putting on the same clothes as yesterday

July 21st.

Hi. I’m in Cuba. Things are going by so quickly. I guess it's because I planned so much back to back that it feels like it is all so sudden. I am enjoying every moment. 

I’m on my period AGAIN. Which I sensed happening yesterday but it's driving me nuts. I have to say this but I really hope I’m not on it in San Francisco or New York/New Jersey. I have plans. My doctor suggested MORE birth control, which I believe is ridiculous. I want this gone. 

Anyways, Cuba is beautiful. All I’ve seen so far is Havana. I spoke with Nico and he told me that his brother had traveled here some time last year, for an abroad experience through his university. I was nervous about whether or not they would look through my books, so I only brought neutral literature. Nico said that he would ask his brother about how strict the border agents were, if he had any issues coming in/out of the country, and if he had any recommendations. I felt grateful.

We’ve gone to one colonial museum and now we’ll go to a Revolution memorial. The actual revolution museum is closed for maintenance. The museum of fine arts is tricky because it sometimes closes at odd hours, as is almost everything else here. There’s so much I want to learn, but I have plenty of time.

I don’t have access to TikTok, I deleted Instagram, and I can’t go on my phone (with internet) outside of the apartment. It’s been a really long time since I’ve disconnected like this. My average screen time was around 7 hours per day in Spain, even while doing so much. I mean, I relied on it for directions. I also ended up using it for movies while I traveled to different train stations, or down time when my trains were delayed (Lleida…). 

I’ll miss my apartment in Zaragoza. I really became accustomed to it the last month I was there. But, I’m happy to move on. I have a lot of time ahead of me to get to know new places, move into new homes, and to meet new people. I’m excited for all of it!

Nico and I are back to talking often. We’re on track with Capital and getting much more specific about our beliefs. I’m more community focused because that is my area of expertise, with my language and my access, and he is more financially focused for his own reasons, primarily in what he’d like to do for work. I also have been to his house and it seems he is used to a particular kind of life.

Ultimately, we have gotten to know each other because he knows things I do not. Maybe the opposite is true, but so far I’ll give him the kudos and say he is smarter. I respect him. He seems to know everything. He might be a Fed... I think I should never have watched The Conversation. I think that my paranoia is founded in my Latin American ancestry. I am suspicious of him sometimes, but I think that is due to my inability to shut my mouth. It’s not like he asks me questions that I am resistant to, it’s just that I find myself telling him everything about myself. I would be a very easy person to spy on.

I wonder if we’ll ever see each other again. I’d like to have an in person conversation with Nico. It might be awkward at first, but that is to be expected. 

I feel like I’m going to throw up. Out of genuine sickness, not out of disgust for what’s happening. But, let me tell you about what is happening currently:

Yesterday, Joe Biden dropped his reelection bid, and endorsed Kamala Harris. I’m burping and I’m hoping I can keep my food down. I probably didn’t have the time to tell you this sooner, but I had a stomach virus the afternoon before the flight to Mexico City. That had never happened to me before, and my mom was dragging me out of bed and all throughout the airport because she would not be late to our flight. It is quite difficult to get to Cuba as an American citizen, and my mother was not going to allow an illness to prevent us from all of the work she had put in for us to get to the island. I threw up on the plane.

I talked to Nico and Vincent about the election, and we seemed to align - it's my other friends who don't, other than Ruth I think. You also can’t always gauge how people feel from pure conversation, but you can gather a lot based on how they act. It will be interesting to see who actually has guts in these coming months. Myself included, I’ll say, because I enjoy talking very much. 

I’m coming back to this writing having spoken to Belle. I think she is very neo-liberal, which I believe she would agree with. It is a matter of her ethnic identity, and her necessity to be neutral and strategic. She is as cynical as I am, yet uncomfortable with flat out combat and revolution. Most people don’t want that. They also fail to accept the cyclical nature of reality - they may see it happen over and over again yet pray for peace. They don’t realize peace does not appear out of thin air, it is fought for. Violently. 

Cuba is very bleak. It is bright, as I’ve already said, but it is terribly lonely. People are desperate to leave. I wonder what Che would have thought. I worry that I am too much like him, that I am firmly in accordance with his philosophies. I will find my own path. I assume he had his own heroes and idols, ones he may have ideologically abandoned once he was leading. 

I’m not on my phone unless I’m at the apartment. It is freeing. Honesty, I’ve been stuck to my screen all summer - studying my appearance, keeping up with my friends, stalking my ex. Generally. I've been online because it's what I’m used to, but I also spent double the screen time because of the war. I’m so focused on being up to date, as if my attention was equivalent to aid. I think it is important that I stay informed, still. It made my life harder. I will try to do something when I am in Marin, or San Francisco. something community focused.

