Unlimited ice cream for communists

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“Raise your hand if you’re surprised that there are actually this many vintage cars in Cuba!” I exclaimed, turning towards my friends in the backseat. They stared back at me unphased. “I’m surprised at how many new cars there are,” said Keely, pointing out the 90s-era sedans stopped at a red light. When and how had automobile imports restarted, she wondered? An interesting question— the first of hundreds that we would ask about our unfamiliar surroundings. But our phones never had service, and we never bought public Wifi-access cards that Cubans use to connect to the internet in parks and town squares. Estranged from Google and Siri, my friends and I were emerging into what we named “post-truth society.” The answer to any question was simply whatever you thought might be the answer. From the very beginning of that initial taxi ride into Havana, I was filled with a yearning to know this place. I wanted to live there on this strange Caribbean island long enough to feel like I did about Mexico after I created my own world there for six months. As if I belonged, and understood, and could recognize these streets and these landmarks and these people. --- That first day in Havana was hot. Walking around the city for the first time in the late afternoon, we darted to the shady side of each street for temporary relief from the heat. Gaby and Laura led the way: sometimes holding hands, sometimes turning to us to gesture at a notable landmark and offer at tour-guide spiel. The U.S. Embassy, menacing and ugly, isolated by the ocean and challenged by a long plaza to its north called “Anti-imperialist park.” The house Gaby first lived in when she studied abroad at the University of Havana sophomore year. Laura’s favorite spot for cheap student food (cheesy pizza or ham-and-cheese sandwiches). I kept giving Ana and Keely looks as we strolled behind the couple. It was the first time we had ever seen them together, a real-life incarnation of their stunning Instagram portraits. We’d all 3
known Gaby for years, and to finally witness her with the girl of her dreams left us all “awwwww”- ing at one another like a row of moms at their wedding ceremony. But while Cuba was a fever dream of off-the-beaten-path global experiences to us, Gaby and Laura had actual lives in Havana. A job. School. Apartment-hunting. Our intrepid American clique had to fend for ourselves for at least part of every day. After taking us to devour 50-cent pizzas at a popular student haunt, Gaby and Laura taxied away to continue their search for an apartment to move into together. It was 4 p.m. and here we were. In Cuba, sans our Cuban guides. Uncomfortably hot and stuffed with pizza, wondering aloud about the currency conversion and how we didn’t expect the street food to be so… Italian. I felt a familiar giddiness tugging my lips into a smile: we were on our own in a brand-new place, with nothing to do but explore! From our table outside the café, we could see the mysterious white concrete curves of a vast building of some kind through the trees of the park nearby. “Is that Coppelia?” asked Luke. Gaby and Laura had told us we were close to one of Havana’s most popular landmarks, the official ice cream headquarters of the state. “YES!” I said, a little too loudly, thrilled about what I had heard about this place called Coppelia. An authentic Cuban ice cream experience was my only goal for the entire trip. My sweet tooth is the stuff of friendly legend. For my twentieth birthday last year, my friends taped Smarties and lollipops all over the walls of our house. For my twenty-first this year, I feasted upon not one but three birthday cakes. I’m not sure how or when loving sugar became an assigned aspect of my identity, but it probably originated with my longest standing personality trait: the tendency to exaggerate. Sometimes I roll my eyes when my friends tease me about my adoration of dessert, but even if it’s a bit hyperbolic, I certainly never complained about the bottomless candy supply in my backpack for six straight weeks after my birthday. Much to my delight, Cubans seemed to appreciate sweet treats just as much as me. 4
Page 1: Unlimited Ice Cream for Communists
Page 5: Gaby and Laura were our perfect amb
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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