Feliz Navidad!

A little break from the Havana Chronicles.

Merry Christmas from Oaxaca!

La Iglesia de Ixtlán de Juárez

I'm not particularly sentimental about Christmas or the celebrations usually involved with the holiday, but I do like to acknowledge that it's a very special time of year for many people. Although I avoid all the modern trappings, it's still a day that is spent wallowing in the break from work life and honoring all that I am blessed with as the year comes to a close. 

Mexicans do the bulk of their celebrating on Christmas eve which is time to eat, drink and party into the wee hours of the night, setting off a barrage of firecrackers which climaxes at midnight but continues for days. In Oaxaca it's almost like any other day where firecrackers are concerned so I'm used to it now. 

I'm currently staying in an apartment that is part of a small complex owned by a lovely woman named Susana. It's been the perfect situation for me to have my own kitchen where I can very handily nurse myself back to health on the heels of that post-Havana, second wave intestinal attack. It helps that the complex is not only quiet but also a wonderfully beautiful oasis of lush garden in an otherwise bustling little city. The view from outside my little estudio:

Lush

Last night Susana had family, friends and some other guests from the complex celebrating under an awning in the courtyard. Despite the fact that it poured rain off and on throughout the evening we carried on way into the early morning - little things like rain don't stop Mexicans from partying. Ever. There was loads of food, hot cider, booze, music and lots of cheer. Yes, I miss my family back home, but this was a pretty good substitute. It was also a nice opportunity to socialize and meet some new folks. Travelling alone can be somewhat isolating and pulling oneself out of isolation mode can often be challenging but I won't miss an opportunity to rally, especially if the opportunity is literally outside my door. I stayed up way too late, but well worth it. 

Today I am lounging in the sun, taking advantage of warm  break from the rain and moving slowly. I'll be meeting a new, if rather odd, friend for early dinner and then meeting up with more new, not at all odd, friends for a mezcal night cap before calling it a successful Christmas day abroad.

Whatever the day holds for you, my dear readers, I hope it is filled with everything you want your holiday to be filled with and then some. I'm thinking loads of warm and loving thoughts for all my friends and family and very much looking forward to connecting with you all on a more personal level when I get home. 

In the meantime, I leave you with this. No, I didn't go to the event, but probably should have. 

Hi, pretty!

Merry Christmas!

The Havana Chronicle, Days 5.2 & 6

Day 5, part 2:

A few things that surprised me during my visit to Havana:

1. Not all of the cars on the road are from 1956. There are Toyotas, Mazdas, Nissans, Kias, Hyundais, Peugots, VWs, Mercedes and I even saw a few BMWs. All those old timey cars that you see in the photos are collective taxis - you get in with six other people and get dropped off somewhere near your destination for the fraction of the price of a door-to-door. Also, they all have new engines in them so it's not like they're running on motors from before the Revolution. The most common car I spotted was the old Soviet Lado:

I want one of these

2. Yes, the TV channels coming through the rabbit ears that the average person has in their home are limited to state-run programming, which includes a sports channel, a noticias & novelas (news & soaps) channel, as well as the Venezuelan All-Chavez-All-the-Time channel. However, there must be a special license given out to some fortunate ones who are allowed to have cable, which includes the aforementioned in addition to the BBC news channel, CNN international, Cartoon Network in Español, CCTV in Chinese and English, VH1, a rotation of European news programming channel, at least three additional sports networks, A&E - sometimes dubbed/sometimes not, and an awesome movie channel that seems to pilfer movies from HBO or similar because occasionally there would be a U.S. cable network watermark in the corner of the screen. 

I know all of this about Cuban cable because I spent a good 24 hours with it running in the background while I tried to keep from running to the bathroom. That said, whatever la doctora gave me was indeed industrial strength as it put my guts into reasonable order within about 8 hours. This is not to say that I was right as rain by the end of day 5, but I was no longer puking or otherwise losing my liquids.

I'd also like to add that her bedside manner was like nothing I've ever experienced or likely ever will in my country of origin because doctors get sued for squeezing and kissing their patients. She must have caressed my face a good four times during our visit and kissed my head once when I was on the verge of tears and then gave me the standard Cuban kiss on the cheek upon departure. Who does that? I was totally receptive in that moment as it was exactly what I needed. I wish we had more of that at home.

