Text & Photos: Francisco Collazo
Translation: Julie Schwietert Collazo
[vease abajo para la version en espanol]
**

Girls get together in groups to practice their routines, to adjust their costumes and get made up for this night. Their dresses and the men’s suits evoke another era: tiny buttons, Spanish-style dresses, cowboy boots and hats, and pants adhering tightly to the body. The girls swivel their hips softly while the men look on, inviting their partner to dance with no words, just a look.

It’s a night for dancing.

Few people talk; the music is too loud for that. It’s as hot outside as it is inside. Waves lap the shore of San Juan, embracing this centuries old Caribbean city. Tonight, San Juan will shine: it’s opening night of the International Salsa Congress, which takes place every year.

Amidst the multitude you can find couples from all corners of the planet who make a date to be here each year–and for every night of the Congress–to take part in the celebration. The DJs compete amongst themselves to see who can push the dancers to the point of indescribable ecstasy.

A couple from Finland moves spontaneously alongside a French couple. The Japanese move like samurai with their partners, who are from Guyana and Venezuela. It’s a party for everyone.

Each note elevates the room’s temperature and the fever to dance, to look on in admiration, to practice or learn, or to get on the floor and try out one’s latest moves in a competition. The Salsa Congress is exactly that: Salsa. Piquant and energetic; here, you won’t find bolero, bachata, or the tango. It’s pure salsa, all night long, almost until dawn.

It’s almost 4 in the morning and there are still dancers on the floor. There are abandoned glasses of water and liquor in every corner of the room. But the party rumbles on and the rhythm hasn’t lost a beat. The ones who tired have gone home, but no one gives up if a competing couple is still going strong, no matter the pain that pulses in their shoulders, their hips, and their legs.

My mind races as I look on; it’s impossible to focus on just one couple. There are so many, and among them, so many dancers who are expert in executing their movements.

Outside the dance hall of the Caribe Hilton there are also tents set up where vendors sell dance shoes, dresses, membership for classes, and anything you can think of that’s related to dance. It’s intoxicating, all this dancing, and I’m ready to tell my wife she should take dance classes so we can take the floor next year. I’m ready. I’ve already made plans to check prices for a pair of Capezio dance shoes. I want to dance like these people, I want them to see me dancing, turning and turning all night long, without resting for a moment.

The sun wakes up on the horizon, signaling a new day and the next dance. San Juan is sleeping, though some people still haven’t gone to bed after a full night of salsa, music, and fun.

It’s through dance that we celebrate life. Dance frees you and helps you discharge a hard week of work or life’s little day to day problems. It’s therapy in the form of movement. You can see in the faces of the people here that they have no fear; they’re tired, but happy. They’ve become an entirely different species: they believe in life, they know that life is movement, and that nothing is static, nothing is fixed.

The International Salsa Congress triumphs one more time in Puerto Rico. Once again, it inspired couples to make a date to return next year. Right now, there are only a few hours before it all begins again. The seats are gathered up. The waiters and bartenders begin to count money. Someone sweeps and the lights go down, as in a theatre. The doors close, trapping memories inside that will live here until the next generation of dancers arrives to take their place.

**

Las chicas se reúnen en grupos y entre ellas practican su baile, se arreglan y se preparan su maquillaje con brillos para esta noche. Los trajes y vestidos pertenecen a otras epocas: botines cortos, vestidos espanoles, botas vaqueras, sombreros y pantalones pitusas apretados al cuerpo. Todas ellas menean suavemente sus caderas y sus hombres de una manera sensual invitando al bailador que recorre con su vista su pareja de baile.

Es una noche para bailar.

Se habla muy poco porque la musica es demasiado alta para socializarse. Afuera esta tan caliente como adentro. Las olas golpean el litoral Sanjuanero como abrazando la cintura de esta ciudad centenaria y caribena. Es San Juan, es Puerto Rico, en su noche de la apertura al Congreso de la Salsa, que tiene lugar cada ano.

Entre la multitud se ven parejas de todos los rincones del planeta que se dan cita cada ano y por todas las noches de esta celebracion. Los disjockeys compiten entre si para ver quien electrifica a los bailadores hasta el punto de un extasis indescriptible.

