Cuba is a beautiful country in spite
of the fallout from revolutionary idealism. The Atlantic Ocean and
the Caribbean Sea still roll onto its shores; around Havana the waves
still pummel its colonial defence structures. Castro’s exciting
revolution of the 1950s seems a long time ago now. Granted, we only
had a week to explore this legendary Latin American city; it was not
a beach holiday ... fortunately, because we rarely saw the sun!
Alicia Alonso’s sculpture graces
the entrance staircase of the famed Gran Teatro de la
Habana, now named after her. Ah yes, in my youth she was as familiar
as Moira Shearer and Margot Fonteyn or Tamara Karsavina and Galina
Ulanova. I see now that Alonso died only this year (2019). The
buildings of the glorious complex are one of the city’s greatest
treasures. And their outdoor cafe featured a classical string trio.
When the trio rested, someone was blasting Camila Cabello’s
“Havana.”
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| Gran Teatro stock photo |
Havana was celebrating its 500th
anniversary (not the world’s best-designed logo, see below). Nonetheless, the
celebrations were clearly of more immediate joy than that of
Christmas. But religion has been reinstated once again, and the
Catedral de San Cristóbal was preparing for Christmas Eve midnight
mass. It’s one of the most beautiful plazas in the city, surrounded
by baroque eighteenth-century buildings. More of the historic
buildings and monuments are slowly being restored.
In the heart of the old town,
tourists sit in the sunny plazas and patios enjoying Cuban drinks;
mojito, daquiri, and Cuba libre are the most popular offerings. One
cafe or another would always have live music that came to define the
city for us. We spent most of our time on the streets of the old town
with the happy variety of Cuban music issuing from doorways and
restaurants. Street performers stop and pose to pass the hat. On one
corner, salsa lessons in a large airy bar. Small shops, mostly
souvenir-oriented, dot the pedestrian streets, but for middle- or
upper-class shopping I’m told one must visit more affluent areas
like Vedado and Centro. We
didn’t.
A morning at Almacenes de San José,
an old warehouse on the waterfront transformed into an arts and
crafts culture market: an acre of craft stalls requires hours of
contented browsing, and upstairs we found hundreds of locally-created
art works. In many cases the artist was working there, only too happy
to discuss painting or negotiate price.
And what is Havana without
Hemingway?
His longtime residence here is
celebrated, famously with the statue in La Floridita bar. His estate
on the city outskirts, Finca Vigia, is a magnet for visitors. In the
old town we went up in the attendant-operated elevator of the Hotel
Ambos Mundo to see his apartment there, and his view. Books
everywhere, of course.
Later we dined on the hotel’s
wildly windy rooftop restaurant. A little sun would have been
welcome!
Another notable landmark – from
the 1930s – we visited is the Gato Tuerta (One-eyed Cat), a
restaurant and nightclub that still resounds with late-night jazz
musicians.
On the side streets and back
streets, the lot of working-class and poor Cubans seems unchanged
after sixty post-revolution years. They make do with less. Each time
we ate at a restaurant, half the menu was not available. Fresh
vegetables, particularly greens, were lacking. Cubans recycle and
repair. Hence the refurbished old cars for which the city, the
country, is famous. We note several government stores that advertise
water, soap, shampoo, and other desirables. They never seem to be
open, but always, crowds wait hopefully outside.
Our cococab driver one evening had a
less than healthy (motorcycle) engine. She put on her gamest face as
her mount clearly strained to make a small hill, and then quit. It
did fire up again, limping homeward with us, but somehow we felt
guilty that we were a burden.
On a side street of the old town, a
man emerged from the doorway of his house – open to passersby,
perhaps for ventilation, in the heavy humidity. He confronted us with
a plea for money to buy his grandson a birthday cake; the key words
being interspersed in English. It’s an unwelcome variation of a
known tactic. As I shake my head with a smile – no – he blocks
our way with gestures, increasing his urgency. At our feet a dead rat
lies beside the curb.
Moving
around him, we were followed into a main street by his fiercely
persistent pitch, his next ploy being to guide us somewhere we didn’t
ask to go. Stay good-natured, keep saying no, gracias. Finally
he gave up and melted into the street scene. Were we too
unsympathetic? Yours truly is somewhat jaded by experience with
predatory shills in other corners of the world. Certainly we did slip
coins into a few hands here and there, but he was too blatant. Sure
wish I had a photo of the rat.
Then there was Nilda, our hotel
chambermaid. One time my slightly drunk and expansive companion
engaged her in a fashion discussion. The way one does when neither
speaks the other’s language. Thinking she saw an admiring gleam in
Nilda’s eye, companion said if you like the dress I’m wearing,
maybe I will give it to you when we leave; I don’t like it much.
Whereupon Nilda opened our closet and pointed out exactly which
garments she wanted for herself and her daughter.
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| Hotel Nacional |
A less formidable chambermaid filled
in on Nilda’s day off. We gave her soap and shampoo that day and
she was so overcome she had tears in her eyes. Not Nilda, when our
last day arrived and no dresses materialized. Loading her up with
soaps, shampoos, and pens, we were tartly and loudly informed that
these were regalos (gifts),
not her propina (tip).
The Commies should be ashamed of
institutionalizing poverty. They say Russia has pulled out of Cuba
and the ubiquitous Chinese are apparently filling the hole. Lord help
us all.
©
2020 Brenda Dougall Merriman