Day 6:

I woke up confident that I would be able to keep all of my contents so long as I didn't stray from the previously-scribed and re-scribed diet of rice, broth, papaya and bottled water. I also started my period. And the weather had turned cold. Winning! Well, I guess there was no way I was going to the beach or any other far off location. Nor was I prepared to lose another precious day of Cuba time, so I opted for a taxi ride back to Habana Vieja where I would get on one of those two-hour double decker bus tours because it meant taking in more sights than I would on foot and not having to really move my physical self. I used to laugh at the people who took those goofy bus things, but I have to say, they're actually quite useful for orienting yourself quickly to a place where you don't otherwise have a guide. It served it's purpose totally. Here are my two favorite photos taken from the top of the goofy bus...

Hotel La Victoria Siempre

Hotel Vas Bien Fidel

I felt ok for energy when I debussed so I allowed myself to wander the streets near El Capitolio - more photo evidence...

Dancing in the Calle

Mas Coco Taxis

Vendadero

I have a thing for water covers

Tobacco Factory

I'd like to note that I didn't see one Chinese person during my thorough crawl through Chinatown. Which is actually strange because I believe there has been a sizable population of Chinese folks living in Cuba. I'm guessing they bailed when their relatives abroad told them about the new upwardly mobile economy back home. I know I would.

Brokedown Chinatown

On my final stop that day I went to a little "mall" to see what was doing. It was way weird. There were a lot of security type folks around appearing to take their job very seriously, and I was the only non-Cuban within sight so I didn't feel comfortable using my camera. There were a few shops that sold mostly sporting goods of notable foreign brands. Not sure I could spot a knockoff, but I assumed they were authentic as the prices were slightly higher than what I would pay at home. Those shops were completely empty of customers. There was a general goods store that looked like a 99¢ Store if it had been mostly looted during a riot. In other words, any potentially good stuff gone. There was also a grocery type shop that had a lot of bare shelves and then the occasional rack totally filled with one item like canned pearl onions or water chestnuts or candied fruit sandies all with faded labels, imported from Russia or China. You know, the kind of stuff a person finds at the back of an elderly person's pantry after they die. There was a deep freezer containing what may or may not have been frozen fish. Mystery flesh. And in the entrance of the shopping center was this, which I snapped when the guard at the front was distracted:

Cuban Santa ain't no fat guy

Merry Christmas Eve day to you! 

Stay tuned for the last installment of the Havana Chronicles.

The Havana Chronicles, el Pasajero

Monumento

Day 4:

As usual, I made my way around the fruit table and sat in the dining lounge with my fantastic spa breakfast. For the second day in a row I observed a strange little man go through some kind of obsessive compulsive ritual of gobbling up a bunch of food from one of his many plates and the resetting a timer before moving on to the next plate. Every once in a while he would return to the buffet, bring back more plates of food and then begin his routine again. There was also a series of bags involved in his program - plastic bags that he would remove from one of several rucksacks and rearrange and sometimes look around before stuffing as many rolls of bread and half rotten bananas as he could into them. He would then pick up and lick his plates and start over. This must have gone on for hours because he was always there before I arrived and was still there when I left, which is a long time because I am a slow eater. I kind of felt sorry for him as he's obviously troubled but then I felt more sorry for the poor staff who had to clean up his mess and for the whole nation of Cuba because this man is stealing their limited food resources. And you know he probably lives in Germany or Canada or someplace where he can certainly afford bread rolls and rotten bananas. Strange little man.

This is the day I would make my way to Habana Vieja, no distractions, off I go. I decided I would take a cab and make my way back on foot so that if I was lead astray by another chatty Habanero it would happen after my day of taking in the sights.

As soon as I was dropped off at edge of old-town I was approached by no fewer than five people within ten minutes. But I'd paid a dollar and change for my map of Havana and wanted to be left alone. I enjoyed the park and monuments in the Plaza de Armas and the more colonial, slightly less decrepit feel in this part of town. It's certainly more tourist heavy, but much more charming than the neighborhood I was lodged at. I mean, there just wasn't any of this near my hotel:

Cha-cha-cha!

I strolled across the open air book & poster fair, sat at a park bench, politely declined to buy an old man's cigars, and delighted in the prospect of eating a sandwich. Which I did, well half, along with an alcohol free mojito while sitting on an outdoor patio watching the excellent band that played inside the Cafe Paris. Which reminds me to share with you that there is music pouring out of every hole in Havana. Even my jank hotel has amazing musical acts performing every single night of the week for free. Free amazing music!

