Friday 2/24/2017 Cash and Sia Kara

We have an established rhythm, perhaps not yet a syncopated rumba, more a sedate slow two-step. Sleep late, arise at leisure, linger over cafe on the terrace, emerge into the sunshine and explore the city. Today's activities are practical as this evening will begin our three music experiences.

Cuba is a cash economy. At the airport I exchanged US Dollars for Cuba convertible currency. After several days of taxi rides and restaurants, I can project needing more cash. In addition, although I can make Cuban phone calls, I have no internet and will need access to a printer before we depart. Wifi “parks” for Cubatel services are available; not quite what we would need.

After conversation with Monica, we head off to the nearest Cubatel office which is across the street from the farmer's market. There will be a cash exchange booth at the market. We look for a big blue building. We find the building, with a guard booth in front. Explaining our need , the guard explains this is just offices. We need another Cubatel blue building on the next block.

We march around the block. The sidewalks are a hazard. While most sidewalks are in standard but worn condition, some appear to have been subject to very localized earthquakes or the repair crews began demo and took a break. Concrete panels are smashed and heaved. Down the street a sidewalk is completely demolished, the cement mixing truck blocks the intersection, ready to pour the new surface. While the old concrete has been removed the curb has been left in place. They will just pour and screed a new walkway between the curb and the fence line.

It is easy to identify the Cubatel public building. There are lines extending out the doors. In front of the building stands a small crowd and a series of blue hoods on poles. Under several of the hoods stand individuals energetically typing on their cellphones. This must be the Wifi park. Reading the posters outside and peaking into the office, the establishment sells phones, SIMs and accessories but has no internet cafe setup. 'kinda' suspected as much. Next door is a tech supply shop. We could also use a mini-usb cable but they have none.

At the farmer's market on Calle A, piles of vegetables and fruits fill most of the stands, while meat products line one wall. Shopping can wait. We need cash. The exchange booth is closed with a line already formed in front. As I queue behind the ultimo, she turns around to ask if I need MN/CUP or CUC. She tells me the booth will only have MN for the market. She suggests we walk down Paseo to a larger exchange booth. Does she have any idea where one might find internet access with a printer? Try a tech shop about three blocks down Paseo.

Paseo is a block away and the sidewalks are clear. While Calle A, B and C are quiet residential two-way streets with an occasional business or Casa Particulares. Paseo is a broad boulevard with North and South traffic separated by a series of tree lined parks. It runs all the way down to the Malecon. The buildings facing onto Paseo are larger and in excellent repair. They were far more extensive private residences than on the side streets and many now house the offices of various community groups. The sidewalks are also in better repair and a walk down Paseo is a stroll in the park.

The tech office a few blocks down turns out to be watch repair. A fellow working on his car in front, says that there is a cash exchange and a bank on 9^th street. Counting down to nine, we pass more beautiful buildings and so many interesting older cars. It is hot, even walking under the trees through the parks. By the time we turn the corner onto 9^th street, a beverage seems so appealing. At the intersection of Paseo and 9, we pass a cafe. The cash exchange is next door but it is closed. Not even a line! Ah ha, next door to the exchange is a public bank. The bank is open with people are milling around outside. In we proceed for another
Havana experience.

The bank lobby, waiting area are and service booths are contiguous with a guard desk at the door. The gist of the guard's questions are why are you here? US dollars to CUC. He prints out a slip of paper and hands it to me, while a curious fellow standing behind him gestures for me to observe the large changeable display signboard in the center of the waiting area. The large lobby is set with rows of chairs, as though a film was about to be shown. Along one side and rear are numbered and labeled booths, at least 20 altogether, with a few modular office setting to one side. Cushioned armchairs line the far wall. All the seats are filled, all the booths are busy. My ticket is number 715 and states monete internationale. The display big number board says 599. Oh, dear...

The cushioned armchairs are not just filled. Several women, well-dressed in tailored suits, are perched on the arms of the chairs. They chat to pass the waiting time. At the center, sharing a loveseat, is an elderly women. Her number comes up quickly. After the nice hike Francis' back is obviously distressing him. One of the well-dressed women takes the vacant seat but seeing Francis, quickly pops back up and gestures for him to sit down. She resumes her perch and we profusely thank her.

