Pepe, a gay friend of mine, would take me to their homes so I could trade items of clothing with them, which was a common practice at the time. During those exchanges, I was offered a glimpse at the world of these young working girls. They had no pimp who controlled them or found customers for them, they would head to out alone to hunt tourists. At the time, possessing dollars was illegal, so they had to be very careful while approaching foreigners.
They used to sit at hotel lobbies with a discrete touch of elegance: some makeup, a nearly natural look, dresses and purses that combined with their shoes and French perfume. They would also go to the beach near the Mar Azul hotel, or the beach in Miramar, and try to hook up there.
They all spoke some English, having learned a number of basic conversational phrases. Karla, the blond one, spoke the language of love fluently, as she had studied at the French Alliance three years. They shared an interest in buying clothing, staying at beach houses, frequenting discos and eating at restaurants. They just wanted to have a good time, to have an endless vacation.
Olga, the oldest in the group, married a wealthy Swede who fell in love with her. The man got tired of sending her letters of invitation. He finally had enough and divorced her. The others mocked her because of that decision.
She later regretted having thrown away that opportunity. Most of the girls came from dysfunctional families. Some had had no mother and others no father. Many of them were smart. Marta wrote stories and Sandra loved Chopin. Whatvever they earned, they shared with their families and Cuban boyfriends. Whatever they got their hands on was a kind of booty. Sometimes, they would only keep whatever they left behind: cosmetics, clothing, backpacks. Nothing was worthless to them.