As I continued on my way I began to feel fatigued. It had been nearly two weeks since I'd had any caffeine so I decided that it would be perfectly fine to locate a cubito, a strong shot of Cuban coffee with a dot of sugar, to get me through the afternoon. Fine. By about 4p I started to feel really warn down and came to the conclusion that I likely pushed myself with two days of activity and probably just needed a nap. As I made my way back to the hotel I thought about how I would spend my remaining three days. There's a beach town nearby that I want to get to and more stuff in Havana Vieja I'd still like to see. By 5p I was passed out. By 8p I was vomiting up the contents of my small lunch. By midnight I was back in full intestinal upheaval mode. Fuck.

Day 5:

Probably I should have called for a doctor immediately, but for dumb, sick person reasons I did not. I wanted to see if it would pass. It did not. I was up every hour, all night running to the bathroom. At 7a I squeezed my ass cheeks together and made my way to the lobby to call Marcolfa - no outside calls from the phone in my room wouldntcha know. Poor Marcolfa was beside herself because she could probably hear my tears dripping into the phone. Really there was nothing she could do but I was over edge. I just needed to tell someone who cared because I was exhausted and scared and understanding Cuban over a phone is harder than in person so I asked her to help me find a doctor. I handed the phone over to the desk clerk who yammered away with Marcolfa and then handed it back and I followed Marcolfa's orders to go to my room and wait. Ok.

At around 9a a tall and handsome swishy man showed up at my door with a leather medic bag. He introduced himself but I couldn't tell you what he said. He asked me loads of questions, and in that moment was I kind of glad that I'd been through this with three previous physicians because I had all the right words at my disposal. Handsome poked at me and asked more questions and called the lobby and then told me he was going to get a doctor. I guess he was a murse. Fine.

He came back an hour later not with a doctor but with a syringe.

Some of you who know me well, know that I have a very serious syringe phobia. In fact, my palms get sweaty just typing about it. There's sweat on my keyboard now, it's really bad. I have to be drugged just to get routine blood draws, which are not actually part of any routine because I totally avoid them, and even with the drugs I cry like a baby and my wife has to drive me home where I spend the rest of the day in fetal position.

Just to give you some idea of how awful I felt, I didn't hardly fight with the murse, I only asked him twice if I really needed whatever it was he was giving me then pulled down my pants, rolled over and cried while he stuck me with what I can only pray was a clean needle. "This will calm your stomach and knock you out. Don't drink anything for the next two hours because your intestines are in an uproar. The doctor will be here shortly, you just sleep. You'll be fine, I promise." Booo hoo hoooo, sniffle-sniffle. Those are the noises I was making as I drifted off to sleep.

It couldn't have been long before la doctora showed up with the murse. Not unlike Marcolfa she was curt and sort of pushy but in a loving, mama-bird way. I liked that she had a warm face and was wearing fabulous heels. She asked me the same series of questions and then some, looked at the all the medication I'd taken and went back and forth with the murse about whether or not I'd gotten a new illness or this was the parasite from Mexico playing passenger for a free trip to the Caribbean. She told me the Cipro I'd been prescribed was likely too weak to kill whatever it is I had and would be prescribing me something even stronger called Claritromisomething. I don't know, I was worried about all the antibiotics but what choice did I have? Was I going to die of liver failure in five years at home, or now, alone in a moldy soviet era tenement that smelled like a dirty ashtray? Up to me.

At least I had an Arctic Blaster

The Havana Chronicles, La Casa de mi Tia

Crafts from another era

Day 3:

My spouse has been to Cuba several times, years ago, before we met. And so I had the great fortune of having a contact in Havana when I arrived. An older woman, in her 70's now, Marcolfa (yes, that's a foreals name) who runs a Casa Particular - or official Cuban guest house. Initially I had arranged to stay with her but the travel agent convinced me that I would be miserable so far in the outskirts of Havana where Marcolfa runs her house. True, it's a $10 one-way cab ride to anything anyone would want to see in Havana, but measured against the comfort of El Vedado... eeeeehhh. Maybe.

