By Reader Demand...

There has been some noise from the peanut gallery – apparently some persons do not want to read every nuanced detail of my various lingering illnesses, but hey, there’s no accounting for taste! – so this entry is dedicated to all of you out there who’ve made your voices heard; you know who you are…

Prologue: In order for you to appreciate the upcoming story, you need some material for comparison. Let us say this – last Saturday was typical of a weekend here for me. I spent the morning at the school on the internet, mostly catching up on email, g-chatting, and reading Gail Collins of the New York Times. After some serious internet gluttony, I rode my moped home where I was accosted by pleas to “come with me, I want you play with my ninjas” from Jimmy. Luckily it is possible to zone out and read your own book while occasionally emitting a “bwhaha” (don't make fun of my stock evil laugh) and pretending to attack his lego ninjagos – 3 year olds have amazingly self-centered personalities and therefore hardly pay attention to you, anyway. Finally, I took a distinctly tepid bath during which I promised myself yet again I would boil hot water to add to the tub next time and continued to re-read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for the second time. Then I cursed the rain and sprinted down the road to a friend’s house where I was part of a lovely dinner party of four, ate delicious couscous and steak (and cows here are like agricultural gold, so it was a truly amazing treat!), discussed where it was possible to buy cheese, drank moderately copious amounts of beer, red wine, and finally aged rum, watched and almost died laughing at the movie Bridesmaids, and returned home by midnight. A stellar night! Throw in a little tennis and a little teaching (both awesome, by the way, but to be discussed at a later date) and you pretty much have a full picture of my life here…

The scene: An evening reception at the British Embassy, Havana. I have received an invitation originally intended for my father, who twisted someone’s arm (or, more likely, asked politely) to transfer the invite my way. Therefore, it says “Mrs. Elizabeth White and spouse” on the invitation, and when I RSVP that I shall be attending alone, the very nice gentleman on the line consoles me with, “what a shame” (to be fair, in Spanish “que lastima” sounds slightly less obnoxious than it does in English – but not much).

The attire: After stressing about what to wear to an event at the British Embassy, I decide on something classy and a tiny bit boring, with a sharp grey pencil skirt and a black, sleeveless silk shirt. The most exciting thing on me are my earrings, which are long and thin and made of grayish looking rhinestones (trust me, they are a lot prettier than they sound!), and possibly my eye makeup, which is pink and gold and calculated to bring out the green in my eyes (the school newspaper, of which I am co-advisor, ran an article on makeup tips I had to edit for this month’s edition, but again, more tales about school later).

The arrival: By taxi, ten minutes early. The guard outside the gate has the balls to tell me “It’s at 7:30” when I walk up and I have to ask coldly, “You’re seriously not going to let me in?” He opens up (but only after informing me I must stay in his sight) and I wait awkwardly by the fountain until the events coordinator, the very same “what a shame” utterer, waves me in. I walk in to a quite empty British embassy, where I find an elegant woman waiting with outstretched hand at the threshold. She looks at me quizzically and asks me to please tell her again my name, and I reassure her that she has never met me. When I explain how I have come to be here, she croons, “Oh, yes, William, of R****lic Bank.” Then she leads the way to a group of three men, one of whom, she informs me, is an ex-minister, Lord Wilson. When we arrive at the group of three, which includes one noticeable tall man in a business suit, they turn to each other, then back to me and excuse themselves for needing to finish their conversation about “a meeting earlier.” In fact, I am shooed away in that politely rude way that only the British have mastered! Turning back to the main hall, (why did she bother walking me out of the main hall in the first place?!)  I chat to the events coordinator for a while because, hey, at least he is willing to talk to me!

The night wears on: Two mojitos later, I’m having a grand old time. From these inauspicious beginnings, I talk to a random, sweet, and as it turns out slightly boring Cuban couple, in which we awkwardly avoid the subtext of communist regime in our effusions of how much we like Cuba; I see a few of my dad’s friends, one of whom I especially like and greet as a life-saving floatation device – but to my credit, I only greet and chat with him briefly before I move on; he turns out to be talking to the tall fellow (see above, “the arrival”) whom I tease mercilessly by recounting the tale of the polite English brush-off; I later meet a few Peruvian expats who promise to invite me to their monthly luncheons with the one Peruvian chef in Havana; I then find myself chatting to the ex-minister, whom I also tease, and only later realize how incredibly impudent this is (the guy was apparently good buddies with Fidel, plus being a Lord, plus being a minister… meanwhile, a part-time tennis-playing high school teacher is gleefully ripping him apart and probably laughing over-enthusiastically (as per usual). Best of all, afore mentioned favorite friend of dad’s offers me a ride home so no awkward waiting for taxi! Woohoo!

The aftermath: Although I have only consumed my three beverages and am home by half past nine (seriously, all weekday parties should be as whirlwind), I do not sleep well and wake up distinctly groggy. A stunning sky-wide rainbow – only my third ever – streaks through the clouds during tennis this morning and I work hard, sweating out my tiredness and any residual toxins. My tennis coach’s son, who’s taught me once before and who I considered really quiet, turns out to have a stutter. I talk nearly non-stop, laughing and joking, until he likely thinks I am a total ditz – but a warm, friendly ditz. He finally starts talking, despite the stutter, so the character assassination turns out to be worth it (besides, let’s face it – I sort of am a ditz with diarrhea of the mouth, anyway).