Santo Domingo

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Don't believe everything you hear about the Dominican Republic.

Sure, it's dirty. That's what you get when the buildings that surround you are older than the man who "discovered" America in 1492; a man whose likeness is represented literally everywhere you look; a man who, in 30 years, single-handedly eliminated the patient and peaceful Taino indians (the Caribbean's first inhabitants) through disease, starvation and human hunting.

Sure, it's unsafe. That's what you get when 1/4 of the population holds 70% of the wealth in the country and people must scrabble for food; education is scarce; and secure jobs even less so- a paradigm established during the iron rule of dictator Trujillo (El Jefe), a man whose self-importance was so inflated that he demanded all art and songs be written in his name, at penalty of death; a man whose rise to power was financed and implemented by our own President Franklin Deleanor Roosevelt.

Sure, women are treated as "others". Prostitution is rampant, with the lowest class of workers selling their wares openly in the barrio and the highest class teetering in too-tall heels and tight dresses alongside fat, wealthy American and European men. Until very recently, women weren't allowed to work outside the home unless they were part of a campesino, or farming community, in the country. That's what you get after 300 years of male-dominated rule and a deeply embedded sense of "machismo", a "self" that defines men as sexual predators, prideful, and honorific with a hidden core of sharp insecurity and a need to show themselves of to their peers.

Sure, the Dominican Republic is full of strife, poverty, grime, and unbalance, but boy, is it incredible.

There is a shared history here that at least matches ours in the States, one replete with slavery, many European influences and severe, tragic bloodletting. There is also, however, a history of the DR way-- one crafted from a deep love of music, food and dancing; friendliness and a sense of adventure. One that expresses itself loudly and vibrantly late into the night and early in the morning. It is a culture that seems to say, "So what if life is hard and the world continues to tear us down, we will continue to live it, fully." They are grinning in the face of a long history of disaster, and it seeps through every pore.

Santo Domingo has shown itself, so far, to be wonderful. I am staying in one of the oldest homes in the city, in the Zona Colonial, in front of the Plaza de Espana and beside Columbus' own home, built shortly after he first arrived here. It is a lovely pensione, owned by John Goulet, a man as interesting and odd as Ernest Hemingway and whose quirky sense of style (an entire wall decorated with wooden parrots across from another with an 13th century original tapestry?) seeps into everything around him. Breakfast this morning consisted of an array of fresh breads, hard-boiled eggs, cheese and cafe, but also cocoa puffs and cold steak. My room is a dark, small room with a vaulted cieling that is filled with antique mirrors and a giant bed with a feather mattress and feather pillows-- it is a room for a monk, or princess in hiding. It is truly lovely. As I'm writing this, in the window overlooking Calle Isabella and the bustling, waking city, I can smell fresh bread in the Panaderia below and cafe being brewed in the bar beside it. People are arguing in an apartment nearby, their voices bellowing out into the morning, and music is blaring from the Plaze behind. There's a feeling here I've only experienced before in Rome-- a tense yet bubbling energy that suggests a hidden agenda and a potential for explosive fun, or danger. But onto last night. . . .

After a tour with my host's 16-year-old-adopted Dominican son Jon Luis (a suggestion John made so I might learn the streets more safely and comfortably AND put the local men on notice-- a smart move considering the attention directed at me in the airport alone) I showered and went out to dinner at Cafe Zaga Freddo, by myself. Let me preface this with a little warning: I was aware that I would be a gringa, a guera-- an extremely white white person in the eyes of the hispanic culture. I am, after all, blonde and blue-eyed; tanned with white-teeth, very "barbie" looking, as Thor once said. But I didn't realize that, except for the few bus tours of white folks I've seen here and there, I would be one of the ONLY white women around. I was sure to dress demurely-- jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt, minimal make-up and flat shoes, but it didn't matter. Men and women both stopped to stare at me as I walked by. One older, darker woman (probably Haitian) said, "Tu eres una angel; una angel muy guapa." and reached out to touch my hair as I stopped to look at the fruit she was selling in her basket. Along the way, I learned about "the hiss", as John calls it. "The hiss" is a sound men make at beautiful women, followed shortly thereafter by something that sounds vaguely like a cat in heat, a "eeeeeeyyyyyyyyooooooow!" that makes your hair stand up on your neck. Then they will reach out and try to grab your hand or the back of your shirt. Jon Luis, a budding member of the machismo mentality himself (though a gentleman through and through, at least to me) suggested I stop, turn around and sternly say, "Vas!" (You go!) and point, like you would do to a bad child or a dog. He said, "Dominican men respond well to women who order them around, like their madres." (I think that works with some American men too!). So that's what I did, and it worked wonders. Men would retreat, to be laughed at by their peers upon their return to the corner, and I kept walking. An interesting power dynamic. . . .

At dinner, I was the only white person in Zaga Freddo, a trendy, youthful bar/restaurant on Calle Conde (the long, wide street in the center of the old city that folks stroll upon, sipping frosty Presidente beer and stopping to kiss or watch old men plat chess). I sat outside and listened to the pulsing merengue from within and attempted to enjoy a crisp glass of white wine (about $1.50) and a salad with sweet, juicy tomatoes, fresh local basil and a crumbly local cheese, topped with capers and oil ($3.50) in between bouts of being hit on. It is important to consider the clientele here-- young Dominicans and expats with money to burn; women dressed in finery only matched by Italian women and men in very expensive shoes and tight jeans; light-skinned with Spanish aquiline features--these are not your average Dominican people; they represent the 1/4 of the population with money, the "Primera Clase" or first class folks, as they refer to themselves. But it didn't stop the men from exhibiting the old machismo ways. Six men approached me in two hours! They would saunter up and ask me my name in Spanish, or how my food was, or where I was from. I simply kept repeating, "No, gracias. No gracias." and would return to my book, ignoring them. They would then return to their seats to the laughter of their friends and glare at me. I could only chuckle. All in all, it was a pleasant, though strange experience. I shall keep my wits about me, as they say, and keep a low profile so as not to encourage more than my already fair share of attention. . . .Too bad the city is such a romantic place; I wish I could share it with Thor, stopping to kiss in the middle of Calle Conde and sipping cold rum under a 300 year old tree like the locals. Sigh....