And So...

When Lis and I were talking on the phone the other day she told me that when people ask her what her favorite part of the trip was, she answers, "The art museum."
It wasn't my favorite but it sure was interesting. A new, modern building with sparkling bathrooms (but you had to pay an attendant to get toilet paper) and some of the areas even felt air conditioned. Though not all.
The picture above, Ruben told us, is known as the Cuban Mona Lisa. I took a few shots of pictures with my iPhone before the guard (a woman in a government issued uniform shirt with a short skirt and the black lace panty hose, of course) told us we could not do that. Which was fine. I couldn't believe they were going to let us anyway.
There was the pre-revolutionary art spaces and then the spaces dedicated to the time after Castro rousted Batista from the country.

Pre- . Of course.

And then the post-.

The artwork got darker and darker and odder and odder and so, you can see why when I came to the place in the museum where that picture by Thomas Sanchez was, I cried.

Such peace. Such promise. Somehow. 

Cuba for me was, as I keep saying, one mystery wrapped inside another. I went with very few preconceived notions. The images which have come from that country for so many years have been few and not vastly informative. And now I realize why- how can you sum up a country like Cuba in a picture or a portrait? How can the truth of such a place even begin to be represented, even in art, which does a better job than anything else I know?

One of the very few ideas I had was that after fifty or so years of revolution for the people, ALL people, that the inhabitants of Cuba would have settled into a sort of mocha color as to skin. I have no idea why I believed this. Do I not know more about humans than this? 

Although I saw many couples of varying skin tones together, there still seems to be a great divide as to the very dark and the very light. The descendants of the Spanish, of African slaves, of the indigenous people (and there were indigenous people and if I start to research that, I'll never finish but here's one link) and Asians. I just read on another site that 50% of Cubans are classified as "mulatto" (a word which has gone completely out of favor here in the US but a word which I think is beautiful in a way and I apologize if that offends anyone) so I was not entirely off-base in my assumption. There are many, many people of mixed race in Cuba BUT, there are also many, many people who seem not to be of mixed race but hey- what do I know and this is a touchy subject and one I was a bit shy to ask about. 

Here's what I did see though- absolutely beautiful faces everywhere we went. 

We spent a lot of time in the FAC. The club where our musicians played. The place would become packed with young people every night and their clothes, their hairstyles, their sense of personal style just knocked me out. I desperately wanted to take pictures of the faces of some of the people I saw, but again I was shy. So shy. The second night at the club, I did work up the courage to ask this man if I could take a picture because he was so obviously proud of his tattoo. And rightfully so.

Finally, on the last night, I had an experience which emboldened me. One of our party, Tim, insisted that I finally had to go upstairs to see the photography exhibit and so he and another woman named Toni, and our bus-driver and all-around-favorite-Cuban-in-the-world, Sobe, and I climbed the stairs. 

A photographer named Entique Rottenberg had an exhibit up and this is one of the first things we saw:

I did not take this picture myself. It came from this website. 

It's a huge long thing, all of those women in nothing but panties, a long line of women. Stunning. Beautiful. Very, very real. 

Anyway, the photographer himself was there and had a backdrop set up, his camera, an assistant. He came over to our little group and asked me if I would pose for him. My immediate reaction was "Oh, no. No, no, no."

"You can keep on your clothes," he said. 

And then I thought, Hell. Why not?

And so I did. His instructions for the pose were this: To cross my arms in front of me and look bored, straight into the camera. 

I did my best. He studied me, adjusted me, studied me, shot. 

This happened several times and then, he was done. 

"May I take your photo now?" I asked him. 

"If you will be with me," he said.

And so there we are. 

Here are my compatriots in this event.

I made them pose in front of another art work, a long, long length of iron chain with the word "deseos" formed into it. That word means yearning, a wish. 

I wish I knew more about it. Being at the club was such an all-sensory experience. The heat was unimaginable, there was music, art, film, people, people, people. And mojitos. So many mojitos. There must be more acreage planted in mint than in sugar in Cuba. I swear. 

