Havana, Cuba 2019

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.”

Gran Teatro stock photo

Havana was celebrating its 500^th 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.

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