A Week in Havana

Havana

Monday 2/20/2017

Francis had been talking about Cuban music since we met and he had a major milestone birthday coming. The well advertised cruises, while a week long only give you a day or two in the country. Both cruises and less advertised land tours seemed quite expensive for a developing country, indicating a less than native experience. Using the internet research and AirBnB and we were soon booked to Havana.

Our departure city from the US would be Miami. We left our home in Marathon for a Miami apartment on the night prior to our flight. We fly out of Fort Lauderdale airport. We have the cheap seats on the cheap airline, Spirit. The charge for each checked bag was higher than the charge for each airline seat and the taxes and fees exceeded the cost of transport. 

Tuesday 2/21/2017

We are the first to arrive at the check-in. Apparently the “arrive three hours early for international flights” is no longer compulsory. Our early arrival has it's benefit. Not only is there no line but also the counter attendant at Spirit is chatty and upgrades our seats to the front double seats instead of the three in a row middle of the plane we had booked. She tells us of her own trip to Cuba and advises us about the dual monetary system, as she checks and reorganizes our documents for us. Once she is done we are ready to fly. We will be chillin' at the gate for a while, literally chilling the FLL airport is about 40 degrees. The light, less than half filled, flight leaves and arrives on time. During the brief 45 minute trip we are given Cuban health and immigration forms to complete. Do you have a fever? Mucus secretions? We have already paid a fee for supplemental Cuban medical insurance. 'Guess they want to make sure we don't have to collect!

Arriving right on schedule, we march through a very efficient immigration system. Carefully checking passports and visas, the officer scrutinizes the difference between current appearance and my passport photo but decides I am me. She takes my photo and passes me onto security. Bags go through another xray, then a hand-off of the medical form to a white uniformed nurse. Around a corner, stands the customs officer, some Italian fellows are trying to understand the process, apparently Italia neglected to distribute the paperwork. We have nothing to declare and our forms are ready; we hand them over and proceed through automatic doors into the Havana sunshine. 

The first order of business is cash. Few businesses take credit and US banks have not made currency arrangements with Cuba, as yet. There is a 10% tax on US dollar conversions. It is a cash economy for both Cubans and visiting Americans. A taxi into town requires cash. There is a dual monetary system, CUP or MN for locals, CUC for non-natives. We must convert our American dollars into CUC. Never the less, I get in line and wait my turn. It takes an hour for the line to proceed through the 28 folks in front of me. Today $500 US dollars becomes $437 CUC. Next I try the Cubatel booth for a sim card to use my phone in Cuba. It sort of works. In an emergency, I could make a phone call if I had the presence of mind to recall the unlock code and access key!

Francis has been patiently waiting with our bags. We may travel light but clearly some Cuban travelers use the luggage as import. Francis sees a fellow loaded with computers and TVs hauling away from arrivals. 

Our flight touched down at 4:30 PM, by 6 PM we can proceed out of the airport and into the city. A line of well maintained newish yellow taxis line the departures area. The going rate we have read is 20 - 25 CUC into Havana. The first driver in line says 25, works for us and off we go. Marti airport is surrounded by farmland. We pass black and white spotted cattle grazing in fields. As the open land changes to more urban uses, there are factories, then broad boulevards with impressive monuments. Our destination is Calle B. It is just off of a major Avenue #23, called La Rampa, and only two blocks off another major boulevard, Paseo. The taxi turns down Calle B and our Casa Particulare at #512 Alto is on the left.

On the side walk in front of #512 a card table has been setup, and a lively game of dominos is underway. Across the street at the corner is a playground with even more energetic basketball gamers going on under the lights. It is a pleasantly busy street, lots of activity but not much noise. The kind of urban setting that gives one the confidence to wander the streets at night and feel comfortable coming in late.

Casa Aida y Monica is in a well maintained Colonial townhouse facing a others in various states of repair.