But anyway, after that, I grew less shy and began to ask people in the club if I could take their pictures. And to a person- EVERY ONE OF THEM thought I was asking if they would take a picture of me. 

Ay-yi-yi!

And when I made clear that no, I wanted a picture of them, they were curious as to why.

"For memory," I told them. "Because you are beautiful."

Here are some shots I got. Not nearly enough but what I have. And the lighting in most of them is horrible but I got what I got. 

I so wish I had not been so reticent on the nights before. This was a Sunday night and the crowd was sparser, less dressed-up. Oh! The people I saw! The images I will keep in my mind forever. One night a couple was sitting in front of me in the space where Lis was playing. He was light skinned as could be and she was of a much darker hue, wearing a simple dress that hugged her every beautiful womanly curve, her hair twisted up so that her neck, a slender stalk of human glory, was bare. He had his hand on her back, down near her ass, and she sat as straight as a column. I could have taken a picture without anyone knowing but somehow, that would have been disrespectful and I could not do it. 

Still, it is in my mind and I can see it whenever I want.

There. I think I am ended. Maybe. 

A week ago we sat in the Havana airport for hours, waiting for our plane to leave. It was delayed because of a sudden storm which cracked the building with thunder and we watched rain falling down on the tarmac. A week ago. 

A week ago.

And I realized, when we got to Miami, finally and at last, that I had changed in some way. I was a fiercer woman. I felt stronger. I felt as if in some ways, I am done taking shit off anyone. 

Do you know that I suffered hardly any anxiety or depression in Cuba? A little. Not much, though. And since I've been back, hardly any either. This has given me a great deal to ponder on a very personal and perhaps narcissistic level. I did something I never even imagined I would do. 

I went to Cuba. I did that. Oh, sure, I might as well have been wrapped in cotton batting, protected and sheltered as I was by Soledad and Yosi and Sobe, too. By Lis and others in our group. But I said "yes" to so many things that normally, I would say "no" to and in some cases, I hardly had the chance to say no. But I said yes, over and over again and I am changed. 

I would wish with all of my heart that this feeling of fierceness does not fade away completely over time. That I can remember that I am stronger than I thought I was. That new experiences, that new adventures are good things. That they can pique my curiosity which leads me to want to know more and more and more. That I can be aware that I want to learn new things. That I can laugh freely and cry freely and get lost and get found. That I can meet new people and fall in love with them. That I can fall even more strongly in love with people I already love. 

And that all of us, no matter where we are from or what the color of our skin is or what our experiences are, are connected, related. 

The title of that painting I love so much is "Relacion" and the translation into English of that word can mean relation, connection, relationship. 

My gut was hit with that over and over again. 

Perfect. 

Will I go back to Cuba? 

I cannot foresee that. If I did, I would want to go someplace like Baracoa, I think, in the country, away from the huge city of Havana. The place that Sole and Jim Quine love so much and return to over and over again. 

I don't know. 

And isn't that the point? Not knowing? 

This I do know- the smell and taste of mint, of guava, of mango, of certain spices will forever and always shoot me right back to Cuba. I also know (and this sounds ridiculous but it's the truth) that the fact that President Obama and his family and the Rolling Stones visited that island right before the opportunity arose for me to go made it somehow easier. 

And, to be honest, more special. 

I feel humbled and beyond grateful that I had that opportunity and I never, ever would have gone without having Lis by my side. I just wouldn't have. 

It's another hot day in Lloyd. Mick is dancing around Nicey, trying to get a little action. She seems completely uninterested. Mr. Moon is back out, doing something with that fence. The crickets are singing of heat and air and life. My red passionflower is starting to bloom. My garden calls me. My dishwasher (I have a dishwasher!) needs unloading. I have leftovers of the very best venison I ever cooked from last night. I am about to be sixty-two years old. I have so many reasons to stay alive- not just children and grandchildren and husband but also the prospect that there can be more adventures, that there is so much more for me to learn. 