La pareja de Finlandia se ubica de una manera espontanea al lado de los franceses. Los japoneses se mueven como samurais con su parejas de Guyana y Venezuela. Esta es una fiesta de todos. Cada nota eleva la temperatura del salon y con ellas a los alli presentes para bailar, para ver, para aprender o poner en la pista de baile el ultimo movimiento aprendido ante de la competencia final. El Congreso de la Salsa es exactamente eso: salsa, salsa picante y movida, esta ausente el bolero, la bachata, el tango. Salsa pura toda, toda la noche hasta casi el amanecer.

Son ya casi las 4 de la manana y todavia quedan en la pista bailadores. Los vasos de agua y licor se ven por todas partes en el suelo del salon como hongos en tereno humedo, caliente, y fertil. La fiesta todavia sigue y los ritmos no han mermado ni cambiado su intensidad. Los que se cansan se van pero no se rinden ante la mirada de la pareja adversaria. Es un duelo de hombros, caderas, piernas y movimiento corporal exagerado y al ritmo de la musica.

Ante todo esto mi mente vaga de un lado a otro perdiendo la concentracion en una sola pareja. Estas son muchas y todas muy buenas en la ejecucion de sus movimientos.

Afuera de los salones de baile del Caribe Hilton estan tambien las carpas que le ofrecen a los bailadores zapatos de baile, vestidos, membresia para clases de bailes avanzada y todo lo relacionado con el baile. A este punto ya estoy intoxicado con todo esto hasta el punto que le recomiendo a mi esposa que tome clases de baile para bailar con ella el proximo ano. Estoy decidido. Hago planes para ver en el internet cuanto me cuesta un par de zapatos Capezio. Quiero bailar como los hacen todos ellos, de hecho me veo bailando y dando vueltas toda la noche sin descansar un momento.

El sol se asoma en el horizonte dando la senal de un nuevo dia y de un proximo baile. San Juan duerme mientras otros apenas van a dormir despues de una noche de salsa, musica y alegria universal.

A traves del baile se celebra la vida, se vuela y se suena en Puerto Rico. El baile libera y te descarga de una semana dura de trabajo y quizas de todos los problemas del vivir del dia a dia. Es terapia en movimiento. Se les ve en las caras que no hay escombros del vivir; se ven cansados pero felices. Son como una especia de ser humano distinta y muy diferente. Creen en la vida y saben que la vida es movimiento, que nada es estatico, que nada es fijo.

El Congreso de la Salsa triunfo una vez mas en Puerto Rico. Inspiro a muchos a ser de este un punto de encuentro cada ano. Ya quedan pocas horas para empezar de nuevo. Las sillas se recojen . Los mozos se dan a la tarea de contar el dinero hecho en bevidas tomadas o desrramadas. Se barre y se bajan las luces como en teatro. Al cerrar sus puertas quedan atrapadas adentro de sus salones las memorias vividas que quedaran para la historia y para la nueva generacion de bailadores de todo el mundo.

Text & Photos: Francisco Collazo
Translation: Julie Schwietert Collazo

**

Spanish Harlem, New York City

Graffiti is like a place: each “tag” has its own language. One of the characteristics of graffiti is that it reflects the social and mental state of the society in which it’s made to a certain extent.

“DEMOCRACY does not equal COLONY,” San Juan, Puerto Rico

Graffiti is an open letter. A thermometer measuring society’s temperature. A signal that communicates the health of a community better than the media.

“A salute to the Cuban Revolution on Its 50th Anniversary. And ours… when?” Puerto Rico

Some cities become renowned for their graffiti– like New York in the 70s, when the subways, stations, parks, and buildings were covered with tags.

Long Island City, New York

But in New York, graffiti is, to a certain extent, a relic of the past, not as fresh in our collective memory as these more recent examples of political graffiti from Oaxaca, Mexico, and San Juan, Puerto Rico.

“Fighting for a working class government, popularly elected by the people.” Oaxaca, Mexico

I’m compelled by them–or repulsed by them–depending on where I find them or what their messages refer to. Often, there’s an anger that seems to have motivated them into existence, and it’s costly to remove them. And there’s the anonymity of the artist: I’m so curious to know who left this message here; that person evaporates, leaving just the image or words behind.

