6/2 - Buenas miercoles, mi amor! How are you today? I am well, but missing you mucho. I will do like Gloria says and survive. Ti prometo. So the morning lecture was on foreign investment in Cuba and had several interesting pointes: the minister/rep was not an economist, but a sociologist, he's in charge of foreign investment but doesn't speak English, and there are only one or two totally foreign owned ventures in Cuba (usually you have to have a Cuban partner company and some splitting/sharing of the ownership and control to be here) that are completely untethered to the state/a state business and he couldn't tell us what they were -- it's a secret. (!) Consider my curiosity piqued!

After class and an abortive attempt to go to a nearby flea market (open all week except Wednesday. Somehow the people telling us about it neglected to mention this part...) it was back to the pool for some laps and relaxation. Afternoon class was held at one of the state's biotech facilities and our lecture was on Cuba's burgeoning (and apparently strong, if this guy is to be believed) biotech sector, split between biomed production and research (pharmaceuticals, vaccines, etc.) and agricultural biotech (plant/animal enhancement (no genetic altering, though. Only through things like diet. Not sure about hormone usage. He dodged/misunderstood this question.), crop enrichment, etc.) We tour the facility and it, like everything else here in Cuba, is stuck at least twenty years behind. Rooms, equipment, etc. all looked circa 1974 rather than 2004.

After this it's back to the hotel and another dip in the pool. I walk down to the pool and as I’m going down the steps I see close to thirty unbelievable girls in bikinis standing around getting their picture taken poolside. I’m startled at first, like I walked in on grandma changing her underpants, but then realize I’ve stumbled into one of every man's fantasies. (There's being surrounded by dozens of women in bikinis, the free steak buffet, natural beer fountains, and a few others I can tell you about later.) I casually go over to the big pool on the other side of the hotel to see if any of my groupmates are there (it's Christmas in July! come quick!) but no one is around. How is this possible? That’s like finding out you've won the lottery and having no one to hug or finding out you've been voted "world's handsomest man" and having no one to sit and stare at you! Crestfallen, I return to the lap pool to "swim" and laugh my ass off watching the whole thing unfold.

The pool borders the main restaurant of the hotel and every guy working there was pressed up to the windows, gawking and grinning. As my group mates came downstairs it was priceless to watch their faces as you could see the cycle of thoughts running through their head -- first, slow confusion on having stumbled into an area they might not be allowed in and seeing something you're not supposed to (agh! Grandma!), then the timid realization that what you've stumbled on is a group of gorgeous women in bikinis and that worry is superfluous, then the cautious look around -- do mine eyes deceive me? Am I dreaming? -- and then the slowly growing grin that signifies the final understanding that, no, I am wide awake and oh so smart for coming to the pool right now. This happens three or four times over and is the exact same every time. By the time these guys get halfway down the stairs they're grinning like a lunatic and practically running over to the chairs to gush with the guys about their good fortune. It's hilarious.

We sit there for a half hour or so until the sun goes down and the girls leave (BOO!) and then head to the corner cafe for some dinner. Nothing spectacular happens -- we just chill in the open-air cafe, drinking beers and eating lousy (but cheap) food while debating politics and listening to the band. (Mellower than the guys last night, which was a nice change as it was so hot and still tonight -- the oppressive humidity left everyone in a soporific state.) It, combined with the hour-plus power outage, added to the laconic, lethargic feel. Not much was happening and not many people cared. After the power finally came back on, the band played a few more numbers to get our heads right again before we headed back and turned in for the night.

6/3 - Hi, baby! I feel like I’ve been here forever, but it's only been six days -- two more weeks to go! This, obviously, has me torn -- excited about how much more I get to see and learn, but exhausted because of how long I have to wait to see you again. I said it before, I’ll say it again -- ugh.

So today we went to the Romeo and Juliet tobacco factory to learn all about cigars and BOY was it interesting! We got to hear all about the process -- from sorting and deveining to drying, rolling, pressing, and packing -- to learn about the life of the worker --- eight hour days, 7-4:30, or their daily quota (usually around 120 cigars rolled per day), whichever comes first. The factory is sixty percent women and it makes 26,000 cigars a day, 100 million per year. I can bore you with more statistics and details later, but will tell you that the veins from the tobacco leaves are used for perfume (huh!?!) and the scraps of tobacco from the cut ends of the cigars are used in cigarettes. Neat, huh?

It was cool to see everything and soak in the magnificent smell -- the scent of cedar and tobacco wafting over the endless rows of people rolling cigars, heads down, a blur of well-trained hands flying over their tiny desks; the voice of the lector reading the morning paper to the masses coming out of tinny old speakers, collective rolls of laughter or hooting chasing his words through the room after particular items; the innards of the building typical to those of virtually all others you see -- falling apart around your ears, the years of grime, usage, and neglect smeared across the walls, yet still somehow arresting in its beauty and charm. (As I like to say about previous places back home that have won my heart, you can see the character in the walls. It's not some new, sterile product of boatloads of money, but has the evidence of years of experiences and maintenance-related concessions or delays right there for you to see. For my tastes, I find the latter far more inviting than the former.)

