These three men, Hebert, Geikel and Oscar, turned out to be the salsa-dancing bookends around a story in which Karrie, Simone and I fell completely in love with Cuba in six days. It's always kind of dream-like when you return from a place so different than your own, but it seems even more so this morning, after a lifetime of wondering about this mysterious place that lies just 90 miles from what is so familiar, and after spending our last night in Havana salsa dancing (or "salsa dancing") on the roof of a classic hotel in the old part of the city. They are also the framing around what felt a little bit like a week of our own "self-licensed" Cuban-American public relations campaign.

We want to tell everyone about Cuba. But, of course, we don't want to tell anyone. Don't go there. Don't change it. Leave it alone for when we want to go back and experience it like it is now. Karrie and I first attempted to go back in 2001, but a harsh trip through Venezuela and a sketchy Caracas food cart left us both too sick and tired to go on. We regretted that decision for fourteen years - fourteen years in which Cuba has changed drastically - but finally planned this trip through text (me to her last March: "I think it's time for Cuba.") And Simone was quick to jump on board.

But the next one, two, three, ten years? We don't want to think about it. Well, anyway, here are some snapshots for you. I'm writing this posthumously because for the first time in about 15 years I did not look at a screen for one whole week. Wide access wi-fi came to Cuba just two months ago, available in select plazas Cubans have already tagged "Zombie Plazas" for everyone's changed focus. But it was easy to resist because connecting still involves a process (standing in a long line for a card, figuring out the codes to enter). How many times for the rest of our lives will wi-fi be easy to resist? I don't want to think about that, either.

"OK, my babies!"

My first glimpse of Hebert was through the peephole of our airbnb apartment in Old Havana. His knock came about 45 minutes earlier than expected, so the three of us looked at each other in confusion. I went to the door and peered through the hole with one eye.

"I'm the salsa teacher," he said. Wearing a lycra red and pink spider-webbed tank top and cargo pants, dreads pulled back in a red plastic scrunchy, Hebert transcends age and gender at a glance. We had arranged salsa lessons through our Swiss host (no Cubans can run airbnb's yet) between 9-11 to help realize one of Karrie's Cuba dreams quickly: to dance salsa as much as possible during our week.

He went on to explain that he had been waiting for half an hour outside to get into the building, but in mid- sentence he let out a belly laugh.

"It's very hard to speak to you through this little hole!" So Simone figured out how to unlock all four bolts and let him in. He told us that our other two dance instructors were waiting at a square near the dance studio, but to take our time. Then he went back outside to wait.

We had arrived the previous night, three hours late, because our flight from Cancun was delayed and because Karrie and Simone had waited for an hour at the wrong baggage carousel while I searched (with my carry-on) for our Cuban on-the-ground host to the Swiss airbnb host, Dani. But I didn't find him until almost an hour later because he was standing at the wrong entrance. When I finally spotted him, holding a sign with our names in one hand and a rum juice box in the other, it was right as Karrie and Simone emerged with their bags. Our meeting was filled with hugs, relief and rum-sharing over the delay, then Dani walked us out to our ride into Havana, a two-toned green '54 Chevy, fully loaded, air-conditioned, blasting "Hotel California," with driver (not drinking a rum juice box). Of course we have all heard about the cars, cars, cars in Cuba, frozen in time and maintained by really good mechanic skills, but nothing can prepare you for what you see on the streets: over 50% of the cars in Cuba really are classics, many of them beauties. From that moment until the end, we were car-picture-taking fanatics. We just couldn't stop.

That night, Dani took us to dinner at a friends' home where three women cooked in a very small kitchen just-for-us. Ropa Vieja for them, shrimp in red sauce for me, accompanied by dirty rice, white bread, and cabbage, avocado tomato and cucumber salad. He toured us around old Havana for a few hours, then we dropped into bed, exhausted.

Back to our salsa lesson. We walked across town to meet our other teachers at the square: Oscar, Hebert's cousin, is a shorter, darker President Obama, and Geikel is Oscar's friend, a gentle giant who looks like an Olympian. We found out later he IS an Olympian...a Junior Olympian (Russia, '98) in the hammer throw, and now a track and field coach.

Walking through Havana in the daylight began what was probably really annoying commentary by me to my two traveling friends, but which could have been much more annoying if I hadn't held myself back every two minutes: Cuba is so much like Vietnam. So, so much. If you take my two favorite places in the world, Vietnam and Mexico, and throw in a little Kenya (according to Karrie and Simone who both spent time there), you have Cuba. The color of the buildings, the wires sticking out everywhere, the activity, the roosters in the morning. Vietnam, Vietnam, Vietnam.

