What am I doing by myself at an all-inclusive in Cuba?

I find the most inconspicuous table, set for two, at the edge of the dining hall. The idea of asking to sit with one of the groups around me has crossed my mind, but my introverted self keeps me from approaching them. I hasten to the buffet with straight posture. I’m OK with being on my own.

Of course when you are alone anywhere, it seems like the world around you stops. People stare and they wonder. I’ve seen people alone at movies, and I do wonder. It’s never a demeaning inquisition about their seemingly lonely lives, but rather a curiosity and perhaps a hint of envy over their courage to go anywhere alone in public. I hold this thought infront of me as I walk with my plate back to the table.

I look out in front of me. There is no companion. I glance at my iPhone. The temptation to pick it up is borderline compulsive. I must appear busy. I press the Home button and the screen shines brightly into my hopeful eyes. A feeling of comfort sets in. I’m not alone. But wait, no new messages to read, no breaking news to catch up on, no social networks to visit. My empty attempt to connect with someone is being prevented by the small airplane in the upper left corner of the screen. It stares me right in the face. No virtual reality to escape to. How on Earth do people live without the Internet here?

Earlier I had inquired about the Internet rates at the front desk. $4 for half an hour, $8 for an hour. That’s how people live without the web here! Doctors make the equivalent of $30 a month in Cuba, so an hour of browsing would cost them over a quarter of their monthly salary.

I observe the group of servers across the hall. There is something different about the way they interact.

I pierce a few leaves of lettuce and blue cheese with my fork. Please don’t let me get sick, I plea. I had been warned about the food and water quality in Cuba. “Don’t eat salads or pasta! They wash those with contaminated water,” I was told. Contaminated water. No Internet. I hear loud laughter. The servers are cracking up about something, slapping each other on the shoulder. How are these people so happy?

“Ugh, these shrimps are really starting to annoy me,” I hush underneath my breath. I have barely made a dent in the pile that I had generously scooped onto my plate earlier. I figure seafood is as safe as it gets around here. I wish they came pre-peeled. I rip its head off. There must be some kind of secret to removing the skin more efficiently. I squeeze the tale and pull on it. My hands are filthy at this point. I’ve gone through four napkins already.

“Can I get you anything else, young lady?,” asks my server, a short older gentlemen whose warm skin has clearly been bathed by the sun all of his life. He is skinny and I wonder whether it’s just a sign of fragility that comes with old age or whether it’s due to nutritional depletion. It must be the former because he does look healthy, I conclude. He wears a big smile while waiting for my response.

“Yes, actually you can,” I start. “I was wondering if you could let me in on the secret of how to peel a shrimp quickly without making a big mess.” I giggle pointing at the pile of dirty napkins. He looks at my pile of horribly dissected sea creatures. “Looks like you’re doing everything right,” he is trying to reassure me.

“Peel by peel…” he responds deliberately. He puts his hands out infront of him and slowly illustrates the motion with great pleasure, paying the utmost respect to the process. Peel by peel. “It’s very good for the stomach,” he informs me while rubbing his inconceivable belly. “It’s also great for the brain!,” he proclaims happily. The old man draws an invisible line through the centre of his skull.

As I look up at my Cuban server, I find myself learning a very important life lesson. This is why these people are so happy. They live in the moment because they have no technological distractions keeping them from doing so. When they talk to someone, they really talk to someone. No smartphone that can interrupt the conversation at any point. No autonomous robotic companions that gives you the illusion that you have meaningful relationships. No fake time to kill. No urgency to feel like you need to “look busy” while pressing commands on the screen that lead to nowhere, just more emptiness. I tuck my phone into my purse.

Peeling the next shrimp with attentive focus, I plea to myself, “Live your life as if you’re peeling a shrimp. Peel by peel. It’s good for the stomach and for the brain.”