a canadian in cuba I

Day One: May 1, 2010

on my way;
This is morning, that's when I spend the most time thinking 'bout what I've given up. That’s a Jack’s Mannequin quote, I think. We’re leaving soon, first to buy medicine for all my various maladies and then to plop me on a bus, headed south of everything I know. Way to be melodramatic, yeah, I know. It’s my mom’s birthday and I feel bad for leaving her. We’re going to Cuba! But I’m scared.There’s that gnawing feeling in my gut, like, I want to do this, but also like, do you want to do this? I’m having trouble living in the moment, but I’m ready (that’s another Jack’s Mannequin song, by the way. I was listening to them this morning and clearly it stuck).
Hugged mom and dad goodbye. I’m sitting with Shenise at the very back, hope no one has to use the bathroom >.< style="font-weight: bold;">

In Smithers;
Checked the time at 11:11 am so now the day is looking up. We stopped at Timmy’s and the line up for the girls’ washroom was so long. I felt like some kind of low-IQ livestock being herded along.
The scenery of Terrace (and yes, looking back on this paragraph, at the time I was totally like, Science! Do it now! Conspicuous? Not at all), mountains whose white peaks scrape the sky, trees that stretch on in a haze of bright, young, spring green, and the river. Mighty rapids, murky water. It’s all here and we all take it for granted.
We pass fields with cows grazing. The back of Angie’s chair is scraping my knees. There are a few gasps as we lurch around a corner at full speed in our oversized Terrace Junior Hockey bus.
“I hate this town,” Time says, two rows up, munching on some hurriedly ordered Tim Horton’s food. My brother was born in Smithers, and I feel like it holds some significance for me—but it doesn’t, not really. My history does not lie here. But today, everyday, going to Cuba and beyond I am forging my own history.
I love this town.

In Prince George—dans l’hôtel;
So, the bus ride pretty much went on and I occasionally got up to talk to Laura and Mariah about abortion, the war in Iraq, you know, all the controversial stuff. And bras, just to bug Dillon, until he threatened to “burn our hair”.
We finally got to PG and had dinner at Moxie’s where a not-so-polite (okay, to be frank, he was a jerk) Bryce kicked me out of my seat. I ended up sitting with Veronika, Linnéa and Jenny. It was actually really fun, though—we tucked our napkins into our shirts and looked like complete losers. I had Mediterranean Calamari Salad—deep fried baby squid. Okay, so for my science observations on fauna for the day, let’s just say baby squids are pretty much EVERYWHERE here, man. Science, check.
We went to the PG symphony orchestra. Honestly, it was fantastic. Even the tuning, all the cellos and violins playing their different strings... it was all dissonant and strange but also ridiculously melodic. =LOVE!
We waltzed for two songs—Shenise and I for one, where I lost one of my shoes and was partially bare foot; Alex and I for another, where he kicked my camera and the whole time we waltzed I was afraid it was dead. They played Beethoven’s Concerto in C#—all about struggle, apparently, but aso about the light at the end. The conductor sat at the piano in the very middle, conducting the orchestra with short, jerky movements, barely visible above the voluptuous body of the grand. He reminded me of Beethoven, who was already deaf by the time the Concerto was first performed.
So, we waltzed. Mrs. Brouwer cried, Janica and I compared photos and her camera is AMAZING. Honestly, traveling on my own (ish—give or take 50 other band kids?) isn’t so bad. We got up at intermission and talked to one of the cellists, just to tell him that they were really, really great. He told us a bit about Cuba, and made the whole thing seem that much more real.
“How many teenagers can waltz to a live orchestra?”
Cross that off my to do before I die list, I suppose.

Love,
Erika

PS: I would attach photos for you guys but my computer is being a complete idiot, sorry! More to come soon.