One day we were talking about how Cuba is so much like Mexico but then so little like Mexico. What is it? The difference? It's got to be the education of the people - the country with one of the highest literacy rates in the world. Education is free, and so many people we met had multiple degrees. Hebert teaches English at a University (getting a masters degree in Educational Science with a focus on motivational psychology, so we had a lot to talk about) and his mother is a professor of science in Guantanamo. Oscar has three degrees but works mostly as a massage therapist and has spent a few years on cruise ships. The strange part is that everyone, no matter what the profession, makes about 25 CUC's ($25) per month. All of the basics are provided for as far as food and shelter, but anything "extra" comes from outside work. If you want Adidas tennis shoes, you put away $10 per month for seven months, Hebert told us. Of course the people who make the most money are connected to tourism in some way. These three made more money teaching us salsa for two hours than they did at their professions for a month.

The dance studio was at the top of a building with exposed wires, an open balcony, graffiti on the walls and a booming stereo. It was a bit awkward at first because only Hebert and Karrie spoke both English and Spanish and the other two were very quiet. But after stretching warm-ups, Hebert began to call out, "OK, my babies! Are you ready?" and we began practicing the steps. Karrie had salsa'd quite a bit, me only maybe twice (badly) and Simone was basically being a really good sport about the whole thing.

After an hour of basics, Hebert declared we were ready to dance. We paired up, and spent one hour actually doing it. My partner, Oscar, was a really good teacher, and by the end, sweat was flinging from my hair as he spun me around. I actually started to get it. Karrie and Hebert were flying, and Simone and Geikel were, well, Hebert said Simone was more "emotional" and didn't want to be confined by "steps." But her gentle giant was so gentle he would hardly direct her, while the cousins were not at all afraid to direct.

"Looking good, my babies! Feel it, my babies!" Hebert is the kind of person who makes the party happen. By the end we were all laughing and dancing - Simone in more of a "freestyle," Karrie as an expert, and me as someone who saw moments of getting it. Small moments. At the end we were friends. After class, the two assistants went on to their other jobs, while Hebert took us around and dispensed invaluable information, where to eat being the most valuable for me. We agreed that we would spend our last night in Havana with them, dancing on the roof of a hotel, and when Hebert left we wandered through Havana's streets and plazas for the rest of the night.

"Spanish Slave"

I've been lucky enough to travel with Karrie on two previous epic trips, one through Mexico in 2000 and the one mentioned in Venezuela in 2001. Both times I experienced the benefits of her excellent Spanish over and over: riding in the back of an el Camino to a festival way out in rural Mexico where we ate tamales out of baskets, learning how to cook mole from a Oaxacan woman who owned a restaurant, etc, etc. I would always say, "Karrie, ask this person this, ask that person that..." to the point where she said, "I think you ask me to ask people a lot of things you would never ask yourself." Which is true; it's much easier to have someone else do the hard asking. So we began to refer to her as my "Spanish slave." It's really the only way to travel through Spanish-speaking countries, with a slave, and I'm very glad that her kids are old enough now that I can kind of have her back. Her soul place is Mexico. She loves the people and the language. One of the biggest compliments she can receive is about her Spanish, which she honed while living in Mexico after college.

So when we were standing in line at a Hebert-recommended restaurant and after speaking one line of Spanish to the man next to us and him telling her her Spanish was "perfect" no less than eight times, every time she would accomplish an extraordinary feat in Spanish, I would tell my slave that her Spanish was "Perfect perfect perfect perfect perfect perfect perfect."

But truly, Simone and I agree, Cuba would have been a much different (understatement) experience without her. You'll see why as you read. But another thing she brought that made the trip so much fun was about 50 baseball hats, collected from her friends after our Cuba Informant, Rita Ireland, told us how much the people loved them when she gave some as gifts last spring. So we all stuffed these hats, along with paper, pens, shirts, soaps, reading glasses, USB devices and baseballs, into our bags to distribute as we went.