To learn. 

All right. Time to stop talking about it, although I am incredibly loathe to end this chapter. This post. And I'm sure I'll speak of it again. 

But for now, time to get on with where I am now. 

Happy Independence Day. I feel that more deeply this year than I ever have, perhaps. Not in the sense that oh, I went to Cuba and now I'm so much more grateful for our freedoms here in America.

Fuck that. 

Freedom has to start in our hearts and I feel freer now than I did two weeks ago by far. 

I'll celebrate that. 

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for coming along with me on this journey. We'll now return to our regular programming. 

Sort of. 

I believe I shall go eat a mango.

All love...Ms. Moon

Necessary Tourist Photos, Plus Musings

It is so hot today. I've hung out two loads of laundry on the line and although the garden is screaming for me to get in there and get things done, I believe it would be suicide-by-heat (to continue our theme here today) to do so.
So I'm going to try and get closer to the end of this Cuba trip today, sitting on my back porch with the fan on me, Maurice snoozing away on the other end of the table. Mr. Moon is working outside, bless his heart. He has suddenly decided that the fence must be pressure washed and I have no idea why. But, once he gets a goal, he must achieve it no matter what or how. I take him water and tell him I love him. I try not to cringe when I see everything he has trimmed around the fence, some of it needed, some of it a little heartbreaking to the woman who planted it all.

This post will be mostly tourist photos. You know- the photos that all tourists are required to take. The photos that thousands of people go home with and look at later and not remember one bit of the significance of. Now someone like Steve Reed can make those photos into art but as the immortal Bob Dylan said, "It ain't me babe. No, no, no, it ain't me babe. It ain't me you're thinking of, babe."
Etc.

Our first full day in Cuba, our darling guide and historian, Ruben, took us on a walking tour of old Havana. We visited several plazas and damn if I can remember the names of any of them. A lot of restoration is going on right now which the Cubans are justifiably proud of. It seems that after the fall of the Soviet Union, support from that resource was cut to Cuba and things went bad. Real bad.
Now see? I could spend about eight hours looking up this very topic on the internet and barely graze the surface. Also, I could identify and give a brief history of every freaking picture I'm about to share.
Ain't gonna do it. Not that I'm not interested, it's just that this is not exactly what my blog is about.
I'm going to pare the photos in this genre I have down to a reasonable number. Okay?
Okay.

I love this statue. Look at it closely if you want. Very naked, very womanly woman wearing high heels on a rooster with a giant fork. Now you know me and my theory that chickens have done more for humanity than Jesus did and by god, that is how I am interpreting this art work which is by a famous Cuban artist and I don't know his name.
ALL RIGHT! I JUST LOOKED IT UP! HERE'S AN ARTICLE IF YOU WANT TO READ IT! With a much better picture. The artist's name is Roberto Fabelo. I'm sticking with my interpretation.

Interior of a beautiful old hotel. Courtyard.

Picture on wall of same hotel. I think. I just love that picture. Again- no idea of the artist or the significance. Also? This is the hotel where I believe we lost Jim whom we found again later. 

Mercury. I think.

All right. This is cool. Those are wooden bricks and Ruben told us that the reason this particular plaza has wooden bricks is that when the building facing this part of the plaza was a palatial private home, the senora of the casa liked to sleep in late and the sound of the horses and wagons crossing in front of her house on the regular bricks was too ringing, too loud and all of that noise disturbed her sleep. To please her, her husband had them replaced with wood.
I hope this is true because it's awesome.

This may be the cathedral where the Pope held a mass when he was in Cuba. Don't put any money on that bet, though.

The lobby of the famous Hotel Nacional which is very famous and was not actually on the tour that day and I'm not sure why it's in this group of photos except for the fact that it is definitely a tourist photo. The hotel is very grand, very beautiful, built on a hill overlooking the water. You can have drinks on the lawn and watch the peacocks as they strut by. 

I think it was built by the mafia. 

