It didn't take long for my mom and I to fall asleep after our long day of travel.
Cuba might be 90 miles away but the emotional bridges and the tolls that have to be paid make it seem farther away than Iceland. Despite world politics and red tape we got here in time to see TiaLourdes before she slips away . Mission accomplished.
And then the knocking began.
The knocking and knocking and knocking.
I can't make this up.
I lay there and listen and wonder if this is on purpose because I sometimes take jabs at how much the modern Cuban economy depends on selling items that have pictures of Che Guevara who actually isn't Cuban and never was.
Probably not.
No one was knocking on the door, no one was trying to get in the room, but SOMEONE on the other side of this wall was banging a bucket (and seriously, that is not a euphemism for sex, but if it ever becomes one you heard it first) around.
Perhaps they were telling knock knock jokes, over and over and over.
I try to make some up.
This doesn't help me sleep.
The banging continues.
I try to imagine who they are, what they look like, what got them out of bed in the dark and off to do something that involves whatever the bang bang bang they're doing.
Maybe they were stacking chairs, climbing the chairs then knocking them down.
Maybe they were mopping. With metal. (Again, not a euphemism for sex).
I slip out of bed before dawn, tiptoe to the spartan white bathroom and drink half the water from that one bottle of "safe" water my mom and I brought upstairs with us to share.
One day left in Cuba, tomorrow we go home. I can do this.
Cuba might be 90 miles away but the emotional bridges and the tolls that have to be paid make it seem farther away than Iceland. Despite world politics and red tape we got here in time to see TiaLourdes before she slips away . Mission accomplished.
And then the knocking began.
The knocking and knocking and knocking.
I can't make this up.
I lay there and listen and wonder if this is on purpose because I sometimes take jabs at how much the modern Cuban economy depends on selling items that have pictures of Che Guevara who actually isn't Cuban and never was.
Probably not.
No one was knocking on the door, no one was trying to get in the room, but SOMEONE on the other side of this wall was banging a bucket (and seriously, that is not a euphemism for sex, but if it ever becomes one you heard it first) around.
Perhaps they were telling knock knock jokes, over and over and over.
I try to make some up.
Cuban 1: Knock knock.
Cuban 2: Who's there?
Cuban 1: Fidel Castro.
Cuban 2: OMG you're alive. Why didn't you go see Obama?
Cuban 1: Hush you'll get us in trouble.
Cuban 1: Knock knock
Cuban 2: Who's there?
Cuban 1: Communism! Close all the banks and lets all be poor! Let me in!
Cuban 2: (locks door)
This doesn't help me sleep.
The banging continues.
I try to imagine who they are, what they look like, what got them out of bed in the dark and off to do something that involves whatever the bang bang bang they're doing.
Maybe they were stacking chairs, climbing the chairs then knocking them down.
Maybe they were mopping. With metal. (Again, not a euphemism for sex).
I slip out of bed before dawn, tiptoe to the spartan white bathroom and drink half the water from that one bottle of "safe" water my mom and I brought upstairs with us to share.
One day left in Cuba, tomorrow we go home. I can do this.