In any case, I agreed to spend some time visiting Marcolfa at her house. When I called her just after my arrival she struck me as instantly familiar over the phone - kinda pushy and curt, but in a loving and earnest way. Familiar. I was looking forward to meeting her and unloading the 20lb bag of stuff I brought for her from Mexico.

The cab driver spent an extra ten minutes driving lost in circles because the travel agent lady was right that Marcolfa lives in the hinterlands. Poor cabbie, I gave him an extra few bucks for the trouble of flagging people down on every other corner to ask about the location of the address. He was even kind enough to wait in the car as I yelled across the locked rod iron gate that separated Marcolfa from the mean streets of residential suburban Havana.

A sweet faced mulatto (it's a current term in Cuba so spare me the lecture) man with a wet paintbrush in his hand poked his head around a column on the front porch, "You're the gringa coming to visit Marcolfa?" That's me! "Marcolfa! Your gringa's here!" Thank you. Out shuffles the old gal, just as I'd pictured her in a housecoat and socks and slippers. She unlocked the gate and pulled me into a bear hug topped with about a million kisses on the face and then grabbed my shoulders and stood back to have a good look at me. "Look at you, beautiful dark skin, you could be Cuban. You could by my child. Where are you from? How's your wife? Come on, bring your stuff in. Tell me everything!"

And so it began. The introduction to my Cuban auntie was an immediate success. It started with me dumping the contents of the 20lb bag onto her bed and watching with total satisfaction as she rifled through every item in awe: Disposable pens! My granddaughter will love these. Cotton socks! How did you know? Ibuprofen - perfect! Ben Gay. What is Ben Gay? Ah- I need this like nothing else! Centrum Silver. What did you do, knock over an old folks home?! I'll take one tonight!

And so on. This must be what (some) parents feel like on Christmas morning. What a delight it was to watch her investigate every item so carefully then beam when she realized what purpose all the trinkets serve. SO fun. Of course, the best part was her discovery of the Oaxacan coffee and chocolate because as wonderful as it is to have your practical items covered, it really comes down to the sweet stuff. She loved it. I loved bringing it. Win-win.

We moved ourselves to the kitchen where there was absolutely no lag in the conversation. She insisted I observed as she prepared my lunch of Cuba's national dish - arroz criollo con pollo/rice & beans with chicken. There was also tomato, cucumber, beet salad. YUM! Brilliant, all of it. I was a day out from my course of antibiotics and ready to move off the baby food. I couldn't have landed at a better place to do just that.

Posted in her kitchen, "Peace for me is not being fucked with." Marcolfa

I spent the entirety of the day at her kitchen table and I don't think there's anything we didn't talk about: the sweet-faced mulatto who does handy work and runs errands, the neighbor she's been feeding who escaped from a mental institution two days ago, her family, my family, politics, religion, the economy, the state of the world, etc. It was like catching up with an old friend as if no time had passed. Honestly, I didn't really want to leave. I felt safe and warm in her house and at her table, and at a time when I'd been missing the comfort of home after being so ill and on my own. She let me linger long enough to eat dinner, meet her cousin, a fine arts furniture craftsman and his young side-kick, a very attractive skinny kid called Bolo. She then pressed me to sit in her room and watch the evening news as we were to be keeping an eye out for a story on her cousin's work at a recent exhibition. Then there was her favorite novela. Don't want to miss that.

When she caught me yawning she called me a cab and made sure I had enough money to get myself back to El Vedado. "Why didn't you stay with me? Come back, bring your wife, you'll stay with me. You have family here now." Ok, Marcolfa. I'm going to write to Obama as soon as I get back to Oaxaca and ask him if he's ever had arroz criollo con pollo. Surely, if he only knew about this dish he'd lift that stupid embargo already. I'm inviting Barack Obama to your house for supper. I wasn't actually joking - I was seriously thinking through the email in my head. She laughed and agreed, if only El Presidente would try the food he would understand. Lots of hugs and kisses and more hugs.

I didn't actually have a chance to write Obama as I got back to Oaxaca late the night before the big announcement made headlines. Perhaps someone else got to him, someone who also loves a home-cooked Cuban meal. How could we have known.

Marcolfa y Yo

The Havana Chronicles, The Hustle

This is where it started

Day 2:

Probably due to some combination of relief and exhaustion, I slept neither well nor horribly the first night despite the condition of my room. As well, I had no use for the snow machine that was precariously lodged into the wall so there was no battle to be waged between freezing under a polyester sheet and melting under sweltering humidity.

