other than my grandfather who was curiously born in montreal under a suspicious cloud of mystery and whose birth certificate was defaced when he immigrated to america so we dont really know if he was cuban or french.

but liana was cuban. for sure.

when i first met her at lunch with my coworker he said afterwards, she hates you. she wasnt kidding. sorry.

i said she doesnt hate me. she probably loves her. look at her smile when she insults me. watch her eyes turn bluer. my grandfathers blood running through my veins is whispering, get that girls AIM name! (this was a while ago)

because the Lord loves me for some reason, liana and i started talking every day. and often i would ask her about Cuba where her parents were born and their parents. she told me she had been there only once and it was beautiful and tropical and everything you could imagine. she even showed me a picture of a secret village for the actual natives where they have new cars, broadband internet, and IMAX 3d movie theatres.

i didn’t know what was more beautiful, her eyes or the Coke machines that could pour any flavor Coke OR Pepsi combo of any soda ever.

but the best story she told me was about the normal side of the island where kids rarely even saw ice.

she had buckets of leftover ice from the party she had and gave it to the kids who freaked out over it.

i have known the coolest people. im so lucky to have known liana.