The Havana Chronicles, El Malecon

Green Havana

Read just moments ago that the U.S. is easing its restrictions on Cuba. Of course I had no idea when I started this post last night.

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Oh geez, where to even start with Cuba (I’ve given up on the ruse, btw - I went to Cuba. So there.)… maybe it makes the most sense to take it day by day.

Day 1:

I was so excited to touch down to a warm place at sea level I almost forgot how freaked out I was to be there. The first thing I noticed when I rolled out of the airport terminal as I searched for my bus to the hotel was Beautiful People. No, but seriously. Like really beautiful people all over the place. I assumed that Cuba exiled all of it’s most attractive residents to Miami because of some arcane clause in the revolutionary manifesto, something about above average physical attributes being a distraction from the progression of the proletariat agenda. Not so. Turns out they just have a higher rate of physically superior humans. Like Brazil. And Thailand. And the Ukraine. Let me know if I’m leaving someplace out.

The 30 minute drive from the airport to the hotel is mostly dark green, farm-looking type land. I spotted a few horse drawn carriages which fit into my narrative that Cuba is the land that time forgot. More on that in a sec. So I was very much taken by the vast open and verdant space. Then all of a sudden, there’s Havana. BOOM! Whoa.

The summer between high school and university I visited what was the literal last moment of Soviet Russia, mere months before the collapse of the wall separating east & west Berlin. Perestroika it was called, that time of political and economic shift that led to the collapse of the Communist party in Russia. There they were, huge Ministries, monuments, massive displays of opulence and power in varying states of decay and ruin and an obvious weariness in the eyes and spirit of the people who lived there. I kept thinking, maybe if someone had bothered to just pick up a scrub brush, hose it down and polish it up a bit, it wouldn’t be so damn dreary. I digress.

So imagine the decay and ruin of 1989 Moscow and time-lapse it 25 years, no Perestroika. There you have Havana. With many notable differences, which I’ll get to later. Not one of which was my hotel, El Vedado located within two blocks of the Malecon - a six-lane thoroughfare and walkway along the Caribbean separated only by a short stone wall. I suppose the hotel could have been a pretty spiffy 3 or 4 star hotel when it was built in the 50’s or 60’s. Now it’s a beast.

My room had two twin beds what’s mattresses were really just loose springs thinly held together by some threadbare material. No blanket, just a white sheet and a polyester cover. I discovered one of those 70’s velveteen blankets in the closet, but the mold odor was so intense I didn’t dare open it more than once let alone remove any of its contents.

There were holes and cracks in the soot-soaked windows and an air conditioning unit that had two settings: arctic blast and off. The bathroom had a tub and shower with a rusted aluminum door frame and sometimes warm water. No hot water, just sometimes warm. And, like everyplace else in Havana, you can smoke inside the hotel. The whole hotel. All the rooms, everywhere but the dining lounge. Gross. At least it was near the Malecon!

Luxury a la Vedado

I was told by the tour agent on the airport bus that I could change my Mexican pesos at any Casa de Cambio and that for sure there was one in my hotel. I was told by the woman at the hotel desk that only the central bank and the currency exchange at the Hotel Nacional would change my pesos. The bank closes at 3p (it’s 5:45p) and the currency exchange at the Nacional closes at 6p but it’s only four blocks away so if I run I can maybe get there before they shut down. I run. I get there. I’m last in the short line. When I get to the window the lady asks me for my room number. Hotel guests only. In a moment of genius I figure I’ll just hail someone down in the lobby. I’ll cry and they’ll all want to help me. After all, I need money to buy a cup of white rice to take with my Cipro so I can ward off my intestinal parasite. No matter, no pesos - the woman points to a list of acceptable currency which certainly does not include Mexican pesos. Where else can I hand over my pesos? She shrugs and pulls the shutters across the counter. Closed.

I slink back to my hotel, deflated. I’m hungry and thirsty and it’s dark out now. But at least it’s warm.

When I arrive to the lobby I locate a woman sitting at a card table wearing a uniform from the company that arranged my travel package. I sit down and pour out my sob story and she pats my hand, winks at me, picks up her old ass desk phone (remember those?) and dials. She says a bunch of stuff in Cuban (not to be confused with Spanish) to the person on the other end, of which I understand about three words, then hangs up and starts giving me instructions I just can’t compute. My face must have been the droopiest puppy face anyone ever did see as she told me not to worry then lead me out the front door and instructed the cab driver to take me to the hotel somethingsomething and wait for me there and bring me back.

Mission accomplished. I buy three giant bottles of water at a bodega and decide I’ll dine on the dry wheat crackers my new gringo friend John gave me to eat with my chicken soup the day before because I just can’t be bothered to locate anything that fits into my very restrictive parasite diet. But I have money now and even in Communist Cuba money is freedom, so I’m happy again.

After my water & cracker course I decide to comb my hair and take a stroll, check out the neighborhood. I’m fascinated. It’s a far out scenario. Much different than Oaxaca. More orderly, dare I say kind of cleaner and much less noisy even though it’s crumbling and busy. There are three movie theaters within about a mile, lots of people out strolling - young and old and families, all types of people out on strolls. Near the hotel I get lots of attention. Mostly in the form of mild cat-calling and stares. At the farthest edge of my evening walk is a large section of a city block corner where people are hanging out on benches and cement raisers. I take my place perched above the sidewalk overlooking the corner where I can people watch and rest my heels before I make my way towards the Malecon where I will commune with the ocean before heading back to my hotel for my first night’s attempt at sleep.

As I hop off the wall and make my way I hear some calling out behind me, which I ignore because I assume people are not speaking to me unless they get up in my face and look at me so I proceed and then more calling out and then a tap on the arm. It’s a young woman, I’m guessing maybe nineteen or twenty years old but who can tell. She asks me if I’d like a girlfriend. “Huh? No, but thank you,” I say like you would to someone trying to sell you The Watchtower magazine or elementary school fund raiser chocolate bars. I blush and keep walking. She strides up next to me. “Why, you don’t like me?” For several reasons I just can’t get my thoughts or my words together. “You have a girlfriend already, that’s why. Is that why?” YES! That is absolutely why. A wife even, I’m married for the love of land, and I could be this chica's mother no less! But I just say ‘yes’ and keep walking. “Well, your girlfriend shouldn’t leave you alone on the street, you might get taken.” Oh gosh. I turn and say thank you and wave. Thank you? How lame. I’m like ten kinds of confused and gobsmacked and flattered all at the same time. That didn’t just happen. I give myself about two blocks of feeling all giddy that a lovely young woman has publicly propositioned me (an absolute first) before I decide she’s a professional and I’m an obvious target with my Kate Spade prescription glasses and my newly changed pesos glowing through my wallet. Still, I couldn’t help but be flattered.

I found the Malecon and I walked for a long time and sucked in the sea air and prayed to Neptune to deliver me some sleep and stared at the waves and thought of my beautiful cousin whose ashes we threw off a cliff over the Pacific back in the 90’s and I cried. I swear I could see little tiny twinkly lights on the horizon. Miami. Or just reflections of street lamps off the water off the tears on my face. I don’t know, but I’m happy to be alive and near the ocean where it is warm.

El Malecon

Stayed tuned for the next installment of the Havana Chronicles.