The numbers do change over quickly but they are not in order. Watching the display I realize you are in order of your specialty. Not every booth conducts the same business. It will not matter if the service number is up to a 1000 if the international fund exchange prior to my assigned digit has not been served. In addition, retirees get preferential treatment and bump to the head of the line, unfortunately not old tourists.

The space on the loveseat next to Francis, is now occupied by a young man holding a motorcycle helmet. I ask him if he rides? Yes, he does and he speaks excellent English. He and Francis strike up a conversation about motorcycles and their repairs. He is delighted to converse, having been a Professor of English, he claims his skills were getting rusty from disuse. Not to any discernible degree, his English is perfect with precise British style enunciation.

The small public subsidy for a teacher was insufficient but he does not explain his current employment and we do not pry. He does explain in great detail the trials and tribulations of maintaining a vehicle in the socialist system. The set amount of fuel which he is allotted goes further with his bike than with an automobile but obtaining repair parts to keep his bike going, requires making application to government controlled store. The parts are often out of stock and the paperwork is tedious. What would be a simple commercial transaction in most places has a military requisition process. From motors the conversation turns to guitars and music. He also plays guitar. He and Francis entertain themselves very well.

Francis is both comfortable and entertained. I take the opportunity to people watch. The crowd and the bank logistics are interesting. The central sign board posts, normal banking, commercial, international with jumps out of sequence for senior priority. Those older retirees are more spritely than Francis, next time we might try for that advantage. Everyone has been so polite, I'd bet the benefit is extended tourist or not.

Seated in the crowd is a young woman, fully clothed in white from head wrap to stocking feet. In addition, to her full brimmed hat she carries a white parasol. She is swathed in white, hair tucked under a white lace bandana, with just her face and hands exposed. When she arises in her turn an older man accompanies her to the booth, speaking for her. The lady in white, this is the garb of a Santeria novice. For a year the novice must avoid the sun and commonplace public interaction and dress in white. She does look exotic and remote. A pale beam in the bustling office environment.

A sign provides the monetary exchange rates. US Dollars have a 10% tax penalty but the sign stresses that Canadian dollars are exempt. Converting US dollars to CN dollars in advance would have made sense. The English Prof number comes up and then mine. The young woman in the booth is very efficient. If you don't appear immediately, she calls the next number. When my number comes I walk briskly to her booth. She is already checking my documents when the preceding client, a young woman, belatedly shows up. The bank cashier wants he to go away, in part I gather in respect dfor my age. No problem, let her proceed. For me the process is as interesting as the project.

When my service does begin, the cashier carefully examines each bill. She has been handed a stack of twenties for the exchange. Any bills with even the smallest tears are rejected. She even calls another staff person over for a consult. Fortunately most of the bills are undamaged and we will have sufficient Cuban CUC cash for the remainder of our stay. Lots of papers to sign and our exchange is completed. Gracias. As we depart the bank, the Cadeca is now open and a line wraps around the kiosk.

 We opt for lunch at the corner open air cafeteria we had passed on our way to the bank. It is now late lunch and we will have a late evening in Havana Vieja. Many menu items are finished for the day. Coffee, pizza and chicken en brochette are sold out. Grilled chicken breast or Chicken, pork and bacon en brochette is available. We are game. While we wait we watch the parade of vintage cars. This is a great venue for people and car watching.

Curious about that mixed grill, I am delighted that the skewers are served impaled in a grilled half pineapple. Francis has the plain grilled chicken with a beer, while have pineapple juice and water. The entrees come with side salads and moro, rice and beans. The preparation may be simple, but the ingredients are excellent and the presentation is quite stylish. It is too much food for us to finish. The check was just $9. Another great meal with an auto show for entertainment.

Wandering back up the hill through the tree lined Paseo parks to Monica's, we pass a high school. Monica's younger daughter I've noticed wears a white tailored button down shirt and a gold skirt. All the students milling around this school have that color scheme. As it just around the corner from the house this must be her school. In spite of the uniform, kids still express their personalities. Most of the girl's skirts and are tight and short. While the guys are generally more subdued, one young man has metallic gold high tops to complete his outfit.

