Unlimited ice cream for communists

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Unlimited ice cream for communists W hile I was in Cuba, I never stopped sweating. The aggressive Caribbean sunshine turned my skin into an open, breathing organism. Through my sweating pores I absorbed salty gales along the Malecón, where the hot pink setting sun turned hundreds of meandering pedestrians into black silhouettes against the choppy Pacific Ocean. I soaked up scalding black exhaust spurting out of electric-green Volkswagens in downtown Old Havana. And degree by degree, as the sun burned ceaselessly down through my seven-day trip, I gradually absorbed curious insights into the lives of my new Cuban friends. I was in Havana for seven days on a trip with my seven closest friends. It was our last spring break in college, and as seniors we had no reason to shy away from the considerable cost, coordination, and logistics of pulling off an international escapade together. There was only one destination in our collective dreams: Cuba. Our friend Gaby was moving to Cuba that same week to be with Laura, her long-distance Cuban girlfriend, at long last.
Gaby and Laura were our perfect ambassadors to Cuba for three reasons. First, they were extremely excited that this trip was even taking place: it was a small miracle that all of Gaby’s best friends in college decided to fly to Cuba and experience Gaby’s new home. Second, Laura had lived in Havana her whole life, and Gaby was a Sagittarius like me, which meant she was a master of travel and exploration. Their collective mental map of the city was studded with a commendable constellation of dive bars, breakfast cafés, and cultural sites. Gaby and Laura were waiting for us with a yellow taxi van when we exited La Havana International. We all squinted our eyes reflexively, having zoomed from a 40-degree chill in North Carolina to 80 degrees of direct sunshine. On our taxi ride through the outskirts of Havana, everyone was hypnotized by the view through the rose-tinted windows. Everywhere I looked was cinematic. Men wearing only gym shorts and flip flops smoked cigarettes on the balconies of magnificent old mansions, with mint green gilded facades and patches of disintegrated plaster. A small gray-haired woman rested on a park bench and sprinkled rice on the ground for the street cats swarming at her feet. A lady in a bright blue dress rolled a wooden wagon full of fresh-cut flowers in every color down the uneven cobblestone streets. But the very first thing I noticed took me completely by surprise: picturesque vintage cars everywhere. We passed a parking lot where each and every space was occupied by a hot pink convertible. When Americans think of Cuba, they visualize old cars. We imagine an entire rainbow fleet of Beetles and Bugs and Volkswagens. Based on their camera rolls, it seems like all tourists and visiting photographers encounter a lime green punch-buggie around every corner. I, a selfdescribed “woke traveler,” had rolled my eyes at these images. How basic, how reductive, how cliché! 2
Page 1: Unlimited Ice Cream for Communists
Page 7 and 8: known Gaby for years, and to finall
Page 9 and 10: Caribbean island. It willingly nest
Page 11 and 12: of penguins wandering the white con
Page 13 and 14: “Yes, I know we had nine scoops,

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