At the end of our salsa lesson, we gave Geikel a Seahawk's championship hat and he was thrilled. But he didn't know what the "Superbowl" was. This country is all about baseball, baseball, baseball and a little bit of soccer. They seemed to get enough TV to be terrified and confused by Donald Trump and what he might do to the progress of American/Cuban relations, but not knowing the Superbowl surprised us. We promised the other two they would get their hats on Friday. "I'm going to be really mad if I don't get my hat!" Hebert said, laughing. So for the rest of the week we planned which one to give him, and decided that Hebert needed the only red hat we had: a little league hat with the letters "NC."

"Pass the handle, please."
Dani had recommended that we take a day trip out to Vinales for our second day, a "two-hour" trip, to see the beautiful valley that is revered all over Cuba. "It will be in a classic car for $150 round trip," he told us. "And you will have an excellent driver - someone who can take you anywhere you want to go for the day." Overall, the most expensive part of our trip ended up to be transportation. Cars are hard to come by and highly valued of course, so getting around is more expensive than lodging ($50 per night for our very nice airbnb). A few days later, in Trinidad, we took a taxi out to the beach - an incredibly rusty, splitting-into-pieces Eastern European version of a Fiat - and the driver told us his car was worth $11,000. Horses? $500 for a transport horse (lots of horses and carriages in Trinidad) and farm horses, $1000 (MUCH more important, our driver, Johnny, who was so tall his head would have hit the rusty roof if he didn't duck, told us.)

Anyway, after one day in Havana, we met Luisito (little Luis) outside of our apartment at 9am for the journey north and east. We might have been expecting more because of our tricked out pick-up ride from the airport, but we really weren't prepared for the blue '51 Chevy, totally rusted out inside, or for our driver, who spoke no English. This was no problem, but he didn't really speak Spanish, either...he just hardly spoke at all, period. Karrie said he didn't use one single "s" the entire trip, cutting off every word before it ended. And the ride was more like seven hours round trip, only the second time Luisito had made the journey.

Karrie, the translator, sat in front without a seat belt, while Simone and I sat in back, also without seat belts, and struggled over whether to endure the severe wind from the rolled-down ancient windows or to roll them up, the black tinting blocking our $150 view. The other problem was that there was nothing to hold onto or lean against except for the tattered seat. We were afraid to lean against the door because it only took one little click upward of the door handle to throw the door open, which would turn us into Cuban roadkill in seconds. There was only one handle for the windows, so every time Simone and I decided we couldn't take the wind any longer or that we should be enjoying the view, we would say, "Pass the handle, please" and Luisito would hand it back and watch it carefully until we used it like a wrench and gave it back to him. Imagine how valuable a car handle would be if you only had one of them. Used car parts must go for a mint in Cuba. That's what I'm bringing next time, in addition to more baseball hats.

We ended up loving Luisito, especially after he started talking. We learned that the car belonged to his grandfather and that he was studying mechanics to keep it running. By the end of the 9am - 7pm trip (time is relative here), we wanted to shower him with gifts. When he dropped us off, we ran up and got him a hat and gifts for his wife and son. The winner there was a little Matchbox car that Karrie had thrown in at the last minute - one that belonged to her son. Luisito loved that car. When Dani met us at the end and we were all standing outside the car discussing details, Luisito went back to the place where he had left his gifts inside the car."Oh, go ahead and go if you need to," Karrie told him, but he answered, "No, I'm just looking at my gifts." And he held that car, almost crying, playing with the wheels. Maybe we just didn't go to the right places, but we saw no toy stores. We actually didn't even see a grocery store - just commissary type places where people stood in line to get items that looked like they belonged at a garage sale: Underwear, piping, oil, soap. Three or so of each item, except for rum. Lots and lots of rum.

"Fidel takes care of us with love, care and respect."

Despite planning our trip last March, we waited until the end of September to try to book the incredible Casa Particulares that Rita recommended in both Havana and Trinidad. We were way too late - everything was booked. One of the owners that Rita had stayed with, Miguel, Karrie recognized as a very genuine person through their email correspondence, so she asked him whether he knew of a school where we might do an "exchange." The woman who helped clean and cook in their place, Belkes, had a nine-year old daughter, Veronica, Miguel wrote; he would try to set something up through her. Karrie's daughter Josie is also nine, so she had Josie's class write letters to Veronica's class. They wrote on sheets of paper that had four squares in which to draw a picture and places to write explanations underneath. Karrie also got one of her former colleagues from Shorecrest to have her advanced Spanish class write letters. So Miguel and Karrie had this all set up for our time in Trinidad.