“Long Live the EZLN!” (Zapatista movement) Oaxaca, Mexico

In fact, now I’m thinking about the time I saw a graffiti artist working away in the shadows, only to realize it was someone I knew from work. I was waiting for the 7 train when I saw a well-dressed person in the distance who seemed to be coming from work. I recognized him because he’d been an important manager in the agency where I worked. Suddenly, he looked from one side to the other, took a permanent marker out of his bag, and started scribbling something I couldn’t make out from where I was standing.

Long Island City, New York

My curiosity was so strong that when the train arrived, I didn’t take it. I wanted to stay behind so I could see and read with my own eyes what this person had left as a “gift” for all of the city’s subway riders. On the wall of the station, he’d scribbled symbols and initials that had no meaning for me, but must have represented something important to him.

I’ve never forgotten that moment, and it comes to mind each time I see graffiti wherever I travel.

For more graffiti photos, check out our Flickr photostream.

And if you happen to enjoy graffiti, check out the article “10 Places Where Graffiti is Legal,” one of which (Queens, New York’s 5 Pointz), is just a few miles from where we live (and is shown in some of the photos in this article).

Text: Francisco Collazo
Photos: Francisco & Julie Schwietert Collazo
Translation: Julie Schwietert Collazo
[vease abajo para la version en espanol]
**

New York’s annual Hong Kong Dragon Boat Festival took place August 8 and 9 in Flushing Meadows Park.

Dragon boat racing originated in China more than 2,000 years ago, but only began to surge in popularity in the West around 1976, primarily in cities where large Chinese and other Asian communities existed. In addition to New York, Texas, Colorado, and California are some of the places where dragon boat festivals are held each year between May and August.

The dragon boats are colorful, their heads and tails carved into features of the dragon. Men and women row to the rhythm of the enormous drum that marks each dip of the paddle into the peaceful surface of the park’s lake.

Music, traditional dress, and delicious Eastern cuisine are common features of these celebrations.

At the Flushing Meadows celebration, kids and their teachers offered a demonstration of various martial arts.

It was the perfect weekend escape from the day-to-day routine of the city.

To see all of the photos from the Dragon Boat Festival, click here.

**

Este festival libre de costo estaba abierto para todos en el parque Flushing Meadows en Nueva York los dias 8 y 9 de Agosto. Origino en China hace mas de 2,000 años, pero el evento tiene lugar alrededor del mundo desde el 1976 en las ciudades donde habitan una populacion China o asiatica significante. Ademas de Nueva York, Tejas, California, y Colorado celebran este festival todos los años entre los meses de Mayo y Agosto.

Cada una de las canoas son muy coloridas con sus cabezas y rabos de dragon. Hombres y mujeres reman al compas del tambor gigante que va marcando el compas de cada hundida del remo para deslizarce sobre las tranquilas aguas del lago.

Musica, trajes tipicos, y la sobrosa cocina oriental estan presentes en estas festividades.

Las demostraciones de los artes marciales de los niños y de los maestros de esta diciplina no pudieron faltar.

Era un escape perfecto de la rutina del día a día de la ciudad.

Para ver todas las fotos del Festival del Dragon, haz un clic aqui.

Text & Photos: Francisco Collazo
Translation: Julie Schwietert Collazo
**

Coffee and its products are a kind of precious gold: perfumes, desserts, ice creams, drinks. Medicine so you won’t sleep while you’re working or a drink to kick-start the senses.

A morning without coffee in my family is like a day without sun or a night without stars… or at least a guarantee that the day will get off on the wrong foot.

Coffee has become a highly valued product.

An entire industry has grown up around it: the “Italian” Juan Valdes, Dunkin Donuts, and Starbucks.

Now, though, these coffee industry leaders have a new competitor trying to edge in on their turf: McDonalds with its McCafe.

I visited recently, intrigued by its business strategy, its marketing concepts, and the psychology behind it. Then I checked out the other coffee competitors to evaluate the similarities and differences among them.

The war has begun!

At Starbucks, I read the list of coffees offered and after meditating a bit, I choose the same as always: a mocha, please! “What size do you want?” And here’s where things get complicated for me. The options are “grande,” “tall,” and “venti.” How “grande” is the “grande,” exactly, especially when compared to the “tall”? For me, the words mean the same. “Grande” is Spanish for “tall”; “tall” is English for “grande”… do you follow?