Although I had no particular agenda for my first full day, it is my habit when landing at a new location to scout the surrounding area on foot. Up until then I'd only seen the inside of hotel lobbies and some evening activity on the boulevard so I decided I would spend the first half of the day orienting myself with the intention of making my way towards Habana Vieja, or Old Havana, where I heard there were many points of interest. First, breakfast.

I know, I know. I said you're not supposed to eat from the buffet, but a) I suspected it would have the safest possible offerings of anything within reasonable traveling distance, b) it was included in my hotel stay. Before I left Mexico I was given very specific diet instructions for the few remaining days of my antibiotic course so I needed to be diligent. I was told I could eat papaya, banana, pear, apple, dry toast, plain white rice, cooked vegetables, herbal tea, grilled chicken no skin, no dairy, no grease/butter/lard, no coffee, no juice, (except apple), no booze, no peanuts, no beans, no pork or beef. Got that? Right.

The buffet had papaya in spades, which in Cuba is called fruta bomba, and is just plain fun to say. Go ahead, say it. Fun! They also offered bananas in varying degrees of decay, but I was keen to cut the mushy parts out and add it to my breakfast salad. There were too many kinds of bread, but any of it made for decent toast so I had a bit of that. There was linden flower tea, which I never even heard of but fine. I had that. I was well chuffed to get a free breakfast which included foods safe for consumption and only sad I couldn't carry the buffet with me throughout the day. On my way.

I know people like pictures so here's some of what I saw in the neighborhood.

[Note: you can click on any of the photos posted in my blog to see them full size]

Que Viva!

Cine nearest my hotel - dig the font

Who knew?

Broke down

Less janky hotel

Waves over El Malecon

Coco Taxis

Study Work Rifle

At about mid-day I was making decent progress in my goal towards old-town when I stopped to photograph some graffiti on the side of a building. Seemingly out of nowhere (Cubans are sneaky) there was a nice young man at my side inquiring about my interest in street art and claimed to know many of the local artists. His name is Renier (or something like that) and he's finishing up his medical degree, doing his residency in a hospital nearby and wants to know all about me.

I knew immediately what was happening. I'd been warned by every person I'd met who's been to Havana that this would go down exactly as it was going down. I took about three seconds to assess whether or not I wanted to pay for his services. Yes, yes I did. I was starved for company and some insider information about what to do while there. Also, I needed to practice my Cuban or I would be stuck in a loop around the hotel buffet fruit table for a week. No one wants that.

I'd decided on an approximate maximum that I would pay, which would ultimately depend on the quality and length of our time spent together. You see, these negotiations are what one might refer to as soft, if not totally squishy. There's no up-front discussion of fees for services rendered. Uh-uh. There's a charade that gets played out and I was happy to play along.

First, he took me to the house where the film Fresa y Chocolate was shot. Charming. Lovely. Next.

Renier's father is longtime friends with an old queen, a world-class Cuban dancer named Tommy who had a documentary made about him in the 90's. He lives just a block away. When I saw the posters for the film on Tommy's wall I recognized it. I'm sure I've seen the film because I've been screening movies about old queens for film festivals since before Tommy retired. His house is like a museum, in fact it may well be the official Museum of Old Queenery of Havana, tea cups and saucers filling up almost every inch of wall space in his funky old house.

Tommy himself is a hoot and holler. He made me sit almost on his lap as he held my hand and recounted stories of his travels throughout the world. Scandinavians? They're too possessive of their personal space. Ask them for the time and they tell you to buy a watch. The Chinese? Meh. Gringos? Depends. Do they kiss Tommy back or do they shy away? Jury is out. He likes me because I'm "exotic" and friendly and I let him hold my had. Since when are Chicanas exotic? Ha! He tried to force a mojito on me but I told him the antibiotics might kill me if I mix them with alcohol and he asked me why I came to Cuba if I can't drink EL RON! Good question Tommy, I dunno. He hugged me some more and kissed my cheeks about a million times more and off we went. Next!

As we made our way down the street Renier asked me why I was taking Cipro and when I told him, his response was, "I would never have prescribed you Cipro, it's horrible. Do you know what it does to your liver and kidneys?" SSSSHHHH! No. Let's move on.