We had read multiple estimates about how long it took to get from Havana to Trinidad: one claimed 3 1/2 hours and one claimed 7. Of course, we ended up on a bus that took six and a half hours. Yes, it was pretty brutal, especially when the driver stopped in the middle of a country road for 15 minutes to buy something from a house. We were so relieved to check into Tico and Marta's - Archie Bunker's Cuban relatives' - house. This place had a really cool rooftop deck (just like in Vietnam - they all relax on the cool roofs in hammocks). We stayed in a room with three beds dressed in shiny pink comforters.


After very enthusiastic greetings, we headed out to make contact with Miguel so that we could set up things for the school the next morning. Trinidad, lined with pink, green and blue houses and filled with horse-drawn carriages, has been named a Unesco World Heritage site. It's charming but oh so touristy. We wouldn't have liked it even one hundredth as much if it hadn't been for Miguel and his family, whom we met within an hour of our walk around town. Simone and I, just like with Karrie in writing, liked Miguel instantly. We met his mother and Belkes and then he and Belkes walked us to her house to meet her daughter and then around town. Miguel is the kind of person you can talk to about anything, so we didn't hold back. He spoke really good English, but for more complex topics he spoke to our slave in Spanish. Something that we had wondered a lot about was the government's attitude and laws regarding homosexuality. We knew that it used to be condemned, maybe even illegal, but we hadn't been able to really ask anyone about it.

About an hour into our walk, Simone said, "Let's get ice cream" and Miguel said, "My family makes ice cream. Come with me." And he took us to his roof where we ate condensed milk homemade ice cream topped with honey and where he told us he was gay, among many other things. With Dani, we weren't exactly sure what we were getting as far as information, but with Miguel it was all there: solid, informative, true. We just started to get into a deeper conversation when he said, "I will tell you more about it tomorrow, after the school visit, during lunch." Because, yes, we found out his mother's specialty was fish soup. Simone is quite possibly my culinary equal,except that she "doesn't really like Vietnamese food." Whatever. But she asked about where to eat as much as I did, and when we heard this, we knew this was where our Thanksgiving dinner would take place.

In the morning we ate breakfast on an eating deck surrounded by stuffed turtles and iguanas and a mosaic-d swan wall at our Archie Bunker casa, then headed off to the school with Belkes. Belkes was quite possibly our favorite person of the trip...well, tied with Miguel and Hebert and Oscar and Geikel. So warm, so genuine. She had been working for a hotel where she was treated poorly - not paid, or something, which is quite common, I guess, when Miguel's family took her in. Miguel's family is quite well-off and highly educated, their house was the nicest we saw. A horse drawn carriage waited outside the school where the director's wife met us. She wore lots of make-up and dressed professionally. "That woman makes me nervous," said Belkes. She made us nervous, too. The school was a series of portable-sized classrooms, square and plain, filled with desks in colorless rooms - nothing inviting or bright on the walls, unless you consider student-made posters educating about Castro "inviting." When we entered Belkes' daughter's 4th grade classroom, all 30 or so students were listening to their teacher intently, dressed in blue and white uniforms with red scarves - colors of the Cuban flag. They looked up at us in the doorway...I guess the best way to describe it would be "uncomfortably." They weren't sure how to react, I think. The teacher greeted us and Karrie asked if she could address the class. She explained to them that she had letters from America, from Seattle, from 4th graders who wanted to know what their lives were like in Cuba. That she had paper for them to respond in the same way, with pictures and short statements. "Do you understand?" she asked. And, in unison, they responded, "Si!" She was so proud.

We handed out the letters, blank sheets and pens to the class. All of them went to work right away, drawing and writing, looking up at us, smiling shyly, saying either "Thank you" or "Gracias." So polite. No one talking to a neighbor or anything, just doing as they were told. After a few minutes, Karrie told them we would return to collect their letters. Belkes had coordinated with Veronica's teacher to go into another 4th grade class and one 6th grade class. The sixth graders were to get the high school letters. One teacher accompanied us on our trek around the dead-grass courtyards, and the feeling was a little unsure and nervous for everyone. Karrie kept saying to me, "OK, I'm fulfilled now. This is what I wanted." After being there for about a half an hour we went back to collect the letters from the 6th graders and to give them each either a hat or a baseball (Karrie didn't want one 4th grade class to be jealous of another 4th grade class). In the midst of collecting and handing out, the director stormed in - the only male we saw the whole visit.