To me, grande=tall. Well, I’m going to be sophisticated and ask for a “venti,” which is Italian. But why “venti”? The “barista” tells me that a venti is a 20 ounce cup… “Right, now I understand,” I say. “We don’t have small, medium, and large anymore.”

“No, well, yes,” the barista says. “It’s just that grande, tall, and venti sound prettier.” He laughs and prepares a venti.

McCafe intrigues me and I’m curious to see how they name their products. “Their look is similar to Starbucks,” I tell my wife in a loud voice so the employee hears me. “No, no,” he says, “we’re very different. And furthermore, our prices are better!” “Yes, that I see,” I tell him, with an attitude like I know what I’m talking about. The walls of McCafe are dark, a caramel color to be exact. Glass cases display pastries in an artistic arrangement that’s quite similar to… well, you know.

After so much time and so much coffee, I’m still consumed with thoughts about all the psychology that goes into attracting a buying public and all the crazy wording. “American coffee?” I didn’t know North America grew coffee. And the “tall,” “grande,” and “venti”? Juan Valdes, the Italian, dressed as a Colombian? Am I the only one confused here, or has anyone else lost his mind with all these inventions?

Well, I’ll take a grande coffee, please. And thanks!
*

Oro preciado es el cafe y sus productos: perfumes, postres, helados, refrescos. Medicina para no dormirse mientras trabajas o bebida para despertarse. Para ser honesto una manana sin cafe para mi y mi familia es como un dia sin sol, una noche sin estrella o un dia con los pelos de punta y mal humor.

El cafe se ha convertido en un producto muy deseado preciado. Por ejemplo cuando pienso en cafe me vienen a la mente el “Italiano” Juan Valdes, Dunkin Donuts, y Starbucks. Sin embargo estos tres ya tiene a otra compania tratando de abrirse paso con su cafe en la competencia: McDonalds con su McCafe.

Lo sigo de cerca porque estoy intrigado con las estrategia de negocios, concepto comercial, mercadeo y la psicologia de este. Me acerco a ellos para ver y evaluar sus diferencias y similitudes.

La guerra ha comenzado!

Me detengo ante la cartelera de menu de Starbucks y leo la lista de cafe que ofrecen y despues de meditar un poco pido lo mismo-”Cafe Mocha, por favor!” “Que tamano deseas?” Umm, bueno… aqui esta la confusion: grande, tall, y venti. Cuan grande es el grande, comparado al tall? Grande y tall para mi son lo mismo. Uno es espanol para tall y el otro es en ingles para grande…me sigues? Pienso que Grande=Tall.

Bueno, voy a ser mas sofisticado y pido un venti en italiano. No me conformo y demando una explicacion: “Por que venti?” Y se me responde que venti es 20 que son las onzas que tiene esa copa. “Aah, ya entiendo,” le digo. “Ya no tenemos chicos, medianos y grandes.” “No, pero si,” me dicen desde el otro lado del mostrador. “Lo que pasa es que suena bonito.” El se rie y se va a preparar la orden de venti.

McCafe me intriga y quiero ver con mis propios ojos en que idioma va a tirar su producto. “Su parecido es muy similar a Starbucks,” le digo a mi esposa en voz alta para que el dependiente me escuche. “No, no,” me dice el administrador. “Nosotros somos muy diferente, ademas los preios son mejores!” “Si, ya lo veo,” le digo en forma de respuesta y con una actitud de conocedor de lo que estoy hablando. Veo colores oscuros en sus paredes, carmelita para ser exacto. Vidrieras que tienen postres muy esparcidos y de disenos muy moderno y muy, pero muy similar a…bueno, para que decirlo.

Despues de tanto tiempo y tanto cafe tomado me sigue dando vuelta en la cabeza todas estas cosas para atraer al publico. Empezando con cafe americano, pues no sabia que habia cafe en la america del norte y luego todo esto de tall, grande y venti y de Juan Valdes del italiano vestido de colombiano. Soy yo solo el del problema o hay mas de uno que perdio la mente con todos estos esfuerzos de la invencion?

Un cafe grande, por favor! Y Gracias!