Ok, do I like music? Is the Pope Catholic?!? Well, this current one I'm not so sure... Yes! I love music. Who comes to Cuba and doesn't like music? Cuba should start it's own embargo against people who don't like music because you have no damn business being in Cuba if you can't appreciate the beautiful combination of African rhythms, Spanish instrumentation and searing vocals that is the Cuban Son. I love Cuban Son and I happen to be in luck because just blocks away (everything good is just blocks away) there's a small club where the most important Cuban Soneros go to keep up their chops. It's where the members of the Buena Vista Social Club used to play before they all died, but their prodigies are having a gathering there in less than an hour and we should go. Agreed!

There are probably all of three people in the small hall at the Egrem when we arrive so we opt to sit on the patio outside and drink mojitos (him) and virgin-coladas (me). We talk and talk and talk and I can sense him prepping me for his big ask, the plea for money for milk for his baby. There's a part of me that wants to cut the bullshit and just hand him twenty bucks but I'm afraid he'll leave so I sit it out. He doesn't ask. I pay for our drinks and the nominal entry fee into the music room. Which, by the time the band really gets going, has probably all of 15 or 20 people in the audience.

Of course the band was nothing short of fantastic. One of the singers is 95 years old and still sounds clear as a bell. About halfway through the set a very tall and skinny black man dressed like a foreigner (money) walks in and sits right in front of us, joining the only group of Cubans in the joint. Renier leans over and tells me this guy is another world-renowned Cuban dancer, Carlos Acosta, he lives in the U.S. or U.K. or someplace where people are allowed to buy knit caps with marijuana leaf prints on them. Indeed.

Carlos is introduced and invited onto the little stage by the group's leader where he proceeds, says something to the band and they start to play a rhythmic and repeating musical phrase. Carlos grabs the mic, closes his eyes and begins a poetic recitation over the live groove behind him. He sways and rocks, and between verses he breaks fluidly into dance using every available space. I don't know that I've ever seen anything so spontaneously beautiful happen so up-close. I could smell him he was so close. We left shortly after that.

I was hungry, exhausted and ready to end the act. I asked Renier if I could buy him dinner and he agreed. In the end we split my plate of lobster, rice and salad - too much food for my shrunken tummy - and I gave him $20 for the milk he said he needed for his baby. All in all, a ridiculously small price to pay for an incredible day in La Habana.

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.

==

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.

"Mira que bonito y sabroso bailan el mambo los Mexicanos..."

[Oops, I messed up - this was supposed to go out last week, but I didn't push the right button on the blog post thingie so it's late. Pretend you're reading it last Wednesday.]

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I've scheduled it so that by the time you read this I'll be in the middle of my next adventure on a verboten island in the Caribbean. I also wanted to post later in the week so that you aren't overwhelmed by my all-of-a-sudden desire to catch up.

I would blog from my new destination but, a) my time there is limited and I simply won't waste a minute of it on a computer, b) I can't even guess about wifi access on the island. In fact, I won't be taking my computer. Or my scarf and woolly cap. Yes, I have a scarf and woolly cap with me, it’s bloody cold in Oaxaca City in the winter.

There are respected acquaintances who assure me that it’s perfectly safe to mention here, in explicit terms, where it is I’m going. You can ask my mother, I’ve been a skeptic and independent thinker the whole of my life. At the unripe age of five or six I asked her point blank to stop with all the Santa Claus hooey. And I’m pretty sure I waited a year or two in case it might hurt her feelings. Anyhow I don’t trust governments, ours or anyone else’s so I sure as hell am not about to set off any alarms (I know, I think too much of myself) by mentioning the wee place just below the Florida peen-tip that was for some reason named after a very tasty sandwich… or was it a cigar? Hmf.

I’ll be back in Oaxaca after my brief excursion after which it will probably take me a day or two to adjust. In the meantime I do hope you enjoy the little ditty I’ve attempted to embed below. Assuming the dang thing works, crank it up, put on your cha-cha-cha heels and think of me fondly.

Assuming it does not work, or even if it does, go buy it from your favorite music vendor: Me Voy Pa’l Pueblo by Los Super Seven (album Canto). Their version is my favorite but it’s actually a cover of a song originally from the “old timey days.” Buy it, then crank it up, put on your cha-cha-cha heels and think of me fondly.