-panel vanity mirror and cushioned stool – all of it, timeless treasures whispering secrets of the past. We couldn’t wait for morning to come and wander the backstreets of this timeworn paradise. Even my white, floral lace dress that hung on the door of my room’s antiquated armoire oddly matched the tattered lace doilies and vintage floral lamps on our bedside tables.
When morning finally came, I puckered my lips into that vanity mirror with an air of Old Hollywood and rouged them with a classic red hue. All I needed was a pair of long white gloves, a white orchid for my hair, and a retro 1950s microphone in hand and I could be Mi Tierra-album-cover Gloria herself! Lost in a daydream, clearly.
After practically running down the long, spiral staircase inside our casa particular and walking out onto the street, we climbed into the backseat of a sleek 1952 drop-top Chevrolet. It had a white and red leather interior, an oversized steering wheel, and a candy apple red paint that blazed so fierce in the sun it made Grease Lighting look like abuela’s hooptie.
The city began to reveal itself to us as we cruised leisurely through the maze of streets, blasting “Chan Chan” from the Chevy radio to magnify our first glimpse. We passed the iconic, Hemingway-trodden streets of Old Havana, the vibrant colors of the large, worn-down houses of Vedado, and the gleaming luster of the glittering sea beneath the sun lining the Malecon. It was in those moments, brushing through a kaleidoscope of color and character, that Havana stole our hearts. A Monet impressionistic painting incarnated. It seemed to be a place in which everything moved at half speed – time itself, most of all.
That is, until we took to the streets by foot.
It didn’t take long for us to find live Cuban music on a rooftop and a line of men ready to spin us around the dancefloor. And it was only 2 o’clock in the afternoon.
Cuban mamas wore their finest white lace and headwraps while fanning themselves and puffing cigars in front of the sunflower-yellow buildings of Plaza Vieja. Cuban papis whistled, gawked, and flirted with us as we smiled and walked along the cobblestone streets near Catedral de San Ignacio. Families grazed the meat markets and caught up with neighbors. Havana was alive.
After hours of getting lost in forgotten spaces of timeworn facades and weathered patinas, we turned a corner, right into a street soccer game of neighborhood locals. They had bare feet in place of cleats and silver trashcans in place of goalposts.
As we were passing an elaborate clanging of wrought iron gates, the ball came rolling down the cobblestone, right into my path. I stopped it with my sandaled foot, having every intention to kick it back – until I saw who was jogging toward me to retrieve it. Mocha skin, big eyes, and tatted sleeves – shirtless. He stopped just a few feet away from me expectantly, waiting for me to kick the ball back.
I gave one grinning look back to my friend before resetting my puma stare, curling my finger at him to come closer. And he did.
To my surprise, I sensed a shyness – very different from the many arrogant howlers peppered heavily throughout the city. When he got closer and I looked into his eyes, I sensed something so sincere in his disguise of muscles and tattoos.
“Hola,” was all he could muster. Everything else he said with the intensity of his stare and the goof-tinged curve of his smile. My broken Spanish at the time allowed for little more than his hola. Without even speaking more than a sentence, we both had the impulse to simply touch – me, his arm and he, my exposed back. Skin to skin, but with all the innocence of a middle school dance. His big, light brown eyes never left my cheesing smile. It went on this way for months.
Every mundane task in Havana gave me a sense of vibrancy. I found poetry everywhere. In crumbling facades, chalky tints, and faded finishes. In picking richly pigmented fruits from the earthy path of outdoor fruit and vegetable markets every morning. In gallivanting about the night to breathe in the lush, ambrosial waft of red wine. In salivating at the sight of freshly macheted coconut. All such tender, poetic moments made sweeter with his hand holding mine.
Walking down Calle Aguiar with him was like celebrating a family reunion every morning. I watched him hug and shoulder squeeze the neighborhood abuelos who sat outside their front doors playing chess or listening to music. As we walked further, he held my hand in one hand and pound-hugged every cousin who walked by with the other. Every young Cubano in the barber shops seemed to know who he was, dishing out the same jokes to each other every time we walked by. And every elder woman seemed to be his godmother. He introduced me to each and every one of them with pride after kissing their cheek in greeting.
Most days we found his abuela walking home with her morning ice cream cone in one hand and her groceries in the other. He’d playfully scold her for going by herself, to which she would respond, “pero me encanta mi helado.” We would help her place the net of groceries into a basket tied to a rope from her balcony and pulley them up to her apartment before ascending the stairs. I would watch him place her hand on his arm to patiently walk up the stairs alongside her. And without fail, at the third step, he’d look back at me and wink.