Oh dear Lord. I just had to look up the Nacional. I am going down one rabbit hole after another but this is fascinating stuff, y'all! Johnny Weismuller stayed there! So did a lot of other famous people but...Johnny Weismuller! My first boyfriend!

This is a mail slot. Good place to post bills and hate mail, I'd say.

Uh. Something. On top of a building. In a plaza. Yep. That's right.

Lion statue taken from the bus. Lis and I always got the front seats because we could. Until the last day when another woman sat her own ass down in our seats! We were astounded! How dare she? 
Because Lis and I are ladies, we let it pass.
We will not forget, however.

No. We did not go here. Very touristy, I hear, but I still would have enjoyed it. It was recently renovated after many years of being closed. As Ruben told us, one of the things that made modern (relative term) Havana was prohibition in the US. When the sale of alcohol became illegal, Americans flocked to the nearby country of Cuba where they could party their asses off in the bars and restaurants and nightclubs and casinos, imbibing as much of the demon rum as they wanted. Also? Rum runners dared take to the seas at night to bring liquor illegally into the US. 

Fortunes were made on both sides of the deal. 

Ruben also said something about how prostitution is what originally funded Havana but I forget the context. Pirates seeking sex, perhaps? I would not doubt it. 

Look! A restored part of a plaza! 

Seriously, there is some beautiful restoration work going on in Havana. And it's important work. Some of these buildings date back to the 16th century. I should not make light of any of this. There are arguably no more beautiful buildings in the world than those to be found in Havana. Another small article here, if you are interested. 

But here's the crazy thing- the Cuban thing- the sad, sad thing: Get two streets off these plazas where money and effort are being poured into these projects, these absolutely and genuinely critical attempts to salvage and save these irreplaceable structures, and you see things like this:

So many examples of time and sun and rain and mold taking down such graceful, lovely places. Lis and I walked past one place where you could see into a dank, dark courtyard where it appeared that many, many people lived in the apartments surrounding it. It looked like a level of hell I can't imagine even visiting, much less living in. I know that after the revolution, all Cubans were guaranteed housing, food, and medical care but who gets to tell whom where they can live? Who gets a nice, breezy place on a lovely street and who gets an airless, crumbling cell? 

I have no answers to these questions. I hear that many of these old buildings simply and suddenly crumble and collapse or lose great pieces of themselves to gravity. Balconies drop with no warning. And people die when these things happen. 

Some will say that there are always two sides to the story. Two sides to the coin, as well. 

But after having visited Havana, I am more of the opinion that we should not be discussing sides at all but onions with their layers and layers and layers of information, history, politics, art, economics, and on and on and on. 

Yosi said that these days there are people who, after four days in Cuba come home and start giving paid lectures about the place. That made me laugh so hard. What could ANYONE know after four days in this city which has been touched and shaped by so many cultures, countries, and governments? All I know after my four days is that I don't know enough to know what questions to ask and I had the incredibly fortunate resource of traveling with people who have been coming to Cuba for over a decade and also Ruben, who has studied Cuban history his entire life and who has lived there his entire life. 

Here's one thing I do know- the people of Cuba are gorgeous. 

My next (perhaps last) post will be about them. 

Off to the garden. Hope I don't die. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Cars And Papa, Mostly

It's a hot, steamy day in Lloyd, almost one o'clock already and I have done nothing but little dribs and drabs of this and that. A quick sweep-up here, a tiny bit of laundry there, a walk to the post office where I had to stop on both the way there and back to admire my neighbor's crepe myrtle.

And this, people, is why you should not cut back your crepe myrtle. 

I just finished my breakfast/lunch of watermelon and leftover zipper cream peas and rice. Perfection. As I ate, I read a review of a restaurant in the New Yorker, it's description of a side-dish of sweet potato puree with lemongrass and I had no longing to taste that particular pairing. The complete satisfaction of the simple peas with rice suits me absolutely and I could wish for nothing finer in this world. I want to get out into my garden today to weed and tidy and spray the fucking aphids on the peas. Last night Mr. Moon said that he thought them so delicious that he wants to tear out the entire garden and plant nothing but those peas. I understood. 