"What are those?" he barked at the teachers. When he realized they were letters, he said, "No! Those may not go out." And he demanded that the letters be collected. The younger teacher submitted right away and began to collect them, while the older teacher said, "It's not that big of a deal" and later, "I apologize for my government." Anyway, our hearts racing a bit, we escaped with about twelve contraband 6th grade letters and all of the 4th grade letters. Later we read with fascination what they wrote about their lives in Cuba. From the 4th graders:


"Cuba is a free and healthy country"
"Education is free for all"
"Fidel takes care of us with love, care and respect"
"All children have rights and obligations"
"Our flag flies free every morning"
"Sports is a right of the people"
"Cuba is a free and sovereign country"
"In Cuba we are free from illiteracy"
"Even in farms and rural areas there are schools"

In the 4th grade letters, we found only one "I" statement:

"I feel very proud to live in Cuba."

From the 6th graders, same ideas, a little more sophisticated:

"We are all like one big family. We support each other. We are very united."
"I am learning English so that someday I can communicate better with you."

Not one negative statement. Only one "favorite" mentioned - a favorite book. Collective identity only. No video games or teams or things about their cities like the letters we brought them.

Leaving, feeling nervous and afraid that we had stirred up trouble, Belkes shrugged it off and assured us she wasn't in trouble. But it was hard for us to understand what had happened until we met up with Miguel an hour later for our meal.

 "I am a nervous person anyway."

Belkes had told Miguel what happened about an hour before we arrived. Simone and I entered the house first and were met by a terror-stricken Miguel, who had been crying. "Where is Karrie?" he asked. When Karrie came in they began a tense conversation in Spanish. Turns out when he had heard about the director's angry outburst, he had become really afraid that he could get in trouble. That maybe his family's business would be in jeopardy. We had taken pictures. We had asked permission and it had been granted, but he told us that if those pictures were posted online it could mean trouble for him. Karrie assured him about a hundred times that we wouldn't post anything. Miguel said that the government didn't want anyone outside to think that they needed charity from anyone...they are proud people. He thought the director might have been scared because he hadn't gone through proper channels to arrange the visit (if he had it probably wouldn't have happened) and had possibly panicked about his job as well.

Miguel seemed to be calming down. Simone asked, "Are you still nervous?"

"I'm a nervous person anyway," he answered. So this is why there are no pictures of perfect Cuban students.

While his mother and Belkes cooked our "Thanksgiving dinner," he went back to the previous night's topic. Raul Castro, turns out, has a daughter who has been a champion regarding gay rights and health issues. She started a program about nine or ten years ago to bring understanding and education about rights/health aspects and bullying awareness for the homosexual population. He had volunteered to be a part of public service announcements on TV (no advertisements in Cuba - only signs of the revolution about Castro and Che). Now they get everything taken care of by the government; those with HIV get special medicine and more credit on their food cards for a special diet. He loves Raul's daughter and he appreciates Raul. "He's opened up a lot of things in Cuba."

What about Fidel? Does Miguel love Fidel?

"Don't ask."

Toward the end of this conversation, he got really emotional, talking about how hidden his life was before and how much had changed for him.

"Are those happy tears?" Karrie asked. He nodded "yes."

And then dinner was ready: fried fish, rice, salad, "Cuban roots with garlic." The food we found in Cuba was simple - lots of fish, shrimp, lobster, chicken and beef in tomato sauce or garlic. Every Cuban got enough food from the bread shop, the butcher or the vegetable stands with their register books. So many people eat at home that it was a little hard to find restaurants in some cases. Really hard to find breakfast. But the Cuban roots were my favorite discovery and the stand-out for this Thanksgiving meal was definitely the special fish soup. So delicious.

After this meal we hung out in Miguel's room to use the internet for a minute. He had lots of American movies on DVD, lots of CD's - all sold on the black market. And then we sat with his family for a long time, just talking. None of us wanted to say goodbye. When we finally did, the three of us walked down the cobblestone street in silence, savoring our new friends and experience. Miguel, Belkes, Miguel's mother and aunt:

Finally Simone said, "Do you think there might be something else up with Miguel?" He had told us he was really tired and must sleep. That he couldn't meet us for a beer later. But it wasn't like a lame excuse because he didn't want to.

Karrie and I both wondered with her.

"No, you really have to yell. Like this."

