Vodka Yonic features a rotating cast of female writers from around the world sharing stories that are alternately humorous, sobering, intellectual, erotic, religious or painfully personal. You never know what you’ll find here each week, but we hope this potent mix of stories encourages conversation.
I expected to feel different when I landed in Cuba — I always feel a little different when I arrive in another country. The excitement of seeing a new place is magnified by the barrage of an unfamiliar language, signs and smells — some wonderful, some not-so-wonderful — yet it’s all underscored by slight discomfort. Maybe it’s from an innate fear of all of those things, or perhaps I just feel a degree of guilt for having the ability to travel so freely and easily.
I always wanted to travel. Some of my earliest memories involve checking out stacks of library books about places I’d never heard of — I’d flip through the pages, marveling over exotic-sounding words while mostly relying upon photographs to learn about places that seemed so dreadfully far away from Illinois. I made my own books, writing about different places and imagining what my life would be like if I lived somewhere else, anywhere else. The flat prairie bored me. I wanted to see what else was out there.
In the wake of the recent presidential election, my boyfriend and I booked a trip to Cuba as soon as we could. Better go now, we joked, before it changes. We went to Havana in February, not long after our country got a new leader and Cubans lost theirs. Fatigued by my daily political news intake, I had decided I would avoid any conversation involving politics. I was also worried about what Cubans might think of me as I cautiously dipped my toe into the water of a communist country while complaining about the democratically elected leader at home.
You can learn a lot by keeping your mouth shut. I learned pretty quickly that in Cuba, museums were sometimes closed without explanation, and restaurants will be out of every dish you want to order if you go there too late. Some days you may wake up with no running water in the neighborhood, and nobody seems to know — or care — why. What would be considered a major inconvenience back home was just part of life in Cuba. Nobody wastes time complaining about it.
I also learned that when a restaurant runs out of food, the owner will go down the street and find another restaurant that still has enough food and is willing to serve you. I discovered that a dilapidated open-air boxing gym filled with kids is way more interesting than a dusty old museum. When there’s no water, you just don’t shower, and you quickly become really familiar with your housemates’ bathroom habits.
Conversations were never hard to find in Havana; people approached us nearly every time we walked down the street. Sure, many wanted to sell us cigars or convince us to visit their mother’s restaurant or their brother’s store, but most simply wanted to talk to us because they recognized us as Americans. I was relieved to discover that curiosity was a two-way street. And we never brought up politics, but the topic always came up.
So, you have a new president, they would ask with some reticence. Do you like him?
I would hesitantly respond that I did not vote for him. They always seemed relieved, and would then move on to another topic. That was it. What had I been so afraid of?
One of my favorite conversations was with Otto, an elderly gentleman we met at a bar near the Colón Cemetery in Havana’s Vedado neighborhood. The cemetery dates back to the late 1800s, and more than 1 million people have been buried there. I say “have been buried,” not “are,” because old bodies are often moved to make room for new ones, and because grave-robbing is a persistent issue, keeping more than a few people from resting in peace.
Otto was trying on a pair of blindingly white sneakers he’d just purchased, and my boyfriend complimented his shoes. We quickly fell into conversation and learned that Otto, who was a child during the Cuban Revolution, was a retired history professor who’d written multiple books about the Vedado neighborhood. He told us he wasn’t supposed to be drinking beer and that he would be in trouble if his wife caught him. He also explained that Fidel Castro always told the Cuban people that Cuba wasn’t at war with the American people, just the American government. It was at this point that Otto’s aforementioned wife arrived at the bar and delivered a sitcom-worthy disapproving look. She let him finish his beer with us before she nudged him along.
I now understood why we felt no hostility from the Cuban people. My fears of what they would think of me were born from the conflicting feelings I had about my own country. To them, I was just a person who was born in a place with a different leader, and our leaders didn’t always get along. I think about that conversation with Otto more than I think about my ride in a classic car down the Malecón, or the mojito I enjoyed in one of Hemingway’s favorite spots. Otto articulated what I’d been struggling with the entire trip — and really for months.
I felt different when I landed in Nashville. The way I feel about my country doesn’t hinge upon the current president or his administration; it’s about the opportunities I have been afforded as a citizen of the United States. I am an American, and I am fortunate to be one.
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