I got to talk to Lis this morning. Her life has not slowed down one iota since we got back. I don't know how many gigs she's had since Wednesday or how many people have recorded at their studio which requires her to not only sit-in as a musician but to also provide the meals. When I say that I am a badass, I can't even begin to compare myself to that woman. 

Here she is with a lady who was selling peanuts, singing in the most gorgeous deep voice you ever heard. Lis joined her for a moment, harmonizing and it was instant love between them. We bought the peanuts and never did get around to eating them all although they were delicious. We were just never hungry enough, nor did we have enough time! I'm not kidding you. 

Okay. Cars. Isn't that the image everyone has now of Cuba? The vintage cars. I know I posted this before, but doesn't it sort of sum up what we think Cuba might look like?

The Revolutionary billboard and a vintage American car? 

Here are some more of those old beauties. 

I could have taken a whole lot more and here's what I learned- most of the most beautiful and lovingly restored old autos are taxis now. If you've ever had any idea of going down to Cuba and buying a '55 Chevy for cheap, forget about it. One of our group talked to the owner of one of the taxis and he paid $30,000 for his several years ago and said he could probably get twice that now. 

How, you may ask, can a Cuban taxi driver afford such a vehicle? 

Well, according to Ruben, again this is mostly possible with the backing of an American relative. With one of these taxis a Cuban can make far more money than say a doctor or a lawyer and I believe they get to keep their tips. So don't be looking at those beauties as something you could ever buy. They represent an entire business and income to the owners. 

If we'd had a little more downtime, I would have loved to have hired a driver to take us around for a little tour in one as one of our group did. He said it was an amazing experience. 

I feel as if we got to see such a very, very small part of Havana which is, in itself, such a very, very small part of Cuba. The only drive out of the city we took was to go visit Hemingway's Cuban home and I loved that trip despite the fact that I almost died from heat stroke. 

So. Time to talk about that part of the trip I suppose, since I've found my way there. I have so many pictures. Please be patient with me but in Hemingway's home I found another of my own personal dream houses and couldn't stop snapping. The Cuban government maintains this house and the grounds as a museum and it is gorgeous. They obviously are very proud of Hemingway's residence in their country, his love for it. And say what you will about Ernest Hemingway, Papa, his style, his lifestyle, his drinking, his overtly macho behavior, his hunting, his wives...

Doesn't matter. He was and remains a very important American author and for good reason. The man led a life. And he did indeed have a way with stringing words together to tell a story which was unique and all his own.

And now that I've been to this place I want desperately to know more about his time there. As with this entire journey, one road leads down another and I could spend the rest of my life learning more about it, trying to answer just a few of the many, many questions I have. 

The entrance to his estate. I guess it's an estate. Whatever. As we pulled in, we noticed that a game of baseball was being played off to our left by little boys. You see that guy on the left in the white pants? He's the coach. Don't forget him. He comes into play (so to speak) a little later on in this story. 

You are not allowed into the house. You can, however, lean into open doors and windows and take all the pictures you want. You sometimes have to stand there in line to do so, the hot sun beating down on you as people from all over the world take their own photos with phones, with cameras, both fancy and simple. Here are some of mine. 

Dining room, I suppose.

His desk in his writing tower.

The entrance room. Do you see those magazines?

A living room, I presume. 

I'm going to have to start part two of this particular adventure on another post because I can't figure out how to get any more pictures into this one. 

And it's two-thirty now and I have a few things I need to do around here. 

Here? There? Where the fuck am I?

Can I tell you that I don't think I've enjoyed anything so much in forever as sitting here, writing and sharing photos about this trip? I read a quote once about how writers get to live everything twice. The living of it, then the sharing of it. I believe this to be true but I would add that sometimes we get to live everything over and over and over and over again. 

