Cuba In 1981, Log Ten: Naughty Men

Our hotel had a rooftop terrace that surrounded a swimming pool. Nothing unusual about that, right?

Whenever we had nothing to do, we'd go up to the terrace and stretch out on padded loungers in our swimsuits and catch some Cuban sun. A lot of us went swimming, then stretched out to dry. I guess word got out that a bunch of female tourists were worth a trip to the pool terrace, so our second time up there, we noticed a bunch of young men - swarthy skin, black hair, and grinning faces - across the pool from us, and their grins were aimed at us. We were on display.

Of course, some of the girls started giggling. Some flirted. Some hid behind their paperback novels.

Sure enough, the men ambled on over and parked themselves on the terrace in front of us. They were fully clothed in slacks, shirts, and shoes. And they never stopped grinning. I couldn't figure out why they were even there.

The giggling girls got even gigglier. The flirting ones, the ones over twenty-five, got bolder, and the paperback hiders were shrinking into their loungers like melting ice cubes.

The men spoke Spanish, but their eyes said more than their foreign words. One reached for a bottle of sun tan lotion and began to rub it on one of the over twenty-five's legs and shoulders.

It became uncomfortable when the ogling men moved even closer, and when one tried to kiss a giggler, the male tourists yelled at them to leave.

There were so few of the male tourists who wanted to lie on the loungers up on the roof, so they were out-numbered. Plus, the Cubans spoke no English, so ignored them.

The Cuban men then tried to coax us girls into the pool, with grins and words and many gestures. Again, I thought that was strange.

One of the Canadian men, a friend of mine, had gone swimming, and then had dried off and disappeared. When he returned, he said, I should follow him, so I left the volatile scene of tourists and Cubans, and went with him.

On the staircase, he said, "You won't believe what's under the pool. Wait and see." He was laughing, really laughing.

I was telling him about the outrageous, flirting young Cubans on the terrace and he just kept laughing.

We went through a door, and there stood a bar, a huge place, dark and cool, lots of tables, a big selection of bottles behind the bartender, and a handful of men sitting around drinking.

My friend whispered, "See anything unusual about that wall to the right of the bar?"

I looked, whispered, "It's a funny color."

"It's a glass wall. Look closely. See the bubbles?"

I nodded. "Don't tell me!" I whispered.

"Yep. That's the pool. Those Cubans up on the terrace were watching the girls swimming from down here. And trust me, they had quite a view."

He couldn't stop grinning. I thought it was terrible.

He said, "Stay here, and I'll go swimming."

Sure enough, I saw him dive through the water. The pool was really deep and he had been a competitive swimmer on his high school team in Toronto, so he was fun to watch.

The men in the bar looked over, then seeing that the swimmer was only a man, went back to their drinks.

Watching my friend do his show-off antics in the water was hilarious. I started to laugh, so the men looked over at the swimmer. He was so entertaining.

And then he swam over to the glass wall and waved.

Immediately, the men looked as guilty as sin, and turned away.

I left the bar, laughing my head off.

When we told the girls on the terrace, in English, why the young Cubans were here, and why they wanted them to go swimming, they were mortified.

They shooed those men away like nasty flies at a picnic.

I asked my friend how he discovered the glass wall and he said he'd noticed that that wall didn't look right under the water. Of course, the girls hadn't paid any attention to the walls, which was what the bar men were counting on.

Poor, unsuspecting female tourists.

Funny as heck, though.

United States of America, Chapter Ten: Over The Border

There was a bus tour that said we could go south of San Diego and cross the border into Mexico.

For one reason - to get an hour's glimpse of Tijuana.

I thought, why not? Just this once.

Even back then, in 1975, Mexico held a reputation of being semi-lawless, and the city of Tijuana was no safe place to be.

But on a bus tour, how could you go wrong?

So I went.

And I was perfectly safe.

And I loved it.

The uniforms at the border, and the stern faces of the golden-skinned, black-haired border patrol were like watching a movie.

On the wide open main street, the bus parked, and the driver and guide told us to keep our money safe, our eyes open, and be back in exactly one hour or be stranded in Mexico.

I checked out little shops beneath the street level, some that ran in tunnels under the stores above, dark and loud with bartering Spanish voices.