Entrance is through a gate, along a passage and up the stairs to the house proper. Up a steep flight of stairs into a beautiful immaculate space. The ceilings are at least 10 feet high, with plaster cornices and deep three dimensional crown moldings along every ceiling edge. Many of the details are painted in contrasting color highlights. The floors are intricate intaglio tile work with decorative porcelain tile in the bathrooms. Monica has collected and hung a variety of interesting photographs, prints and painting along the walls.

A front terrace overlooks the domino game and the neighbors, while a small kitchen terrace looks out over various other backyards. The bedrooms, while simply furnished, have the same high ceilings and beautiful plasterwork. It is a classic and delightful place.

Monica greets us and show us to our room. We relax on the terrace and meet two Norwegian women. After discussing our varied travels, they advise us to seek out a couple of restaurants a few blocks away. It sounded so simple but we wandered hungry and quite confused for several blocks before returning to Monica, who told us we had been just a block from a good place. Ravenous after a long day, we ventured back out to finally find the little cafe at 9 PM. Oddly, it was called Havana Retro but it served Italian cuisine.

What an unexpected pleasure, the pizza was better than in New York! And a glass of wine for Francis! We brought half our meal back to the in-room fridge thoughtfully provided by Monica and crash into bed.

Wednesday 2/22/2017

Awaking at 9:30 AM, we have no interest in breakfast but yearn for coffee. Monica makes us pots of expresso with steamed milk, which we enjoy on the back terrace. We linger in the shade, enjoying the city scene. The queues are in full swing at the next mid-block bus stop, the basketball game is underway and there is pedestrian traffic along Calle B. Across the street is a building with a switchback spiral staircase framed in wrought iron from the ground to the second floor. What a dramatic entrance. Every building along this street has a plain often somewhat neglected ground level and beautifully ornamented colonial upper levels. Some of the houses have been renovated and upgraded others are in the process. The jerry rigged wiring and waterlines snake from one level to another across narrow alleyways and speak of the residents ingenuity.

 

By Noon, we venture out along La Rampa. We walk past amazing pastel buildings, like Monicas, concrete confections to rival a wedding cake. As we stroll enormous belching articulated buses passby, each crammed with passengers, every seat and strap taken. Between the long lines at the bus stop and the heavy passenger loads, we will take taxis on the trip. The queues are not reserved for the public transport. There are lines at every shop, carryout and kiosk. The cafes, called cafeterias, are open air and often promote italian dishes. No queue at the cafe. In cafes, we find out, you will wait after being seated. Not matter what you want, you must wait for it, seems to be a Havana tradition.

As we wander towards the Malecon, the seawall highway, we cross the Avenue of the Presidents. It is another broad tree lined boulevard. This one has a small park around a historic monument on each block. Francis waits on a bench and watches a fellow working on his car, while I walk down the hill. The monuments are busts, half statues of various political leaders who have supported the revolution. Omar Torrejose, wearing a rustic cowboy hat with star and holding outstretched clasped hands is touching but the “Supreme Jefe de Equador” brandishing a machete beats him for drama.

An old man sitting in the shade asks from where I have come? Americano? Donde es usted? Estados Unidos? Cuidad? Si, Florida, Miami. He asks if I like the city. Havana esta bonita, I say not knowing the word for beautiful, muy bonita, and he concurs. He has a brother who imigrated to Florida he tells me. Many Cubans in Florida, I agree. Mi Esposo espere, I explain and head back to Francis who has watched an entire vehicle maintenance tableau unfold. The cars and houses are old but the are working to keep them running.

As we approach the Malecon, we pass Coppelia Parque. It is not just an ice cream parlor, it is a “cathedral to ice cream”, not my phrase but the Supreme Jefe Fidel's. It is set in a city block Iot landscaped park with a variety of paths leading to an immense concrete parasol structure. On the support pillars of the parasol are plaques explaining the history and architecture of Coppelia.

Under the parasol are a number of open air ice cream kiosks with adjacent shaded seating areas and at the center an enclosed second floor dining room. All only serving ice cream. The kiosks have signboards announcing the flavors, tropical fruits, vanilla and chocolate, and styles available in that location. Judging by the passing cones, chocolate is the favorite.