Text & Photos: Francisco Collazo
Translation: Julie Schwietert Collazo

*

What impresses me most about the South is its vast tracts of open land and the relative isolation of its people. Peaches, corn, and tomatoes form a cornucopia of colors and smells in the farms on both sides of the interstate that criss-cross South Carolina. The heat is intense and the lush vegetation is a summer blanket. Everything is clean and quiet.

There are innumerable churches of many denominations that appear on practically every curve and even on desolate-looking roads. They advertise to potential members in an almost competitive way, broadcasting inspirational or biblical passages on outdoor signs. For me, these signs are most emblematic of the South. I’ve never seen anything like that in any other part of the world, nor in any other cities I’ve visited in the Americas.

I knew a little bit about the South before coming here. Mark Twain immortalized it in his books. John Steinbeck and Harper Lee elevated the South as characters in their novels about social conflict–and I imagined the place in my mind just as they portrayed it. My own visits to the South have helped me understand why so many people love it and why so many people hate it. I’ve visited its mountains, its historical sites, and its famous cotton plantations.

In all of my visits I’ve had an immense curiosity to understand this place. I come here looking for evidence like an investigator at a crime scene. A chill runs down my spine when I stop at the ruins of the South’s old textile mills and its abandoned roads. I see the ruins of a place that had its moment of glory. These scenes make me feel close to Twain, Steinbeck, and Lee, and I start a mental conversation with them. I ask them questions and they answer. I talk and they respond. But in the end I’m alone and I try to understand what’s happening here now and what happened in times past.

The contrast between the South and the North is marked, not just in its geography, but on the collective mental map of its inhabitants. I see Mexicans who work in agriculture and businesses with Latin names, and I think about the history of my country–Cuba–whose flag was conceived in the South. The contrasts and overlaps leave me thinking about more than what’s said, written, and heard in just one visit.

Now, there’s just one more thing left for me to do– taste one of those delicious peaches… and head back to the north.

*

Lo que mas recuerdo y me impresiona del Sur es su vastos campos y el aislamiento de su población. Melocotones, maíz, y tomates, forman una cornucopia de colores y aromas en las fincas a ambos lados de las carreteras que cruzan el estado de Carolina del Sur. El calor es intenso y su verde vegetación te abraza como manta de verano. Todo es limpio y callado.

Las innumerables iglesias de casi todas las denominaciones aparecen en cada curva y en caminos desolados. Estas despliegan en sus jardines elaborados pasajes bíblicos o inspiracionales que de una manera u otra parecen competir las unas con las otras. Para mi estas mas que ninguna otra cosa me deja saber que he llegado al sur de los EEUU. No he encontrado nada semejante en ningún otro lado del mundo, ni en ninguna de las otras ciudades que he visitado en las Américas.

He conocido sobre el sur antes de llegar a el. Mark Twain lo inmortalizo en sus libros. John Steinbeck and Harper Lee lo elevaron en sus novelas de conflictos sociales y yo lo imagine en mi mente como tal. Mi visita al sur me dejo saber porque muchos los quieren y otros los detestan. He visitado sus montanas, lugares de interés histórico y las famosas y muy conocidas plantaciones de algodón.

Hay en todas mis visitas una curiosidad inmensa por entender. Me acerco como se acerca un perito buscando evidencias en una escena de crimen. Me corre un frió seco en la columna vertebral cuando me detengo de cerca en las ruinas de sus textileras y ferrocarriles abandonados. Veo las ruinas de una ciudad que en un tiempo floreció. Escenas como estas me hace sentir de cerca a Twain, Steinbeck, Lee y entro en una conversación mental con todos ellos. Les pregunto y me contestan, les hablo y me responden. Pero al final estoy solo y me siento solo con todo esto y con todo lo que ha pasado en este y en otros tiempos.

El contraste entre el sur y el norte esta bien marcado. No solo en su geografía, pero en el mapa mental colectivo de sus habitantes. Veo caras mexicanas que trabajan en la agricultura, negocios con nombres latinos, y sobre todo, me remonto en la historia de mi país (Cuba), que su bandera fue concebida en el sur.

Todo esto es muy interesante en su conjunto y me deja capturar en aparente silencio parte de lo que se ha dicho, escrito, y hablado en una simple visita. Ahora solo me queda una solo cosa saborear los deliciosos melocotones, ah.. y subir al norte.