In the streets, dust from sand swirled in tiny breezes. Citizens crossed wherever they wanted to, dodging old vehicles and donkey carts.

Men and women in colorful clothes walked alongside their carts piled high with their wares, as they shouted out what they were selling.

Small donkeys, dressed in wide-brimmed straw hats, ears sticking out through holes punched there, and colorful shawls draped across their backs, pulled the carts through the streets, very slowly.

The hour was too quick. I had to run to catch the bus, run across the dusty, wide street, dodging vehicles and people and sweet donkeys.

Or else I'd still be stranded in Mexico.

Today, Tijuana is a modern city that attracts a lot of border crossings for Mexicans and Americans, because it's barely fifteen miles south of San Diego.

Tourists can spend a few hours there to shop, eat, or watch a horse race, then head back to San Diego.

Tijuana started out as a village at the turn of the twentieth century, and has grown to over a million people, today, due to the above.

United States of America, Chapter Nine: San Diego

Now that was an experience I enjoyed.

Just driving through the city to the hotel was wonderful. What a pretty city. Hot, though, being in the south of the state. Hot and dry.

The hotel was parked on San Diego Bay, near the naval base; a room with a view of dark, gray, sleek vessels, massive things at their moorings on the blue water. A joy to see.

There is so much water around San Diego, something I loved to be near.

The zoo was so spread out that it took tram rides to see it, unless you could walk steep hills for miles.  The animals had to have been happier there than in a tight zoo of pens.

Even the aviary was huge. Birds landed on my shoulders and my head, without even asking me. Strangers paused to take pictures of me decorated in birds. Why the birds chose to land on me, I don't know.

There was no Sea World then or I would have gone to it, but what a perfect place they have for it now.

One evening after dark, I went to a favorite spit of land to watch the sunset and feel the salt breeze and listen to the locals who came to hang out, to sit atop wooden picnic tables, smoke cigarettes, and talk.

A movement came from the water, a dark movement, silent except for a soft intermittent swish of calm water.

And then a cloud slid off the moon and I saw.

Huge, dark creatures were slipping past the spit of land, as silent as if I was deaf.

I was in awe. There were no sailors visible on these creatures. There were no engines loud enough to be heard.

Silent, secretive, powerful.

The United States Navy.

Canada, As Seen From Above

The land of ice and snow, Indians and Eskimos, igloos and teepees, lakes and rivers and wilderness and bears, boats and sawmills, bakeries and shoemakers. Canada.

No, wait. I'm describing the United States here. Past and present.

Doctors, politicians, teachers and store clerks.

It's all the same. Both countries have a lot of different races, from immigration and migration, marriages and native born.

The scenery is the same.

The weather is the same.

The education and workforce - the same.

United States has Hollywood.

Canada has Corner Gas reruns.

United States has massive armed forces.

Canada has snowballs.

Cuba in 1981, Log Nine: Mystery On The Beach

One morning, after breakfast, I went down to the beach before anyone else was there, and was horrified at what I saw.


Huge bluish, purplish, and clear blobs of yuck were everywhere on that white sand. Covered it, in fact.


I stopped dead. Looked up and down the beach.


Further down, a woman and a boy were stomping their feet as they moved along the sand.


Being careful to avoid the yuck on the sand, I picked my way around it, and made my way down to them.


The woman was small, about twenty-four years old, wearing a dress on her brown skin. The boy was about six and tiny, and he wore shorts and a t-shirt.


They were holding hands.


And stomping on large jellyfish!


In their bare feet!


They never said a word, just kept their heads down, and kept stomping.


I just stared.


I couldn't ask them, WHY?


I couldn't speak Spanish.


When they had completely destroyed the washed-ashore jellyfish and the beautiful beach, they just walked right by me, and went back to the tiny village from where they came.


Did they do the Canadian tourists a favor?


Why didn't they feel the horrific sting of the jellyfish?


One of the guides told everybody to stay off the beach until they could get someone to clean it up.


That took two long days, and the smell grew worse in the heat, until we couldn't stand it.


To this day, I have no answers to why the jellyfish were even there, or why those two did what they did.


I've seen small jellyfish around my dock and in the waters of Florida, but never any as huge as those I saw in Cuba!