Afternoons were for play. The little girls with beaded curls would take turns laying on my lap on the shaded marble steps of the cathedral to escape the relentless heat. I would mindlessly pet their heads as I watched him splash the little boys in a water fight near the plaza fountain. Somehow amongst the chaos, he would know I was staring. He’d lock eyes with me before stealing away to plant a kiss on my lips that would send all of the little girls into a squealing frenzy of both embarrassment and delight. We’d go home to finally relax and escape the hot sun only to find ourselves slow dancing next to the fan in rhythm with the Cuban music playing from the street.
Sunsets were made especially for us. In the evenings, the two of us would climb down the cliffs to catch our nightly dinner. We’d strip down to our underwear so as not to get our clothes wet. Squirming minnows were always getting caught in the pumice-like crevices of ocean rock. To pass the time, waiting for bigger fish to grab hold of our fishing line, we’d sit down on the rocks and see who could catch the most minnows using only our forefinger and thumb before the next wave crashed. He’d win every time and tease me with kisses on my neck for being a sore loser. I hated losing, but those soothing lips were worth every loss. My favorite part of the day was watching the sun disappear beneath the water’s surface as he held me close, daydreaming together and out loud about bringing our future kids to these cliffs one day.
Late one night, as I rested safely in his arms, listening to the whir of the fan in the heat of night, the lyrics of a particular Gloria song drifted into my thoughts. Montuno – it went like this:
“Because it was born in the womb of the Caribbean,
And the world receives all of the warmth that it brings
Because it grew in the tropics of the heart
It has no borders. It's free.
It has no flags. It's everyone's.
It's the beat of the street and of brotherhood.
It's from rum and sugar. Molasses.
From sugarcane and horse-drawn carts. Strong.
It's the sweat of the nation in song.”
For years, I knew it to be the poetic description of Cuban music. But, in that moment, it rang true for this azucar-sweet love I felt brewing in the pit of my stomach. Not just for the man holding me, but for the meaning of life with him in it. I realized then that love was not an emotion, but a force. It knows no borders and cannot be caged. It is unable to be confined by the feeble symbols of flags and patriotism. It is limitless, flowing through you. Like steam, it finds a way through. It exudes so strongly from your very being that those you pass in the street can feel it, igniting a ripple effect of love for everyone to feel.
But this love was born in this land of unforgiving heat, communistic confinement, and an undying determination to pursue a life of freedom when true freedom is but a fable – some might even call it a hopeless place. The freedom to leave Cuba as a Cuban citizen is an illusion. The irony of it all was not lost on me.
What do you do when fate gifts you this encounter, but the real world stifles its evolution? It felt like the repercussions of the history that fueled my romanticized daydreams had the very real power of choking the life out of my current reality.
I woke up the next morning to find a rose on my pillow. I breathed it in, remembering the old woman selling them amongst long, white flowered stems and candles in front of the iglesia we could see from our balcony. Then, another scent better than any flower hit my nose – the scent of frying meat and eggs.
Wrapped in a sheet, I jumped up to find the source. There he was with a plate of freshly cut mango and fruta bomba. “Hi baby,” he grinned.
I giggled, ate a carefully cut piece of mango with my fingers, then placed the plate onto the table so I could wrap my arms around his waist and plant well-deserved kisses on his lips. I pulled him closer. He kissed me back slowly before playfully tapping my bare bottom.
“Aye baby, no! We have to eat first. Dios, I need my strength with you!” he laughed, before getting back to the frying pan.
I relished in all my womanly power, laughing and throwing back my disheveled hair, wearing my sheet scantily to the high-top breakfast table, teasing him in my broken Spanish. All the while, the inevitable fight for love that was coming weighed heavy inside my chest. After months of paradise, I had to return home. I placed my elbows on the table and schlumped.
As if reading my thoughts, he turned me around in my seat, combed his strong hands through my hair, and said, “No llores, my love, we will be together again soon.” He kissed my forehead, then my mouth, then my collarbone. Letting him, I closed my eyes and leaned back so he could go lower. With a crash, the Spanish ceramic plate of handpainted swirls and yellow, orange fruit fell to the floor. I took a careless glance down at it. Colorful shards of broken Spanish ceramic lay strewn across the floor, imperfectly beautiful in disarray. Art created by a fateful accident, vibrancy and beauty found in the broken and imperfect. Just like us. Trust in life’s irony, it said. That was sign enough for me.
He lifted me up and carried me to the bedroom.
CUBA | HAVANA | LOVE
BROKEN SPANISH