Back at Monica's the older Daughter is practicing for a dance recital. She an another equally adorable and equally petite girl are rehearsing the moves, while a similarly adorable young male choreographs their dance and harangues them. He is tough task master. Over and over, they play a pop song about reaching for the sun. The movements are modern ballet with a few bonus hair flips throw in for emphasis. I try to spy on the process but my attentions makes the girls giggle, infuriating the choreographer. Oops.

Francis and I retire for a nap. He wears ear plugs, while I find the repetitive melody restful. We take a good nap in preparation for meeting Meiby for our music experience in the evening. The basic plan is meet and greet at a Casa Particulare in the old town, for complementary drinks and snacks then proceed to a local jazz club.

Rested and ready, we walk up to the main street and easily flag a taxi. Our destination is a just off the Malecon. The driver uses his phone to determine the location of Perseverencia Street. The taxi is a 1951 model, worn but still charming. The driver is of a much more recent generation and quite conscientious. He was very careful to ascertain the destination before we embarked but the old town is such a warren, he gets lost in the maze. The direct entrance onto Perseverencia off of the Malecon is blocked. He circles around and around trying to get back on the correct street. There are no street signs nor street lamps. An old man sits on a box in a dim stairwell; our driver asks is this Perseverencia? No, the fellow points, the next street over. After two or three attempts, asking bystanders at each corner for assistance we pull up in front of a narrow row house with a hanging placard “Casa Densil”. Success!

The street is dark, the door is locked and it takes a tense moment before we see the buzzer high on a doorpost. Shortly thereafter a teenage girl opens the door and gestures for us to climb the stairs. The ornate wrought iron staircase wraps round and round the narrow hallway. It is open overhead from entrance hallway through to the roof. At each landing doors are open providing glimpses of rooms stuffed with vintage furniture and bric a brac.

Four flights up to the roof terrace where we are greeted by an Italian gentleman. He checks that we are here for Meiby's Experience not for a Casa Particulare room and bids us make ourselves comfortable. Even with the detours we are apparently a bit early. Or everyone else is fashionably late. I wander through the netting shaded terraces, tivoli lights and hanging plants to another spiral staircase and climb to find a further terrace, fitted with a open-air bed to stargaze. How romantic! Below me, I hear Meiby has arrives along with several other guests. Three young NY professional women, all in the advertising and graphic design field. Another married couple, from Delaware, arrive as well.

Meiby tells us the story of Casa Densil and her “recruitment” by AirBnB. Densil is a Cuban dancer and a good friend of Meiby's. He has been working in Italy. He and the Italian gentleman basically traded domiciles. Densil dances and models in Europe while his friend runs his BnB. Meiby's own life is interesting and she is a dynamic storyteller. She grew up in a household of seven women, four generations, in the nearby town of Miramar. She is godmother to her nieces, who live with her Mother, while Meiby commutes to perform in Havana. She often stays at Casa Densil after late nights in town. Someone suggested her to AirBnB to host a music experience. At first she was unsure but it fit well with her usual weekend musical activities. As outgoing and ebullient as is her personality, it is a perfect fit.

She also coaches and teaches children in preparation for art school entry recitals. The competition to enter gifted and talented programs is fierce. The child must excel in their craft and will be reevaluated every few years to stay in the arts programs. The program administrators will redirect children between instruments and specialties based on producing a balance in performing arts across the nation. A violin player would be told to give up strings and take up the trombone, when there is a perceived shortage of horn players.

Meiby herself is beautiful and quite sexy, in a color blocked form fitting mini-dress and very high heels. She regales us with her life in Havana, sangria and snacks until it is time to depart for Sia Kara for her performance. The woman from Delaware had twisted he ankle walking through the old town in the dark. Francis has a twisted back. The two of them along with the Delaware Spouse opt to catch a taxi. The five remaining ladies will walk to the Sia Kara.

It is an interesting hike through the darkened and deteriorated city. The city seems to be simultaneously falling down and building up. These seem to be primarily residential neighborhoods but far more congested and built up than in the Vedado neighborhood. Here the buildings are four to six stories high, apartments not single family homes and there are no little pocket front gardens or street trees. Just tall apartment blocks in various architectural styles fronting directly to the sidewalks. Boarded partitions protect the streets from reconstruction debris while the vacant windows above look out like empty skull's eyes waiting for rebirth.