I wonder what I will do once I am home. I had something to write about, but I can't remember what. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll remember and it will be my next entry. To go back on my point, I hope that I really fucking do something. I hope I get over the things that hurt me this year and invest my time helping people. I want to have relationships where I am better off because I met someone new, passing them by or adding them to my life. See you tomorrow. 

July 23rd

Reading my own writing is fun. I get amnesia sometimes and go through my journal like, huh! That is what happened. Or, ooh- now I remember when I thought I wanted that. I’m going to read my college diary when I get home. And my high school one. I never finished all of the pages, but now it seems I can’t go back and write more, because I’m too detached. They should remain intact. 

Later: I’m feeling a little anxious. I was reading The Congo Diaries and I could think about how stupid I am for putting my feelings for Matthew above how he treated me. I really hope I don’t text him, that I do not see him. The more I think of it, the dumber I feel. We haven’t spoken much since he admitted his feelings. Was he lying?

I will introduce my notes about Cuba with an anecdote: 

On my last night in Zaragoza, I made plans with my boss to have dinner. I poorly planned my last grocery store purchase, and ate chicken, potatoes, and broccoli to clean out my fridge. I was already feeling a bit timid, so part of me was ready to use my full stomach as an excuse to cancel my plans. I did not - I also had to see Lea, and it would be rude to cancel on both people just because I felt nervous. I went to see Lea and her boyfriend first. He asked me if I was excited about going back to the United States, and whether I would be back in Spain soon. She asked me about my sister’s engagement and about if I had met any Spanish men. They were satisfied to hear I hadn’t gotten into any trouble.

Next, I said my goodbyes and walked two minutes to the trolley stop where my boss was waiting with two friends, and their baby. They had accidentally run into each other while she waited for me. It made sense. She is very social (because she is a Spaniard) and Zaragoza is pretty small. She introduced me to them and mentioned that I was leaving for Madrid the following afternoon, and then I was off to Cuba. They wowed, and wished me good luck. My boss pointed to the father when I couldn’t find the right words to say, “I don’t know what to expect,” in Spanish. He responded, “No sé qué esperar.” That 's when the mother, who had gone to Cuba once in her thirties, said to me, “Pobresa. Más de lo que te puedes imaginar.”

Today, a drunk man (who was well-meaning) came up to us. We helped him buy oil and milk. My mom had to use the last ten euros she was holding onto, and I lent her the dollar bill in my wallet. He lured us in by showing the ration book he kept, which the government provided him, to keep track of his groceries. My mom felt compelled to help him, but to also show me how things worked in Cuba, under communism. 

We went to Che’s house in the evening, where he only really lived for a few months of his life. He and Fidel were always moving, and could not keep a permanent home for very long. I read a quote of his, where he said something like, I don’t find it shameful that I leave nothing to my wife and daughter, because I know that my country will take care of them, and offer all that they may need. At the point of writing this, he had already been given citizenship by the Cuban government. He was adopted as a Cuban.

I wonder if his family ever resented him.

Cuba is so different from any country I have ever been to. It's very empty. Everyone has left, or is anxious to go. I wonder if they know what is waiting for them on the other side, whether that be in Miami or in another part of the world. I wonder what Che would think about the state of the country, or of the world, right now in 2024. 

In The Congo Diaries, Che talks about how the revolutionaries he is engaging in guerrilla tactics with are quite stupid, motivated by alcohol and by women. They are a danger to themselves, compromising their positions as soldiers because they cannot maintain their appetite for hedonism. Maybe Che would not be surprised by the current state of affairs, but I have a feeling he would be a bit disappointed.

My journal will come to an end soon. I hope I have room to talk about my graduate school plans. I foresee myself buying a new notebook, but that means a new era. I’ll be older then. These pages will represent everything I’ve learnt, as have my other diaries and journals. 

I feel less crazy now. As I learn more about Cuba, more about the world, I am faced with all of the historical factors which explain why we have arrived at this point. It clarifies to me that time functions in a cycle, and that all land is affected by the atrocities that took place on top of it. It is like a curse, or sometimes an omen. I could not feel Che’s presence when we were at his “house,” but I could feel a tension on the coastline. Cuba carries its history in its people, but it also carries it in its crumbling infrastructure, and the homes that are being rebuilt along Old Havana. Cuba lives on in my family, in Florida, across Latin America. I am hopeful, because Cuba will never die.

I pray that I make sense of my feelings about Matthew internally, in a manner which is not showy. There’s no need to write a script and keep it for logging, like something to prove that I had all the right words and actions, so that people assume I am and have always been rational. Anyone who’s spoken to me knows me. Anyone who has not, might have to fill in the blanks. 

