iLifeStyl
Cuba Day 2: Sunday November 18, 2018
We woke to the sound of the rooster in the courtyard of the property behind us. It was around 7am, and our housekeeper Gigi was quietly gathering and arranging items in the kitchen. Breakfast was at 8:30. The table was already set in the outdoor alcove facing the boulevard, so I asked Gigi if she could make coffee, this time American style. Not long after, she emerges with an industrial French press the size of an oil drum. A hummingbird visits the feeder. Right on queue at 8:30, a smiling Gigi rolls out this wooden cart filled with cut fresh fruit, deep red tomatoes, fresh bread, meat and cheese with an assortment of condiments. A jug of fresh pineapple juice and eggs to order topped it all off.
We chat on and off with Gigi, who’s English is sparse like our Spanish, and strike a deal that she would help with our Spanish if we help her practice her English. Our host Antonio stops by to see how things are as we finish up breakfast and prepare ourselves for the day’s adventure.
By 10:30 we are heading out the door, crude map in hand, and found the neighborhood already in the throws of Sunday morning hustle and bustle. This time we walked in the opposite direction, away from the sea but towards old town Havana, weaving through side streets. We came upon a cadeca Antonio mentioned where we could exchange money, but instead of joining the queue we explored the open air bodega next to it filled with merchants selling fruits, vegetables, and meat. Cats slept on the floor under countertops where slabs of meat rested or hung from the ceiling. Juice bars dotted the immediate area, children played in the streets, and everyone seemed to be discussing whatever was important to them based on their animation, all juxtaposed by the decaying and crumbling mansions of a more hedonistic time surrounding them. Delightful. Even more to our delight, we were the only Americans as far as the eye could see.
We moved along hugging the shaded areas, following the none too detailed map, and found ourselves at a chaotic crossroads. Avenues shooting off and around at odd angles. Traffic being controlled by some form of law enforcement, with one of the major thoroughfares blocked off. It was a foot race. My initial comment was how they can run through all that unregulated exhaust.
Discovering we really didn’t want to walk through the exhaust fumes any longer, much less run through it, we hailed a taxi. Ahhh, air conditioning. He drove zig-zaggy through Havana back streets and we got to experience a bit more of the reality of Cuba’s capital, behind the scenes of the cruise ship strip that is Obispo Street, or the look-there-is-another-Spanish-colonial-fort of El Moro, or the pretty colorful old cars. Children played everywhere on asphalt streets that seem to have been pulverized back to dirt. Large grey garbage dumpsters blocked certain passages without reason. Building facades all had the same sickly mottled paleness with hints of colorful paint and pieces of posters peeling off like flaky skin.
We wanted to spend money in Cuba, because that’s one of the reasons we came and because the people need it, so we set off through Havana to try to do that and buy stuff. Instead we found ourselves in Habana 252, a cafe at the edge of that plaza that is Parque Cervantes, and sucked down Cuba Libres. The place was no bigger than a studio apartment, but what was bigger than life was the friendliness of the folks in it. The owner showed up. As we prepared to leave I asked him where to get WiFi cards because the plaza was a WiFi hotspot and I had gone more than a full day without internet. My hands were shaking!!! They sell them next door. Score. It took about 5 minutes for myself, the young cook from the cafe, and the cafe owner to get me connected. Not familiar with how it all worked yet, I only bought two 1 hour cards, so I planned to ration my time like it was my last bit of water with a long walk ahead of me through the desert. I had no idea if what I paid is what I should have paid, but I didn’t care. The plaza was used by the locals as an extension of theirs home nearby. A few cars in various stages of disrepair. Animated conversations. Children playing. Dogs. And the telltale sign of a popular hotspot - the bent heads of people hypnotized by their smartphones.
Obispo street and tourists. No thank you. BUT, duck into one of the unfamiliar shop fronts and you will be surprised. Some cool art. Some cool books at Librería Victoria. Some cool cafes. More Cuba Libres. There was one young Cuban artist we chatted with for about 30 minutes while he was working on an impressive canvas. We got his card.
It was late afternoon and we found ourselves in the plaza adjacent to the Gran Teatro De La Habana called Parque Central. We all agreed that a nap was in order. The trip back to our flat was a short taxi ride along the Malecón and past the US Embassy. The driver commented on Obama and we all sighed, including the driver. We commented on trump and we all sighed, including the driver. More on that later.
Waking from our nap was like coming out of general anesthesia, taking a few minutes to realize that you’re in the correct dimension and not on the other side of the galaxy in some alternate universe. Cuba Libres. Dinner was on our minds so we headed back to the Hotel Riviera for cocktails first. We had promised the Italian speaking handsome Cuban bartender we’d be back and we didn’t want to disappoint him. Come to find that the hotel is frequently visited by Germans, Austrians, and the French. One said Frenchman overheard us talking about jazz clubs and gave us the scoop on a club at the western edge of Vedado that is not to be missed. We filed that information away and headed out in search of the two restaurants the Italian speaking handsome Cuban bartender told us about nearby on the Malecón. There were lines of locals out the door.
Plan B was an Italian restaurant a block from our flat called Eclectico. Housed in a old restored sugar baron’s mansion, then becoming a Senator’s home, it was now one of those Small Luxury Hotels of the World. With only a few tables, we had a short wait and were led to the exotic wood-lined library. The bearded bartender came to ask about cocktails. Noticing my American style tattoos, we briefly talked about them, and became instant friends. We’d become even better friends later in the evening as we both unbuttoned or lifted up various pieces of clothing showing off our ink in the middle of the dining room.
The owner of the hotel was an Italian from Rome who looked like Gianni Versace. We all talked for what seemed like an hour about Cuba, the Cuban people, and the fact that they need help in moving towards their future place in the world - that’s why we’re here - while sipping some French wine and a special cocktail my friend the bearded tattooed bartender made for me. He mentioned Obama, and we all sighed. He mentioned trump, and we all sighed again. How bourgeois.
Dinner and service was quintessential Italian, surrounded by European mid-century modern design with sculpture straight out of Beetleguise, but Cuban. The Grouper Carpaccio was out of this world. Our neighbors in the next table were two young women from China, living and working in Mexico City, making a detour through Habana on their way to Tulum, and the whole night we all were serenaded by a trio of musicians playing and singing popular classics with their own unique interpretations. I don’t think you’ve lived until you’ve heard Hotel California played Cuban style.
¡Viva la Cuba!
The metal stairs to the rooftop patio of El Paseo Penthouse.
Brian enjoying the evening in the Vedado treetops
