Once a day, Brayan and I stop by Hotel Parque Central, one of the few places with wireless internet access in Havana. “Are you connected?” one man asked today as I twiddled my thumbs waiting for my inbox to open. “I’ve never been more connected,” I answered, and though we spoke to each other in English, I don’t think he understood what I meant.

Beyond my amazing experiences with habaneros, some of the greatest moments of the past week have been shared with people we’ve met on the Parque Central mezzanine.

Today: an Italian photographer who asked if we could transfer pictures from his camera to his flash drive. We spent two hours talking about Italy, India, Burma, Myanmar, and Cuba, and laughed as we tried, across three languages, to translate jokes and feelings and ideas about creativity and spirit and love to one another. We kissed one another’s cheeks and embraced as if we’d been friends for years. Before walking away, he slipped a ten peso bill into Brayan’s pocket with the kind tenderness of a father.

Friday: the director of a U.S.-based non-governmental organization that advocates lifting the travel ban for Americans to visit Cuba. Having overheard me speaking to someone in English, he asked where I was from. We live only an hour apart. He filled me in on the results of the Tuesday primaries and reported about the tourism conference that was taking place here. I told him about articles I’m writing; he told me about joint tourism ventures he’s planning. We talked about the changes we see unfolding in Cuba, and agreed that this is an incredible, exciting moment to be in Havana. When we finally said good-bye, we agreed we’d have to catch up in New York.

Thursday: a biracial Canadian woman married to a Cuban man, living in Havana for the past two years while they wait for his immigration papers to be approved. We laughed as we traded mother-in-law stories and she recounted how her sister-in-law cut some of her hair off while she slept, adding it to her altar as an offering. We commiserated about our weakness for tall cups of coffee, frothy with milk, and she admitted she’d escaped from the family for the day to come to the hotel and listen to her ipod, check e-mail, and drink cocktails. Normally, I’d probably view that as frivolous, but everything here has a different context. I confessed I’d kept a bread roll from the airplane and ate it in bed in the dark the night before. She confessed she brings chocolate chip cookies from Canada and hides them in a closet, nibbling quietly at night in the bed she shares with her husband and other family members. She said she lives for Friday nights at the Canadian embassy: barbecues and pool parties. I told her I live for the toilet at the Parque Central. We talked until our computer batteries died and our drinks ran out.

Yes, sir. I’m connected. Aren’t we all?