At 11 PM, there are just a few people out on the streets. Just a block from our destination a police officer stops Meiby. Her accuses her of being a jintera or worse. In her sexy outfit in the company of a group of tourist men, his intervention might have made sense. Walking with a group of modestly dressed women, he was just displaying his machismo for a pretty girl. Meiby was not impressed. She provided her identification but was incensed. She was berating him about inconveniencing her clients, while his supervisors berated him over his two-way radio for bothering them. After a few tense minutes he released us to proceed on to the Kia Sara. Meiby complained that the police would those who actually looked dangerous, instead flexing their muscles and harassing young women.

The Sia Kara is a funky little neighborhood jazz club. It has an eclectic atmosphere. Flags, pennants and banners bedeck the walls. To the right was the long bar, with waiters rushing back and forth. To the left a balcony extended over half the space. The railing was festooned with men's neck ties. At the back of the bar, was a fellow playing stride / Jazz piano, kinda' Teddy Wilson with a little Fats Waller thrown in for good measure.

The place was packed. Meiby went to work finding seats and beverages for her guests, trying to explain our delay to our concerned cohorts and hobnobbing with all the patrons. As we sip cocktails we get to know each other. Seated next to us are another group of Americans. They greet Meiby profusely. They had looked her up on the internet and tracked her down for her performance at Sia Kara. They were from Austin, Texas. Funky music lovers in Texas, would have to be from Austin.

Once Meiby begins her set, a trip from Texas does not seem excessive. Her vocal range is wide and her dance background is apparent. With graceful hand gestures and swaying dance moves she electrifies the little club. At one point she rumbas with a patron. During other songs, the patrons dance around the crowded bar. The woman from Austin gets up for a duet of “Killing me Softly” and sways a bit herself.

After an hour of fantastic music, the pianist folds down his key cover and Meiby helps us find taxis. Tomorrow night, she will be taking our group to “La Zorra y el Cuervo”, a historic Jazz Club, for a more traditional jazz concert. She says she will not be performing but I hope she will get on stage for at least one number. She has some pipes!

Thursday 2/23/2017

After the sporadic night we awaken relatively early. Delightful pots of espresso on the front terrace, with a small pitcher of steamed milk. The sun is bright, very strong. In the shade it is cool but hot where the sun sneaks around the pillars. On the far side of the sports complex are outdoor strength training equipment. The informal sports complex is in use day and night. This morning the basketball game is well underway and a crowd is loitering in the shade of the spiral stairs across the street. Observing folks walking by with laden shopping bags I am curious what mecca lies down the street. It would be easy to just linger here through the day, watching the passing parade.

Upstairs at the house next door there must be a similar Casa Particulare. Their terrace is painted bright blue. I hear snatches of German or Dutch from the guest. He asks what appears to be a housekeeper something and after she leaves the porch, pulls up his shirt and dons a money belt. The streets are very safe here. Pick pockets have not been a reported problem. Is he concerned that someone in the house will rifle his valuables? Everything I've read says your property is safe in your absence. The Casa Particulares are heavily inspected and regulated. Cuba is essentially run by the military; the hosteliers do not want to get in trouble with the authorities. A money belt seems a bit excessive.

There are street hustlers, jinteros y jinteras. They attempt to guide you to overpriced and / or shoddy goods. On our hike yesterday we had many approach us to help with taxis or to act as tour guides. “No, gratias” or just a simple dismissive wave was quite sufficient. None of the persistent and somewhat creepy camp followers, I've encountered elsewhere, have been apparent.

While I ponder the tableau next door Francis nurses his coffee and cigarettes. He is ready but not anxious for our next excursion. Today will be a museum day. He is still achy from the mile hike yesterday. Today we will surely walk as far through the museums. The top of the hit list is the Museum of the Revolution and the two Museums of Belle Arts, one featuring Cuban artists the other international. They are in the old town near the Central Park and a potential museum with colonial furniture. Just walking along the streets with the beautiful building facades would be a sufficient attraction.

Around Noon we exit the casa past the basketball game and cross Avenue 23, LaRampa. We flag down the first taxi. A real yellow taxi, relatively new and in good condition. Off we proceed along the boulevard and off onto the Malecon going around Havana Central and into Havana Viejo, the old town. On the back of the buses I observe a sticker “Salir something something el mejor”. 'Pretty sure the intent is similar to the “yield to public vehicles” signs on US buses. Our taxi driver definitely does not yield; he manages to squeeze his vehicle into the bus' lane. Francis wonders why there is so much horn honking today. Could it be our unyielding driver?

