Maria Matienzo’s Diary

Normally if I get on a guagua (what we call buses here in Cuba), it’s an Indiana Jones adventure, and lately it’s become more exciting still.

On Sunday the other week, after several weekends without going out, some friends invited us to a show at the Teatro America. It turned into the discovery of an atmosphere different from what we’re accustomed to in Cuban theaters.

A specter is haunting the streets of the city but, unlike in the last century, it’s not that of communism. It is a phantasm – one that makes the hair on the back of your neck bristle, or gives you goose bumps; or makes you feel like someone’s watching you, but when you turn to look, no one’s there.

But you have to understand, I was all of five or six, and I wasn’t able to understand that me, though I didn’t eat out of the garbage, I was also a part of that poverty.

I have a friend who up to this moment hasn’t lost her job; nonetheless, she’s worried about the future. She’s been working for a short time as an editor, and though she’s worked on no more than two or three books, I’m sure she’s up to the task.

A meeting in a café can be a good point of departure if we want to analyze various points in our life.

My friend Manuela has always painted people’s finger and toenails, or better said, she’s always “given them manicures,” so that it sounds more “American” (some people say things like this when they want to make things seem more important).

I’m writing to let you know that here everyone is breathing, sleeping, eating and panicking over the “readjustment of Cuba’s economic model.”

The main character in my story is not me, it’s the person who I’ll describe using the initial “P.

Fifteen days in advance we received the invitation. It was for a meeting of lesbians and bisexuals to be held in a public place. Hum! “Sounds interesting,” I thought.