''Oh, surviving,'' I sighed to my mum after a taxing day searching for cooking oil. My phone cut out and I glanced around the teeming Wi-Fi park of Calle 23. Ignoring the stares of those provoked by a language which was not theirs, I watched as Cubans of all ages digitally reunited with loved ones, their theatrical exclamations competing with the cries of the park’s various peanut sellers. It was my third month studying in Havana and I was yet to feel settled. I had quickly learnt that the Cuba I had seen on postcards was a world reserved mainly for tourists, that behind the colourful antique cars and hedonistic beach resorts lurked a complex reality of tropical humidity, inky exhaust fumes and widespread lack. A reality in which flashy American Cadillacs, full of selfie-taking tourists, drove alongside battered buses, overflowing with sticky Cubans who had never had enough money to leave their own city. While our temporary Cuban residency cards confirmed that we did not belong to this tourist category, as English students, we were constantly reminded of our foreignness; in the taxis that would refuse us entry without a license to carry non-Cubans, the catcalls targeting our white skin and blue eyes, and the guilt that I felt when I wore my favourite summer dress, an uncomfortable badge of injustice beside the T-shirt worn by my neighbour, Orlando, for the third time that week. We wondered how we could feel so welcome, yet so alien. Our neighbours were among the warmest people we had ever met and, soon, the stone wall of our street corner had become a common ground. Blasting reggaeton from a speaker, our two groups would join to play cards and drink planchaos, juice cartons full of straight rum. ''We’ll teach you how to be Cuban,'' they would laugh, as we watched them dance with an energy and vigour that our Western self-awareness prevented. But then, when the police demanded the Cubans’ IDs at the sight of our mixed group, we would ask ourselves...could we ever really fit in? A few days after the phone conversation, my roommate and I had hit a low. Clouding our extraordinary experiences in Cuba was a vexation at the scarcity of supermarkets, amenities and internet, and a resentment at the absorbed stares which stalked us on street corners. Debilitated by the oppressive April heat and a paralyzing boredom, we struggled through yet another stagnant day in our flat, the reality which our exotic Instagram posts omitted. After hours of half-heartedly playing ‘Hide the Mango’, we decided to seek company on the stone wall of the street corner. In a haze of self-pity, we slouched past the faded colonial mansions of our Vedado neighbourhood, passing patios of elderly women rocking on woven chairs. But our Cuban friends were not on the wall. We had been sitting alone for a few moments when we were startled by the presence of someone beside us. We turned to see the kind of dishevelled figure that our parents had once warned us about. Noticing the string of wire tying his shoes, the faint tinge of alcohol and the broken cardboard container from which he drank, I glanced at my roommate uneasily. ''I live on the street,'' he slurred unannounced, in a Spanish which we strained to decode. ''But I drink rum and chilli to feel something; to keep surviving,'' he continued, gesturing to his drink in invitation. We declined politely and I looked down. Inwardly, I thanked him for the lesson in humility. This was someone who we would blindly ignore back at home, and yet, here we sat, while disconnected by culture and wealth, side by side on the stone wall. I realised then, that living in Cuba was not about striving to fit into a category, tourist or local, and that we could never modify ourselves to be Cuban. Instead, it was about embracing the lessons they offered, their warmth, vivacity and spirit, while retaining our true selves. His words resounded in my head. ''To keep surviving.'' Surviving. Sobreviviendo. Remembering my conversation in the WIFI park, I sat wondering. How could a word with a direct translation have such a different meaning?