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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment