Going to Cuba was a 10 year long dream come true.
I am loathe to admit that it started when I watched Dirty Dancing Havana Nights when I was twelve. But it started when I watched Dirty Dancing Havana Nights when I was twelve.
My first day in Havana, a slightly nuts but entirely wonderful Chilean lady brought me out of the city to a place I don't quite know how to describe. Rural farmland? Suburb? I don't know if these terms apply in Cuba.
A performance art piece was to be, well, performed. I understood nothing of the theme, nor did I know anyone, I simply watched with piqued interest. At first I thought it was a feigned wedding between a bunch of different women and men. The female body stood out in all its variety, magnificence, and exposures. It was beautiful. We were shuffled from house to house.
Abounding sensuality, gender representations in all its fluidity, love without expectation. Some of the residents started following us.
Time passed, and I wasn't just looking anymore, I was a participant.
This one piece had a fully nude lady (with something I couldn't read traced on her body). She stood between two whiteboards.
At first, our participation was entirely unwitting. We were all given plastic cups of what looked like honey water in it and because of near-death levels of thirst we drank it all. It turned out the we were supposed to each go, one by one, up to the lady, and pour that "honey water" on her, as she'd write how she was feeling and responding on the white board.
Oops. No matter, we asked for some more, and then did our part.