iLifeStyl
Cuba Day 3: Sunday November 19, 2018
Whenever we travel, by the 3rd day we’ve settled into the cadence of the place. And by the 3rd day, we noticed a few constants of Havana: it’s dirty everywhere, extremely safe, there is no real traffic but there is the ever present perfume of unregulated exhaust, the people are insanely friendly, the weather is predictable, everyone walks slow, something is always in a state of repair, hushed and subtle political comments, no Starbucks or any kind of American style fast food, there doesn’t seem to be any homeless or beggars, and there is the Cuban price of CUP, and the non-Cuban price for foreigners of CUC. It is uncommonly civilized, not bombarded with the constant assault of corporate consumerism the world is infected with.
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Right on time, Gigi wheels in breakfast at 8:30. Same amazing fresh fruit, deep red tomatoes, fresh bread, meat and cheese with an assortment of condiments. Today was a jug of fresh passionfruit juice and eggs to order topped it all off, but with the added treat of thick wide slabs of bacon... oh Gigi you rock!
Speaking of price, we needed to refresh our CUC and exchange some money. You need cash for everything because credit cards from the US do not work, so we walked to the nearby cadeca and joined the que already formed. The aroma of a rotting carcass of a feathered creature half tucked in a plastic bag a few feet away provided a nice compliment to the car exhaust. Nobody seemed to mind.
We set out to explore the western edge of our Vedado neighborhood, and made our zig-zagged way to Parque John Lennon. The majestic architecture, crumbling everywhere, fit right in with the buckling sidewalks and streets from the roots of gargantuan ficus trees. We found the small mercado that serves the surrounding area and stumbled upon an art gallery/cafe supported by the government in a renovated stone house. Everything is built out of some kind of stone and I don’t think we’ve come across anything made of wood. We spoke our broken Spanish with the young caretaker of the exhibits, then continued on to Parque John Lennon up the next block in search of his statue.
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With pictures taken sitting alongside John Lennon on his bench mimicking his pose, we made a pit stop at the Union Francesa at the corner of the park, grabbed a cool beverage at the first floor cafe across the street from The Yellow Submarine, or El Submarino Amarillo... where you can get your classic rock fix if you need one while in Vedado. There is a rooftop bar and restaurant that looked inviting and we made a mental note for future reference. Continuing back east towards our flat, we navigated suspicious smelly running water in the street gutter. More crumbling mansions. More gargantuan ficus trees. More conversions with Cubans. They seem drawn into talking with us.
The neighborhood mercado was on the way, and we ducked in to check it out. It was segmented into 4 areas. Packaged/canned food stuff. Appliance stuff. Clothes stuff. Miscellaneous household stuff. Not much selection, and not much quantity, but seems like it was sufficient for Cubans. Americans would whine at the lack of “artisanal” anything, or the fact that there are not 100 different types and brands of each and every product offered. We grabbed a bottle of wine for the rooftop at our flat.
Uniformed children were playing in the school courtyard, and many friendly people where milling about the neighborhood both relaxing on steps and window sills, as well as strolling along. We waved. Said ¡HOLA!. And smiled. We came across a group of gentleman who figured out we were from America, and struck up a conversation. They wouldn’t let us leave. We had no idea what they were talking about, but we made our best effort in our Spanglish. Cuban Spanish is a bit different.
Hopping into a taxi, we made our way to La Guarida in old town for a late lunch reservation. A tourist magnet and very bourgeois, it’s supposedly the nicest restaurant in Habana. Formerly a palace of the early 20th century, today it is a multifamily building in the process of restoration, offering a unique environment where the daily routine of the residents is mixed with the pretension of a fancy restaurant. In 1993, the legendary film “Strawberry and Chocolate” was filmed here. The story of a friendship between the homosexual Diego and the young communist David, it was a great call against intolerance and the first, and so far only, Cuban film nominated for an Oscar.
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We stepped out into the street on Concordia, picked a direction, and started to walk. We were immediately rewarded to the real life human condition of the Habaneros. It seemed everyone knew our name as we smiled, said hello, waved, and meandered through the rubble, music, and economic activity of the neighborhood. Teenagers are the same everywhere in the world. Matriarchs with a keen watchful eye are the same everywhere in the world. Dogs and cats are the same everywhere in the world. Hugs with strangers are the same everywhere in the world. What’s not the same is Havana. There is only one. Where everyone wants to practice their English with an American and talk about the Cuba of today and hope of the future.
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At the end of the central Havana neighborhood we just walked through a few blocks from Chinatown (yes, there is a Chinatown in Havana - El Barrio Chino), we crash into the central plaza of Havana with the capital building nestled against it, throngs of spit-shined tourists, and towering hotels that still smell of the match that lit the revolution. It was a stark reflection to the cooperative of twelve young artists we just left with a new acquisition tucked under our arm carefully wrapped in cardboard. The art of Cuba always has a message. It’s what is felt but can’t be spoken. No pretty bowls of still life fruit here. It is a bite of the fruit, half chewed, then spit out. Because big hotels always have a rooftop bar, we head to the one at the IBEROSTAR Parque Central for weak overpriced tourist drinks to watch the sunset. We didn’t know if it was run by the government or military. Americans may enter one of those, but are not allowed to spend their money in one. We remained ignorant while we sucked down the slushy brown concoction that was the house special. As if planned while the sun started to fade into yellow, a nearby stack a short distance away belched black smoke. The wind carried the smoke towards the direction of the sunset, which provided a little extra spice to enhance the flavor of it. At the height of the spectacle, the smoke mysteriously stopped.
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The way out
Having had a late lunch, dinner was ignored, so we grabbed the wine we picked up at the neighborhood mercado earlier and headed to the rooftop patio. Against the backdrop of the undulating tops of the gargantuan ficus trees that dominate Vedado and a cool Caribbean Sea breeze, we drifted off in meandering conversation and called it a day.
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