As far as we are concerned the scenic tour along the seawall is a bonus to our ride. The houses lining the Malecon are not in as good repair as those in Vedado. They are placed cheek by jowl, with no parks, open spaces nor street trees. There is an occasional terraced restaurant, but the predominant facades are ornate but decaying three story apartment buildings. Many of the buildings we pass appear to be boarded up, or is it just their day time appearance? Do they come alive as night falls? AirBnB has listings of rooms and apartments overlooking the Malecon in this area. Between the abandoned appearance and the constant auto traffic, I'm glad we decided to room in Vedado.

A few confusing turns off of the Malecon and our driver stops in front of the Museo de Revolution. Fidel has been a master of propaganda, I am very curious to see how he represents himself. In addition, the building was the presidential palace. Built in the early twentieth century, Batista can not be blamed for this excess. Then President Menocal hired both Cuban and Belgian architects to construct a French inspired palace for him, the Palace of Versailles to be exact. He then had the entire interior decorated by Tiffany's. $3.500,000 in public funds was spent on construction and $1,500,000 on decor. Both structure and contents should be interesting.

The contrast between the imposing building, the soviet tank parked in front and equally aged soviet Lada taxi in which we we arrive is amusing. Jinteros immediately begin offering us Taxi cabs [Can't they see we just disembarked?] and tour guides. We will survive without the latter. In face, the jinteros shy away from the actual museum. They know better than to approach tourists where the guards may observe.

There is a fee for the museum. Eight MN for residents but eight CUC for tourists, a clearly sliding fee structure, given the 25 MN : 1 CUC ratio. Entering the vaulted lobby facing a massive double marble staircase, we and several other non-cubans are instructed to wait. There was no line when we entered. We will have to form one ourselves. It would not be a Havana experience without a line!

A few minutes later, a dignified woman approaches. She is the CUC cashier. Locals had been directed to another desk to pay the entry fee in MN. She takes my 20 CUC bill and hands me a single 1 CUC bill, three 1 CUC coins [am I the only person who finds mixed coin and paper of the same value confusing?] and two tickets. The guard gestures for us to climb to the top of the stairs and work our way down. At the first level a young women takes our tickets and also gestures for us to continue up the stairs and work our way down. The staff have had much practice making the spiraling quickly up and spiraling slowly down gesture.

Following instructions, while climbing the stairs at the first landing there are chips and black pock marks in the marble walls. These are evidence of a failed student revolution attempt in 1957 against Batista, who ultimately vacated two years later.

Walking along the gallery we can look down into the grand ballroom below. It is under restoration. They are not stinting on these repairs. Faded cornices, pillar capitals and pediments are being properly gilded, using the ancient red clay bole technique. The progress from dull brown of the untouched trim to the brilliant gilding of the refinished decorative elements, is fascinating to Francis, a former furniture restorer. It is already a dramatic space and it will be a glittering one when the restoration is complete.

Upstairs the rooms have been stripped down and filled with glass front cabinets. Posters and mementos of revolutionary characters with descriptive text are displayed. It is an odd mix of obvious propaganda and sentimental totchkes, the radio used in the mountains, oddments of clothing worn by freedom fighters. 

Poorly cast “replicas” of Camilo and Che's hats and guns, next to the shirts similar to those worn by this and that hero. Touching candid photos of all the men and women who died during Fidel's ill planned raids, along with copies of newspaper articles about the heroic revolutionaries hiding in the hills. One particular display strikes a wholly inappropriate chord with me. Life size wax figures of Che and Camilo set in a woodland hillside make me think of the taxidemy dioramas in the NY Museum of Natural History. A pair of hunted Longhorn sheep peeking out of the shrubbery.