Sometimes this is horrible. Sometimes, it is wonderful. 

This story, this re-experiencing, is wonderful. For me. 

To be continued...

Babies, Boys, And Lots More About Cuba. And...The Magic Of Music.

So. This is the sort of thing that was happening at my house today.
And like this.

And of course this.

And then we went to the Indian buffet and to Big Lots where this happened.

And many, many other things including Gibson shedding his britches as soon as he got here and when we asked him where his pants were he said, "Pants BEGONE!" and ran out of the kitchen and now I'm like...Cuba? Did I go to Cuba?

Yes. Yes I think I did and I seem to have the pictures to prove it. 

Okay. Where was I? Fuck if I know. 

I haven't spoken much about the people I traveled with. The musicians besides Lis and James Quine were Eva Danielle, Michael Jordan, and Sam Pacetti. I've known Sam for years and had met Jim before but had never met or seen Danielle or Michael play. And they blew me away and represented the US beautifully. The Cubans seemed to love them all. There were others in the group who came along and I'm not going to name them because they aren't performers and as such, they deserve some privacy. But they were all a good group of people and by the end of the trip we'd shared a lot of laughs and experiences, not to mention plates passed around the table. I was somewhat shocked in this day and time to discover that not a one of us had any dietary restrictions and if we did, no one said anything about them. We ate all the food groups and drank all the rum drinks. The last night at the club they ran out of beer but that wasn't a problem since they still had plenty of rum. 

God. It's a miracle we all made it back alive. 

And yet...we did. 

Lis and I adapted to our little nun room. We'd come in at three in the morning with our four keys and Miranda, BLESS HER HEART had to open at least one of the doors for us every night until the last night when we finally figured out out to open the main door. The lock was tricky, y'all. Even in the sober light of day we couldn't figure out that fucker. Lis and I would whisper apologies to Miranda profusely and she'd shrug and roll her eyes and go lay back down on the couch and Lis and I would go into our room and turn on the AC and the fans and take cold showers and put on our cotton nun nightgowns and fall into deep sleep. 

We felt so bad about having to wake Miranda up and finally, on the last morning, Yosi came over and did some translating for us so we could finally talk a little and she assured us that it had been no problem and that she had been so happy to have us and we were welcome back any time. 

That's her and her daughter. Lis gave them each one of her beautiful ribbon flowers she'd made and we left them a good tip, I think. Through Yosi we got to tell them how much we appreciated the beautiful, amazing breakfasts and coffee every morning and how sorry we were to have woken them up every night. Also, how grateful we were to have been able to visit their beautiful country and Miranda told us that it used to be that Cubans could fly to Miami for lunch and come home for supper and she hoped it would be that way again some day. That the feelings between the people of our country and hers were positive and beautiful, no matter what the governments did. 

And of course I cried. Even Yosi teared up a little. 

Lis and I were excellent traveling companions. 

We just purely love each other and I was so happy to be her roadie, despite what I said about carrying instruments. When she was playing I'd tell the person sitting next to me, "Mi amiga!" and point to her. She's so talented and beautiful and strong as hell. We both curse like sailors, we both love our long-time husbands to pieces, we both love to cook and eat, we both like our beverages. And here's something so sweet- while we were gone, Mr. Moon and Lon went to Dog Island together and it made us so happy to think of them playing cards, fishing, and relaxing together. Especially the relaxing part because that's something our fellas rarely do. Well, Lon never. So that was a sweetness in our hearts while we were there.

As I said, we split our meals and that worked out beautifully as the portions were so huge. I know! I don't have enough pictures of food! It seemed like such a fucking cliche at the time but now I wish I had succumbed to the cliche. Here's some ropa vieja, though, with eggplant. 

