Gay and lesbian life in Cuba is complicated and fascinating, not unlike life in general on this poor island in the Caribbean. In la Habana Vieja, or Old Havana, the streets are clean and the buildings restored lovingly to colonial village replicas. Tourists from Europe, Russia, Turkey, and Canada stroll along the cobblestone roads and window shop in stores that are new since my last visit nearly five years ago.
Sitting along the Rampas between the Cine Yara and the malecon (sea wall) near the bay in Havana is one of life's great experiences. Gay men drinking Tropicola mixed with rum, fill the streets, dancing to bongo drums and singing crowds. Jineteros , young street workers, seek out foreigners to make a few dollars.
The scene repeats itself nearly every night. The friendly crowds love to meet Americans. Many said to me, "We are like cousins who fight too much; we are the same."
The cause of gay rights has been added in the last several years to the revolution in the speeches made by Fidel Castro. Officially, gays and lesbians enjoy all the rights of everyone else. Yet, there are no gay bars and police on the streets routinely harass gay men.
Lesbians are more likely to be open among their co-workers and neighbors, but are far less visible in public in general. There are drag shows in many places, with performers wearing elaborate parrot-like outfits, reflecting the extravaganzas in the casinos once operated by organized crime.
There are some pretty amazing performers lip-synching to mostly Cuban songs. The government must generally approve the songs for the shows in advance, and you will not hear many American hits.
On my visit this past January I stayed with my friend Javier, a gay man who I met last time through some friends from the United States. Javier, 37, loves American music, especially of the Judy Garland type.
He has never worked a day in his life.
He lives in a very small apartment with two bedrooms, one of which he rents to a couple of Cuban lesbians. He survives on the money from his rental and the rations and stipends the government gives him.
I asked him and his friends what they thought of Castro and his imminent death. At the time I was there, the Cuban dictator still had not been seen in public or on television for five months. No one says his name aloud; they will touch their chins to indicate their bearded leader. They are anxious and frightened and eagerly recount any gossip they may have heard about him.
Many have only lived under his rule, and have known nothing else. They tell me that they know that the Cuban leadership has lied to them, but that they do not know what to believe. Many were frightened by the Cubans in Miami and wondered if they would try to invade the island. What will the Americans do?
Many hope the Americans will come, but most only want normal relations. Most also agree that really only two people in the world benefit from the embargo [or blockade as it known in Cuba] placed by the US government: George Bush and Fidel Castro.
They ask me many questions about the lives of LGBT people in other parts of the world. It seemed to me that most of them had a very Cuban perspective on what being totally open as gays and lesbians would be like. Far more important is the daily struggle for food and survival.
"No es facil," they constantly say. It's not easy.
On my last night in Cuba I returned to the malecon . All week the city seemed tenser than it had during my last visit.
Hundreds of police carrying large guns patrolled the Rampas, pushing aside or arresting the hustlers. The crowd kept on the move, dispersing at the sight of the officers.
The police seemed ready to rush the crowd at a moment's notice. There was an uneasy truce; it was so different from my previous stay in Cuba.
That time my friends and I had attended a fiesta, the nightly dance party for gays that moves from night to night to avoid the police. Our taxi drove nearly twenty miles outside of the city to a junkyard, where I heard the thump of disco music.
As we exited the cab and turned round a pile of old tires, we saw hundreds of people dancing.
They had stolen the electricity from a line and junction box nearby. I was the only American there. My friends yelled in English, "Welcome to Havana", and introduced me to some of the dancers.
This was repeated by nearly everyone with a wave of welcomes undulating over the crowd. I hope to someday be able to offer them the same sort of welcome here and dance along the Embarcadero.
Lynch is the executive director of the San Francisco LGBT Community Center.