Francis is a fan of Che, I am touched by Camilo. Once Fidel came to power he and his brother skillfully eliminated the other revolutionary leaders who had fought alongside them. With a little perhaps unintended help from the CIA. Camilo he sent off to put former comrade Mata in jail. Mata would serve years without a trial under corruption charges. Camilo's plane just disappeared into the ocean on the way back to Havana. Che, el Barbe sent off to foment insurrection in Argentina. Che may have been, as Fidel claims, assassinated by the CIA but they all knew the CIA was there supporting the established political regime and waiting for Che. Fidel or Raul, which one is really the Supreme Jefe of manipulation? In any case, they have been the successors, out lasting their rivals, comrades, presidents and ultimately communism itself.

A few rooms have been maintained or are being restored to their former glory. Batistas office and conference room are in tact. It speaks to decadence and excess consumption. Or on the other hand perhaps just an attempt to impress foreign dignitaries from larger and more influential countries. Actually I can easily imagine El Barbe camo hat on his head with his big army boots up on the desk, reclining in that big ornately carved chair smoking a big cigar and feeling very pleased with himself. Next door is the original conference room, used both by the decadent capitalists and their communist successors. While the office is closed to public access the council chambers with its twelve foot table and chairs is open. You could sit in a chair and imagine yourself part of the revolutionary council. Perhaps a subtle reminder of the exclusionary past and the inclusionary present. The mahogany table and chairs are in surprisingly good condition, nary a deep scratch to the finish. Both tourists and cubans must treat these articles of history with proper respect.

The hall of mirrors intended as a replica of the hall in Versialles also has some of the original furniture. The most extravagantly carved side boards I have ever seen. Huge ropes of Della Robbia fruit and flowers swag from one bulging bowed leg to the other. The tops are marble with an ogee edge and curved shape. Between the mirrors, the chandeliers and these over the top tables, my wabi sensibilities are appalled. Francis stares at the furniture. The design elements are all over the place, Louis XIV, older french, English linen fold carving, Belgian bombes, true pastiche. We then see another information placard intended to copy Louis the XVIth. Yes, the ultimate in excess.

An adjacent room houses the original chapel. A small space filled by a six foot high golden and mirrored pyramid. The style is traditional medieval / colonial Spanish reliquary, with icons along the sides and a dainty Virgin Mary with Christ child at the apex. A simple wooden kneeler sets at the base. It seems subdued and distinctly calming compared to the garish hall of mirrors and Louis XVIth tables. Exiting the museum, we find the Granma. The little boat that conveyed the Castros back to Cuba. It is enshrined, like the Virgin, in the Chapel upstairsand guarded to boot..

Enough propaganda direct or implied, on to pure art. Albeit art is never pure as it represents the taste, times and values of both the producing and displaying cultures. In Havana, there are two separated art museums. One is strictly for Cuban artists, the other for international art including that of ancient cultures. 

Cuban artists have a new light filled glass and granite modern structure while international is housed in another elegant colonial manse, the former club house for emigres from the Asturias Province of Spain. After the revolution, the building first housed the Cuban Supreme Court building and now fine art.

Cuban art is housed in a modern structure, it minimalist blocky newness in stark contrast to the aged and ornate colonial palaces which surround it. The multi-story building has an open central courtyard which beckons us to cross. The entrance ticket is good for both museums with a similar fee structure, high price for tourists, low for residents.

You purchase a ticket at on end of the museum, cross the courtyard and as previously are directed to proceed to the top level and work your way down. These guards also are skilled in the spiral quickly up, spiral slowly down gesture. In this case there are broad ramps spiralling through the building. While a sign on the wall indicates there is an elevator. It is actually for freight and is not working in any case.

Each floor is comprised of two u- shaped galleries with hallways at their interconnecting ends,one hall also houses the facilities and the ramp between floors. There do seem to be staircases but they must be for emergency access only as the observant staff shoo patrons away from the stairs, pointing back towards the ramps.

As Francis slowly creeps up the ramps, setting on the wide side railings to rest his back. While I take the opportunity to preview the exhibits. The top floor is “colonial” art. In proper historical materialist theory, the colonial period extends until the communist revolution took over. There are the classic portraits of wealthy landowners, their wives and children, well dressed and often be jeweled. Some of the portraits of younger men and women were, I suspect the selfies of the day, intended to impress potential matrimonial candidates.