Later that night we decided to pay one last visit to our beloved Belkes because she told us that Veronica had really wanted a hat and we had a few left. I didn't mention her house before, but to get to it you must climb a narrow spiral staircase from the street to an open patio, where you are greeted by her fierce teddy-bear-looking, growling dog. We weren't sure how to get a hold of her - we couldn't just knock or ring a doorbell, and we were kind of afraid of the dog. So we stood on the street and yelled her name. Her downstairs neighbor came out and said, "No, you just have to really yell, like this - BELKES!" And Belkes appeared, thrilled, inviting us up to her two-room house, which she apologized for a few times: one room with two beds, one for her and her husband, and right next to that a small one for Veronica. The other room was a kitchen. Earlier we had run into her husband on the street and we figured he must be a laborer or something because we had seen the state of their house. But no, he is a veterinarian and was out taking care of an animal that had cancer. Another professional who made $25 per month. But he cared about what he did and was out late doing it, for practically nothing.

And, sweetly, she told us that the whole sixth grade class that had received the hats came by her house after school to thank her for setting everything up.

That night she also confided in us that Miguel is HIV positive. That he didn't talk about it with anyone, really, but that she wanted us to know based on our earlier conversation. She said he wouldn't mind that she told us. Suddenly it all made sense. The knowledge, the tears, the tiredness. Simone's instinct had been correct.

Our goodbye to Belkes included the best, warmest, firmest hugs imaginable. Oh, and Veronica was extremely pleased with her hat (and other gifts). We want Belkes to be our friend in real time, forever.

"My hat is red"

When we got back to Havana from Trinidad, we found our place in another part of Havana - another great airbnb thanks to Simone. This one was in the greatest neighborhood, so much like my Vietnam heaven. A true neighborhood with kids playing Bocce Ball with rocks in the streets, graffiti art, clothes hanging to dry in the windows, a fruit and vegetable market. We wanted to stay for another week in that place and get our nails done for ten cents, but all we had time for was our salsa night and a morning walk to the American Embassy - the ugliest building in Havana pictured here behind the cool yellow Fairlane.

We asked so many questions this week. Why are Cubans so happy, so open, so accepting? A few people explained to us about the "Special Time" in the 90's, when they had little electricity, soap, oil or clean water. "It was very hard" they all say. So, if everyone now is so happy with life and things are better, in a place where everyone is accepted, black, white, gay, straight - it TRULY doesn't matter - what, exactly needs to change? Give us much more of only that in America, please.

"Economic freedom," answered Hebert. "We want to be able to make money."

Until that day, they work hard, work harder, and hope for the right kind of change (Cuba won't allow things to change too much. We are too proud," said Hebert), they laugh, and they dance. They were born dancing, with salsa rhythm in their bones, and especially in their hips.

To begin our time on the roof Friday night, we gave the other two their hats. We had barely pulled the red hat out of the bag before Hebert grabbed it and said, "This one is mine." The other two got more Seahawks hats, and the hats became the theme of the night. When we weren't dancing, Hebert was making up songs about his hat.




My hat is red. Yours is black. Mine is red, yours is black yours is black...

Or a call and response:

What color is my hat? Is it black?"  

"No!"

"Is it blue?"

"No!"

"Is it red?" 

"Yes!"

We all laughed so hard we cried. And to Simone's relief we didn't only dance salsa - we got into a circle and free styled, everyone taking turns in the middle. Some Europeans even joined us...I guess we were contagious. I have a feeling that wherever Hebert - whose email address is "blacklittleprince" - goes, he creates contagion.

At 3 am, we were finally ready to call it a night. Our three friends negotiated a taxi for us, very concerned that we would make it "home" OK.

"What about you?" Simone asked. They had all taken buses for over an hour to meet us in Havana. Geikel told us that the buses wouldn't run again until 5, so they would just wait. I guess they are used to waiting. Finally we got out of them what it would cost for them to take a taxi home and it came to $3 a piece (half the price it took us to go five minutes). When you make $25 per month, $3 is a lot to pay for a cab. So we paid for their cabs home, hugged and said "see you again." We went home marveling at our perfect night, our flawless week.

So, what do you do with an experience like this? Even after 35 countries I'm still not sure. You write a blog about it as soon as you can, even though you should be planning for school for tomorrow. You tell your students about it. You try to get a computer for your friend who is getting a masters degree without one. You appreciate soap. You write emails and add your new friends on Facebook since they have that now. And you incorporate them into your lives as much as you can. You tell people about them and their struggles, and about their joy.

You tell them about Cuba, my babies!