Of a revolution, one.

"The things we need do not amount to much.
Made of abandoned wood, loose stones, and such.
This revolution maybe
Proves who you work for lately..." - Silversun Pickups

"Not all powers have to be discovered; some have to be regained." - John Fowles


A Cuba Libre is a rum and Coke, in some bars livened with a piece of mint or some lime. Its enjoyment derives from the sweetness of its individual ingredients, but also its simplicity. Anyone can make it, at pretty much anytime, with basics most people have already. From my experience, it's also what a lot of people start drinking when they're new to alcohol. It is later that they acquire the taste for bourbon, gin and tonics, martinis, old-fashioneds, but rum and Coke gets lost somewhere early on the road, crowded out by complexity.

It's a conversation I've had thirty or forty times. What I love about living in New York. It's really just rehashing the obvious, maybe confirming the stereotype that there is literally something to do at all hours. Any cuisine you want, any esoteric decor for a bar just a Metrocard swipe away. When bored with itself, the world turns to New York and the City, like no other in existence, quenches and electrifies. For visitors it often appears a cultural and social hurricane, but living there one is happily in its eye.

I spend most of my time with my nose to the concrete and glass mosaic, focused on the idiosyncrasies that add to the insiders' enjoyment. The brunch place in LES that will make pretty much any dish from any cuisine but will absolutely not accept parties of more than 4, the neo-speakeasies that change phone numbers every 6 weeks or can only be entered by dialing a certain number at a certain phone booth, the constant guessing game of what that night's color scheme for the top of the Empire State Building is celebrating; the little machinations that keep away the boredom in what is already the least boring city in the world. With only weekend trips since becoming acclimated in New York, this is my first true chance to step away from that masterpiece, to see what else can be found in other galleries.

Fittingly, I chose a place of further complication as my destination. The one country in the world that as an American I wasn't legally allowed to visit, where it was impossible to even look up flight prices because the embargo blocked such online searches. A country where hostels don't exist and you need to register your location with the government every day of your trip. I spent 40 minutes being searched at customs coming in, every item I owned examined in detail, the serial number of this laptop I'm writing on recorded in a customs agent's notepad in the Varadero airport. I can only imagine what's awaiting me at customs on my journey out of Cuba. And worse, clearing them when returning to the US ("A bit tan for spending 10 days in Toronto in late October, wouldn't you say, sir?") But it wasn't the complications that drew me, it was the taboo. The opportunity to not simply peek behind the curtain of the forbidden, but to spend over a week exploring what unknowns lurked beyond. An elaborate exercise in reverse psychology.

As our first full day here came to a close, my friend Ricardo and I walked several kilometers along the darkened El Maecon, much of it without conversation; but our silence wasn't born of a lack of interesting topics or boredom. For those minutes that swelled into hours, we merely wanted to observe rather than dictate. To inhale with nostrils, eyes, ears, and intellect the layers of the culture around us. We had left our casa paticular hours earlier in search of authentic Cuban food and a bar that locals would visit for this Saturday night in Havana. We gorged ourselves with seafood and flavorful entrees but failed in the latter. Few Habanas seemed to be congregated anywhere and we found ourselves for the second time that day on El Malecón, the winding highway and walkway that borders the ocean in the capital city. It was immediately apparent why the bars were empty. There were a few gaps of cement ledge in that hour-plus of distance, but they were either smaller than three feet or were the perma-damp sections where the Atlantic's waves scale the wall's height to reach land. The people of the city, what felt like the entire nation, formed a chain of laughter, smiles, passed bottles, and shared boxes of cigarettes along the salted breezes of the exhaling Atlantic. There was no festival, nothing special about this weekend for them. A beautiful Saturday night simply meant spending it along the ocean with the one person or handful of companions that they wanted to be with.

Take 10 Wall Street bankers and 10 everyday Cubans and ask who is less stressed. Who enjoys life more. Who is simply happier. It shouldn't take much to achieve this plateau; contentment is a quick, basic emotion. Stock portfolios and applications for private pre-schools, lists for clubs, closet coke habits, gambling debts and contrived crises only add impediments between us and our remarkably simple access to joy. Stockpiling of possessions and vices that build a barrier to keep us out rather than the two or three simple ingredients that can easily form a bridge. The basic combinations that can make us happy. Havana Club and Coca-Cola, a stick and something remotely round enough to work as a ball, one star and five stripes, a can of Cristal beer and conversation, a tiny waist and wide hips, the ocean breeze and the laughter of a friend, an acoustic guitar and portable bongos, eye contact and a suppressed smile.

A girl I recently ended things with didn't take it well and tried to insult me by saying "whatever, you don't even have a bed." And she's right. I don't have one. I also don't own a car, a tv, an iphone, or a normal computer. I don't have many modern distractions and conveniences because for 5 months I lived without them and felt more myself than ever. The true individual that I am, for the first time. I abandoned a lot things that in some ways prevented me from constantly feeling the emotions that most people strive and fail to feel. Or keeping me from being the person that I want to be. What I have instead is a supply of v-neck t-shirts, a pair of blue jeans, my camera and a stack of unfinished books. What I have is my passport. And vigilant determination.

I'm a New Yorker now. Only 10 months in, I feel and act like a true local, carry a disdain for snail-paced tourists, anything and everything Boston, and the G train. I'm surrounded by the machinations that keep life complicated, and fully enjoy them because in many ways they manage to keep the monotony of the status quo safely at bay. But some part of my heart beats with the rhythm of a Cubano. I'll indulge in the eccentricities but I don't ever feel ensnared by them. I don't need them. I have what I need. And because of that I am free.

(*written October 24, 2010).