July 24th

This man is driving so fast. My toes are curling and I don't have anything stable to hold because the car squeaks with undone bolts and handles coming unglued. I think about how afraid I am to pass through security entering into the United States, but now I envision the many hours I could spend in the airport with ease because even if they are stressful hours, they are hours alive. I've developed a mild anxiety with driving now, partly because of my time away from home and because I do not own a car anymore (I never did, it was my mother’s). I wish I also had the courage to tell this taxi driver to slow down, but for whatever reason, I do not. 

I have these vivid pictures of steal breaking glass and penetrating the vehicle like a fucking kebab. I watched Final Destination too young. I watched a lot of things too young, but I think it can be said that no one is ever prepared to learn, they just have to, because ignorance at an old age is much more dangerous than a child discovering death before they can stomach it. I don't know. I could find a way to say that more poetically. Writing is helping, it keeps my eyes off the road and my mind off of that image of the car. 

I think we’re almost there. I really hope there are no more wide roads which turn into bridges or jungles; those make me want to cry. As I type, we’re hitting a corner. I want this to be over so badly that I turn up the volume of my headphones. I envision that if I tell him to slow down he may do so too abruptly and that will be worse for my mother and I. I want to sleep and not think about this. 

Not to mention, the car beeps when he’s driving too fast. It has yet to happen when we’re at a city pace. I have no other choice but to believe that the car is warning him to slow down, which he does not listen to. 

I do not want to own a car when I’m older, I hate them and I hate what they represent. I want to live where I can walk.

We are almost there, I pray. 

July 26th (night)

How I missed you. Only a few days have passed, and there have been a number of times where I’ve wanted to address you. I even thought of buying another journal, so I could keep writing even when I left you home, but I will have to eventually, so I thought to save my words until I have no pages left.

We were in Varadero for two nights. The first night, we stayed in the guest house of a happy couple. My mother tried to reserve the following night as well, but they said that someone new was already on their way and needed the beds. Before dinner, we sat in the yard that connected the principal home to the guest house, and chatted with one owner. He had studied in Kazakhstan after college in the eighties or nineties, in preparation for a career in geological engineering. Coming home to Cuba after his education, however, he found a rough and unforgiving economy. This was in the 2000s, which was still riding a similar pop culture wave as the late twentieth century: flashy, high production, and slightly alternative. He found a career as a photographer in the Latin American pop market, and told us about his work with Enrique Iglesias and Marc Antony. It was halfway through this conversation that I noticed what was atop the picnic table between us. An ashtray, with a sickle and hammer in the middle. It was divided into four parts, with four stoic heads. I recognized Marx and Lenin, but the other two could have been a number of philosophers or leaders. They all blend into one gray figure with a beard, in my opinion. They all had the same look. 

Since the second night was unplanned, we set out to find an airbnb near our first place which was smaller, cheaper, and less friendly. The owner wore terrible tight pants and seemed to be very entangled in gym culture. He reminded me of the circus owner next door in Coraline. He suggested we spend our day at a historic hotel, which led us into the beach of a resort, to which my mother (and honestly, I as well), could not resist. This airbnb had shitty AC, a repugnant green veil, and a musky scent which deterred us. We sat in the stingy room, and our sweat would not wick, because the fan that was on above our beds was spitting out hot air. We left our things, and resented coming home to the scenario later in the night.

So, when we did enter the resort to find streams below marble steps, and multiple pools overseeing the beach - which was crystal clear, and the same temperature as skin - it felt like a necessity. Especially when they allowed my mother to pay with an American credit card (it was a Spanish company, so they could bypass the embargo and charge her to another country. Loophole. This is the type of access that offshore money has on the country).

It was wonderful. I felt incredibly guilty. I don’t really know what else to say, but that it was terribly ironic, and I enjoyed every second of it. 

To continue - we arrived today in Havana again. Tomorrow, I’ll fill in the blanks and offer you what I wrote as we rode the taxi to and fro, but for now, I have to say that we arrived, went to a bookstore, and I bought two more Che Guevara books, one reader and also The Bolivian Diaries. I bought the second one because I knew that was where he was killed. Then we talked to some Cuban locals, who always confront us with the sentiment that Cuba is safe and not intimidating. Having come from Spain, where every corner there is the threat of pick-pocketing, I found myself agreeing with them.

Then we had dinner at a privately owned restaurant called Carbon, which now has a place in my heart. Their pork could definitely be my death row meal. Upon leaving, our waiter asked if we brought small or large luggage. When we said small, he said that was too bad, because if there had been more space, he would have snuck in it and come to the U.S. with us. I leave Cuba knowing how desperately others wish they could have the mobility and privilege that I have. I don’t know what to say. I wish things were better.