Gotta go with Fidel on this one, it is the perfect alternative for the masses in lieu of mass. Mid-day and mid-week, there are throngs of creamy worshippers. Many walk away carrying their cones happily licking at the drips, while the tables are full with those enjoying sundaes and more substantial treats. There are lines at every kiosk and twice as long, the lines for the upstairs dining room.

We need something more than a sweet treat and proceed along La Rampa to the Malecon. This end of the avanue has the big old hotels. The Havana Libre, former the Hilton, and the Hotel Nationale, famous for housing big Mafia meetings. As we appraoch the Malecon I see the entrance to “La Zorra y el Cuervo”, a historic and famous jazz club. We will see a performance here over the weekend. Who is playing on Saturday? Yazek Manzano y su grupe. We have never heard of him before but we will Saturday night.

At the intersection of the La Rampa and the Malecon is a gas station. The only one we have seen. Cars, taxis, service trucks and citrons all wait in line. The citrons are cute. Bright yellow round semi-enclosed three-wheeled motorcycle taxis with two or three seats behind the driver. Gas is rationed. It probably goes a longer way in a two-cycle engine.

We walk along the Malecon for a block or two, admiring the parade of historic cars, often filled with tourists, and watching the surf splash on the seawall. In addition to the older American models, there are Russian Ladas, looking rather worse for wear. The buses are in the worst condition, not only spewing diesel smoke but appearing to never had the benefit of a body shop. When it comes to the bus service, they keep the vehicles going but are not keeping up appearances.

Set high on a bluff, the Hotel Nationale looms over the Malecon. It is an impressive structure. In contrast to the 1950s modern former Hilton, it is an elegant traditional Spanish colonial. It looks more like a presidential palace than a hotel. It is also the first complete and impeccable restoration we have seen. We walk around and come upon the exit driveway. The security guard initially balks at our approach, gesturing for us to walk around to the entrance. A German tourist has walked up with us. She doesn't want to walk all the way around either. She points at Francis with his obviously bad back, waving her hands and gesturing “are you going to make him walk around?” The guard relents. We all walk up the gentle incline and not a single car comes down. Thank you, assertive backpacking tourist. We have walked up the down and now enter through the pool lounge, up the stairs into a spacious lobby.

The vaulted white plastered ceiling is supported by massive 12 x 12 blackened beams each, at least 20 feet long. They stretch and cross between equally impressive pillars, each a broad as an old phone booth. Suspended from the two or three story heights of the ceiling are crystal chandeliers a half dozen feet in width and hanging longer than that. The lobby extends into the far distance.

As wide and immense as is the lobby, it is filled with luggage and tour groups. Tour guides exhort their patrons to stay together or to march hither and yon. Uniformed staff attempt to clear the way and corral the budging bags but there are too many groups with too much luggage. German and Dutch instructions echo with an occasional English voice cutting through the underlying Spanish hum. The French school group in matching red t-shirts, Internationale Ecole Cooperative or something like that with a sunburst logo, cuts through the melee. They add their teen chatter in French to the babel.

We back away from the chaos and admire the propaganda. The sub halls are full of posters and art celebrating communist history. A huge poster of Fidel is particularly striking. Larger than life size in full camo uniform and holding a heroic pose as those climbing the battlements to attack any remaining capitalists. Ugh, revisionist history perhaps, he never won a battle. Beside the poster is a black and white photo display. A series of enlargements depict the Castro brothers meeting and greeting international politicians. Even more ironically, facing the propaganda display are head shots and publicity photos of movie stars and celebrities. The politicians and the celebrities are all capitalists. What is your message Fidel? Or do these represent changes in place now due to Raul?

We ponder the politics as we take the back exit and head into the garden. The rear garden overlooks the Malecon, where we had just walked. It is lovely spot. Francis wants to rest and a glass of white wine. He takes a seat to figure out whether it is a walk up bar or table service while I wander. To the left there is a display of historical interest. To the right a wine bar / restaurant specializing in french wine by the glass and spit roasted pig. Slabs of roast pork and bread for 10 CUC seems fair given the location. In the center shaded benches and winding paths lead to the seawall.