Fascinating from that period are the detailed landscapes, portraits in their own right. Sugar cane and rum factories with every step of the manufacturing process clearly delineated down to the buttons a foreman's coat and straw hats on a servant's head. We linger over a the exquisite detail of a painting of an picnic outing in the hillside over looking a large urban setting. It has us in discussion and marveling at the level of precision. We can distinguish the breed of each horses and the class of each person by their attire. This was hyper-realism of the 1600's.

The later “colonial” art is striking more for it's conventions than content. Each decade and generation typifies their period. There are school of light pastorals, dreamy Victorian children and stout hearted men, pointillist cathedrals which at first glance appear to be Seurats, Casset-like boats and a few forests primeval echoing Rousseau. We can proceed through Klee's geometry, Chagall's fantasy to blocky cubism. Wilfred Lam's work could pass as a companion to Guernica. The international cross pollination of artistic styles is apparent. There is, of course, the fusion of the Mexican muralists, mostly communists themselves, with the Cuban street realpolitik propaganda and Cuban sculptors rounded the hard edges off of Soviet constructivism into a fluid form.

The Museo de Belle Arte Internationale is a few blocks away on the shady Parque Centrale. It is time for a break but the Museo closes early. While Francis waits in the shade, I dash down adjacent Obispo street, past the jinteros into a crowd of leisurely tourists. Francis just wants a snack, some chips. Gift shops, cafes and restaurants about but no chips. A tiny cart is making churros. Dropping the pancake-like dough into bubbling oil and scooping out crispy fried coils into paper horns. Perfect, fresh churros for Francis. He nibbles on his snack and we proceed to international art.

International is not just traditional but modern, experimental as well. The most interesting pieces are a series of exhibits spread throughout the levels by a current Italian, Michelangelo Pistelletto. First, we notice six-foot long butterfly shaped benches in many corners of the galleries. On the second floor mezzanine is a series of full-scale posters beginning with Leonardo's Vitruvian and changing the position of the arms to form ta symmetrical butterfly shape. This is the measure and proportion of the benches.

There are also photographs of a number of performance pieces in various media, boats, rugs, people, etc. forming three interlocking circles. The circles representing the reconnection of the Island of Cuban with its North American neighbor, the US. The third inner circle representing the hope for growth and synergy. I hope so as well. The most engaging work is series of life size serigraphs of Cuban street scenes, printed on large mirrors. As you approach you become part of the frozen tableau. Your present unified with their past. Much of Pistelletto's work bridges time or space through the use of mirrors. His mirror breaking performance in Havana is striking. 

https://youtu.be/C2d25BPxZZM

The museum is closing, time for us to go. Back to the Parque Central, absolute controlled madness on the street. Half the sidewalks and streets are blocked off for renovation work. Traffic lights are few but vehicles are many. Every size and shape squeezing through the narrow streets. Between the vehicular traffic, blockaded sidewalks and muddy construction runoff, where does one cross the street? Both drivers and pedestrians are polite, occasionally holding back for one group of another to proceed. When a crane blocks the roadway, pedestrians take the opportunity and press across in masse. We morph into a broad herd to avoid a small lake of debris then re-coalesce into a column to fit between barricades. No pushing or jostling, everyone maintains a tactful distance. Quite extraordinary.

When a jintero approaches asking if we want a taxi and quotes a very reasonable rate, particularly given the location and time of day, we jump at the offer. Cut rate perhaps because it is a gypsy cab, not officially licensed. The jintero and the driver discuss the best route back to La Rampa and Calle B from the old town at this time of day. Out of curiosity I follow our route on a map, right through the middle of town, another scenic tour!

We pass through Havana Centro. It is the most densely populated area in the Caribbean, 500 square blocks of concrete residential. Beautiful facades with labyrinths of housing behind. On the ground floor along the major roadway, are shops, open spaces full of bins, items suspended from the rafters and displayed along the frontage. It is 14^th Street in Manhattan, the place where locals look for bargains.

Back on Monica's comfortable terrace we take a Havana Club break and mozy over to the Retro Cafe. They are out of pizza tonight but the grilled shrimp and chicken turn out to be as good. This is free range chicken, locally caught shrimp and small farm salad. In the states you pay extra at the farmer's market, here it is the norm. The night basketball games are in full swing at the corner as we make our final return of the night to Monica's. Early to bed tonight as tomorrow will be a late night. Friday begins our three nights Jazz experience. 

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.