Holy mother of god, that was good. We had salads, we had fish, we had lobster, we had pork, beef and chicken. We had croquetas. Lots of croquetas. The food was simply amazing in all regards. Fresh, beautiful, perfectly prepared. Yosi told us that ten years ago, there WAS no food in Cuba but there sure is now. I do not think that the people of Cuba themselves get to eat the way we ate by any means, though. And this is another of the mysteries of our trip. We saw several government owned grocery stores (although we did not go into any of them) and there was a rations place right across the street from Casa Miranda. It was dark, gray, and people lined up outside and were called in, one by one and would come out carrying a small package. I did not see bakeries or markets although I did see people walking by with loaves of bread in their arms. 

Tourism is beginning to happen in Cuba and there seem to be a goodly plenty of restaurants catering to them. Ruben told us that since Raul Castro has taken the reins of the country, private businesses are becoming more common but as I understand it, they have to be businesses you run out of your own home. So even for a fancy restaurant, there may be someone living upstairs. Or in a back room. And most are started with money sent from relatives who have moved to the US, even though sending money to Cuba is illegal, I think. So much is on on the down low there. It just has to be. The businesses which I noticed were the Casas Particular, the restaurants, bars, and souvenir shops which all seemed to carry the exact same ten items which were mostly hats, a few crude carved wooden toys, and...well. That was about it. Fans. Fans were a popular item and Lis bought more than a few and I bought two because dammit- the heat. 

One of the main differences between Lis and me is that she does not sweat. At all. Whereas I sweat like...well, I think I set the sweat bar on the high end. 

Here I am, meandering again. But yes, Lis and I never once got annoyed with each other (well, she says she never got annoyed with me but I don't see how that's possibly true) and I would carry the napkins and sometimes a banjo if need be and she would navigate me through the streets when that was called for. I get lost in hotels. No. Really. I do. One evening, while everyone else went to a concert in a cathedral, she and I took off alone to explore a little. We were in a square where there were a few things for sale and I was looking at something, and then turned around to see this. 

In the time it took me to look at a few pieces of pre-revolution pesos, Lis had negotiated with and begun getting her hair braided by a woman named Jaimie. 

Isn't that a beautiful picture? I think so. And after that, we got coffee 

and then made our way to the restaurant where we were all meeting after the concert, solely by Lis's abilities.

It was nice for us to get there first. We ordered drinks and settled in to wait and listened to the music. 

We tipped them well, bought their CD (Los Hermanos), and Lis gave them one of hers. We told them about the next performance of our group at FAC and they promised to come.
And guess what?
They did.

And as a gift, that man brought Lis a tiny oil painting he'd done that day of a portrait of Lis he'd made from her CD cover art. Have I already told you this? God. I'm really losing my mind and the membrane between that world and this is becoming so wavery. It had to have been a huge financial deal for these guys to come to Fabrica but they did. And they let Lis know how beautiful they had found her voice and that they had listened to her CD all day long. 

Listen- I have said this so many times before but I do believe with all of my heart that music and art are the true language of communication and that all of the official diplomacy and blah-blah of governments cannot begin to touch the effectiveness of what happens when people share music and art. 

It's time/past time for me to make supper here in Lloyd but I will add one thing. When we were at that restaurant where the waitresses sang and danced for us and Ruben answered our questions, I asked him, "What do the Cuban people think of Obama?" His face lit up like a fully-bloomed sunflower in the brightest light of day.

"They love him!" he said. 

And later, when I asked him what the Cubans think of the Rolling Stones and the concert they did, his face got every bit as bright. 

"They love them!" And he told us that it had been a hugely important thing for the Cuban people to be able to attend that concert, to have the Rolling Stones in their country because for so many years, their music had been banned and yet, of course, as these things go, so many people had managed to listen to them and they represented so much and to have them there, to play for free, had been amazing. That all of the generations had come together to love that music and the men who played it, old as they are now. 

"I don't think that anyone else in the world could have done that," said Ruben. "It was beautiful."

It's only rock and roll, y'all. 

It's only music. 

If anything can bring us all together, it's only that. 

Shitfire. I'll carry a banjo any day if it leads to things like all of this. 

Love...Ms. Moon