Running along the entire rear of the hotel is the “Bar Galleria” with

comfortable upholstered chairs and sofas protected under an arched loggia and facing off to the sea.

We determine table service is available and take over some armchairs. The waitress is carefully serving a huge swathe of tables, one customer at a time. With the well padded armchairs and sofa providing a respite and a beautiful view, who cares if it takes an hour for coffee service? When the waitress finally arrives I tell her ”Ustedes caminas una millon kilametros al dia” [you walk a million miles a day], she laughs and nods in agreement. While we admire the view a resident wanders by inspecting us.

After coffee we duck back through the lobby to the ground floor cafe “Ricon de Cine”, fried chicken and grilled fish for an early dinner. The waiter was very attentive and the quality and preparation of the poultry was excellent. Of course, no factory farms here, everything is free range, natural and organic. We had an excellent meal and snuck out through a mad crash of incoming tour groups. Along trhe way we found some intriguing Cuban paintings! Is this the Judge of Bread?

As we had entered the hotel a beautifully restored baby blue convertible with white leather upholstery was parked behind the tour buses in front of the hotel. As we exited it was parked there again. Taxi, asked the driver? Cuanto cuesto a Calle B, asked I? 10 CUC was the response, a fair price for a ride through town in a classic car. The driver proudly told us it was a 1953 Chevy, with a Russian motor.

The leather upholstery was protected by clear plastic slipcovers making me think of my Great Aunts Rose and Hannah's sofa. Well back in 1953, they might have ridden in just this model Chevy. We ride in style back along the busy avenue to Calle B. Now we are those tourists in the cool vintage car on promenade.

Back at the Casa Francis wants his vino. His pre-travel readings had said “no wine in Cuba”. He had wine in the cafe, there were wines in the tourist shops we passed, both high priced French and lesser Chilean. At home he drinks Chilean Frontera. We ask Monica for advice. A tienda would be found at the corner of Calle A and 27^th not more than five blocks off. Off we head past the basketball game in progress around the corner onto La Rampa, Avenue 23 one block to Calle A. Across La Rampa and down A, we pass more gorgeous building in various states of repair and disrepair. The cross streets are all odd numbers, it is only three blocks to vino!

At the corner of A and 25 is a mansion, without windows or roof, the hollow facade dramatic in it's size and ornamentation. It seems to be used as a parking for facility for some official vehicles, uniformed staff stand by white sedans and trucks. Be not too curious about anyone in uniform in a communist country. Facing the empty mansion is a perfectly restored townhouse housing a beauty parlor, with a similarly restored cafe across the street. Perhaps the mansion will be next, it deserves the attention.

The next corner is Calle A and 27^th, where we see two markets for residents but the beverage shop is not apparent. Several fellows are leaning over a car hood working on the engine, Francis pantomimes a drink and they point around the corner. Not exactly a shop, it is a little tin shed, like a newspaper stand. It is the local 7/11, literally, a sign states it opens at 7 AM and closes at 11 PM. The kiosk sells several kinds of beer, wine, liquors, sodas, candy and Nestle ice cream bars. We purchase a bottle of vino blanco, Frontera Chardonnay, and a bottle of vino rojo, Frontera Cabernet. It is the same stuff Francis drinks at home! Since It is Havana, I can not resist buying a bottle of Havana Club Blanco as well. They do not have bags for your purchase. “Tienes una maleta o una caja?” I ask. Out comes an empty beer case to cart home our bottles. Next trip I'll know to bring my own bag. The box works fine and off we go for a cocktail on the front terrace watching the continuing basketball match and the passing pedestrians. The domino game has temporarily relocated down the block.

Late at night there is a fierce tropical rain storm. Heavy rains fall from above while cool winds blow below. Later the wind blows a door open and shut several times, it is an eerie awakening but not an alarming one. We feel completely comfortable at Monica's. We fall back to sleep to awaken to the aroma of cafe and laundry.