Anyway, after all that learning and teasing with the sights and smells, it's time to engage in a little sensory reward and buy some puros to take home. (Rat Pack weekend is the weekend after I get back, after all. what kind of brother would I be if I didn't bring some cigars back for the boys?) So I buy a bunch of singles (thanks to my unforgiving status as a poor grad student and the puto restrictions of the embargo, I cannot buy a full box of them as I’d like. (They cost, on average, $120-150 per box for Cohibs or Montes, and we're only allowed to bring back $100 worth of rum, cigars, and coffee. Since I want to bring back some of those other things as well, I’m sorta screwed.)) -- we're allowed to bring back 23 cigars without a receipt -- and then step outside for some fresh air, which unwittingly leads to the purchase of the day.

I go out with my mate Noah and immediately we are seized upon by this guy. "You want some cigars?" "I just bought some." "Cheaper, cheaper." OK, so we nod hesitant assent and the guy signals for us to stay where we are. He ambles up the street to where a policeman is garrisoned on the corner, makes a few subtle gestures while talking to him, and then slips him some cash (the old "shake the hand, slip the $20" trick.) He comes back down the street towards us and motions slyly with his head for us to follow him. We do as we're told and follow him to his bike repair shop down the street. It's this dimly lit little room that is half caged off -- in the cage are these old women in rocking chairs and a bunch of bikes. I really have no idea what the place is -- maybe it's a bike storage place or something because the women are just watching an old TV amidst the cycles and not working on anything. Regardless, he hustles us into the back behind the cage and whips out this bundle of fifty-odd cigars that he wants to sell for thirty bucks. Noah waffles and says, no, the guy comes back with $25, no, c’mon, it's Cohibas! C’mon! C’mon!

Eventually Noah gets about half of the bundle for $20, but during this time the guy's been getting increasingly agitated, even though we're in the dark in the back of this dingy little concrete cubbyhole. He keeps trying to sell him more -- c’mon, c’mon! These are Cohibas! The best! C’mon! C’mon! Noah is still, "No, no, gracias," and the guy's still antsy and getting worse -- he tries to put cigars in Noah’s pockets, to force them into his hands, etc. Finally he turns to me somewhat exasperatedly and says, cinco, cinco, to which I reply, "A-hell yes." So I get six freshly rolled cigars for five bucks and an interesting story/experience to boot. Even if they're junk, they're well made junk and worth a shot for five bucks. (And I find out later that they are not. They are, in fact, excellent and quite possibly the best cigars I have ever tasted. Fresh rolled that morning, only hours before? It was like getting that pint of Guinness from the factory in Ireland, directly from the fresh casks -- you're not going to find it any better.) Turns out the reason the guy was so antsy was because he had smuggled the bundle out from inside the factory -- he had to be working with one of the rollers inside and swiped them from their pile. As a result he obviously couldn't take them back inside -- or not as easily, anyway -- and thus the urgency to move them all or waste them. Pretty cool.

Next it's an interview with one of the ISRI professors for my paper (which actually goes really well) and then a trip to Guanabacoa, the center of afro-Caribbean culture in Cuba. We go to this museum to learn about the three key religions of afro-Caribbean Cubans -- Santeria, Palo Monte, and Abacoa. Santeria is the largest and is a mashup of the Catholicism that was thrust on the slaves when they arrived from Africa and their own ancient, spiritual beliefs. Palo Monte is the most tribal and primitive of the three and is actually an African religion (Santeria is a purely afro-Cuban invention, something that did not exist until the slaves arrived on the island) and Abacoa is an extremely secretive religion/brotherhood society for men only. All three are terribly interesting, especially Santeria, and I want to do more research on them when I get back to the States.

Once done with this we wander Guanabacoa a bit, checking out its tiny church and park/center square while eating mani, this peanut butter and sugar bar-like concoction that is delicious. There is a stark contrast between this town and Havana itself, in terms of size, apparent economic status, and such. It's much smaller and more consolidated than Havana -- it seems everything there is to see here is confined to a one and a half block radius -- and is much, much poorer looking than Havana, even though it is only twenty minutes outside its borders. I get the feeling that were you to confine yourself to Havana alone, you might be able to convince yourself that socialism is working and everything is hunky dory without too much trouble. To do this in Guanabacoa, though, is almost impossible and would require an intense session of self-delusion and denial of reality. This is the first time I’ve fully appreciated a phrase my professor continually says -- that it is possible, and quite probable, to die of boredom in a socialist country. I got that idea to a certain extent earlier in the day during my interview, but this incidence was much more salient -- there is nothing to do in this town -- NOTHING -- and it reinforces my feeling that this is a country in some weird holding pattern. The entire country seems to be waiting for something to happen, but no one seems quite sure of what. People stand around in their doorways or sitting on the steps throughout the day, regardless of hour or day, as if waiting for the appropriate trigger to shoot them into action, in whatever form it may take.

Eventually we ride back to the hotel and I take a dip in the pool, but I’m feeling pretty blah -- physically and emotionally -- and I don't have much energy. I float around a bit, go grab a quick bite up the street, and then sit solo on the cliff overlooking the mar and the Malecon, drinking a guarapo, smoking a cigar, and really, really wishing V was here. It was a beautiful night -- the breeze was blowing, it was cool, and the sunset was pretty -- and I really wanted to just sit there with her and soak it all in. Feeling sort of glum (GOD, I’m such a pussy!) I trudge upstairs and pass out.