Sunday 2/26/2017  Floor Show, Shopping & Adios 

Francis feels miserable,skipping dinner last night and going to bed hungry has caught up with him. Cafe this morning will be insufficient. He wants to linger in but I am up for an exploration. The taxi driver last night didn't have CUC for change; he gave me CUP / MN. Exactly what is needed for local agricultural markets. As we enjoy our cafe on the porch [albeit Francis is not enjoying anything at the moment] a man rolls by cart crying “Pan Mantequilla, Pan Suisse”. Perfecto, 1 CUC for a half dozen beautiful fresh rolls is probably overpriced but sounds grand to me. Cafe and soft rolls will revive Francis.

After another cup of Monica's excellent expresso, I tuck the MN into my pocket and head off to the market. The sight of people carrying bags of produce indicates the stalls are open for business. The market takes up a city block. Two banks of stairs lead from the street to an open air but roof covered space. Rough tables line each side of the space and rectangle of tables is positioned in the center. The vendors stand behind their table space, fruits and vegetables spread out before them. Along the most enclosed wall are the sellers of meat. Indistinguishable cuts of unidentifiable beasts are lined up on the their tables, with the predictable flies investigating. If I came closer and examined the haunches I might be able to identify the animal by the hooves, but I have no intention of getting that close!

The fruits and vegetables are ripe and fresh with the occasional bruise or hallmark of organic produce. There are hands of baby bananas, golden pineapples, many sizes and contours of mangoes, round spheres labeled “camilo” and mamey! Mamey is my goal, ripe Mamey! Several vendors have pyramids of hard fruit, “manana, no hoy”. “Hoy”, today is what I need. A third stall has perfectly ripe mamey, those mysterious camilos and a hand of apple bananas for Francis. She has chocolate pods which she tells me has a sweet pulp around the bitter chocolate seeds. Interesting but I've expended my 20 MN. The 20 MN bag of fruit equals about US 70 cents.

Last shopping item, water from the kiosk on the other side of La Rampa. It does not sell plain water but has gaseola. Four bottles of seltzer and a bottle of white wine for Francis and I consider my shopping trip successful. As I return to Monica's the b-ball game now is a group of paunchy middle-aged men. They are no less competitive in their game than the younger groups, we have observed every night. While I can not understand the exact wording of their shouts and catcalls to each other the trash talk meaning is quite clear.

Noon, Sundays on Callegon de Hamel, a cul de sac in the old town, Santeria is celebrated with dance and drumming. It is the roots of Rumba. Dawdling as we have been today, we may not arrive during the show. The street itself is reputed to be unique, decorated by street artist Salvatore Gonzalez with Santeria inspired sculptures and frescoes.

 Our daytime taxi driver knows the destination. He drives directly to the location, or as close as direct as any trip in old Havana can be. We are indeed too late for the live dance show but the area is an attraction enough. The frenetic alley resounds with drumming and rumba echoing off the walls. A young hawker approaches selling CDs of the local musicians to support the community art. Enormous scrap art structures loom overhead along with slogans in Spanish and discombobulated nightmare / dream paintings. Even without any dance it is a sensory overload. With a CD for later reflection, we decide to wander back through Havana Vieja to look at the architecture and check out a bookstore.

The town houses are interesting, art deco next to colonial. We pause to inspect a monument in a small plaza. Francis sets down on the curb. He looks so fitting in Havana. While I am trying to translate the inscription on the monument, our compadres from the musical experiences, the couple from DE, hail him. They say he looks so appropraite to the locale, they did not recognize him at first. They at first thought, look that Havanese has a tow-tone straw hat just like Francis, Oh it is Francis! In turns out they are staying at a B & B just around the corner from the monument. We are all looking forward to our evening regroup at Casa Densil although none of us at quite sure of the activity.

They wander off to rest at their casas particulare while we go off in search of bookstores. On the busy tourist street we make the mistake of grabbing a bite to eat. The people watching in the restaurant makes up for mediocre pan pizza. There appear to be two owners, brothers. Each portly balding gentleman is in classic bistro waiter attire with a long white apron over a white tuxedo shirt and black trousers. The taller one runs the room and serves the tables while his elder sits on a high bar stool at the open door, inviting every passerby to come in and dine. In the brief interval that we are seated he greets and chats in half-dozen languages. One minute he is speaking, Japanese, the next French, frequently calling out in English, German and Italian. Konnichiwa, chao, bonjour, hello, mange! Impressive!

We check two bookstalls but there is nothing in English. Back to Monica's, we will nibble on fruit and nap until it is time for our last music experience and dinner at Casa Densil. We dress for dinner at 8. After dark it is harder to identify and flag a taxi, even on busy La Rampa. There is also more competition for the taxis, with several people on each street corner waving at every passing car. You never know which could be ­a gypsy cab. Several taxis pass, several are scooped up by others. We finally succeed and get a price of 7 CUC to Casa Densil.

We suspect he will have trouble finding the destination. Even more so than last night, tonight's driver has absolutely no idea where he is going. He drives well past Perseverencia on the Malecon until I gesture back, “mas lejos” too far. He turns around and finds the wrong street, turns again, still wrong. At every corner he asks and is pointed along. Finally he turns onto a street with the Casa Densil sign visible, “aqui”! Success, we give him 10 CUC for his trouble.

The young girl who buzzed us in last night is waiting by the door tonight, with the lights on and doorway wide open. We can hear drifts of music from the roof level. We follow our ears up the stairs. At each landing the lights are on and we can into the rooms as we pass better this evening. Casa Densil definitely effects a luxurious European style. There are swagged drapes and velvet sofas, gilded wood and mirrors galore. The open air roof terrace is more to my taste and something smells quite tasty as we emerge onto the roof.

Meiby is there with a crew. The dignified Italian gentleman and the girl have now been supplemented by two svelte guys and a voluptuous gal all with dancers physiques. Several residents of Casa Densil are here as well. The bistro tables have been arranged in an arc with chairs facing towards a raised platform. Meiby greets us and introduces her crew. They will perform while we wine and dine. After dinner there will be a short group dance lesson.

We relax with traditional mohitos or local beers, nibbling on a variety of little snacks. They are, according to Meiby, representative of the Cuban obsession for all things deep fried. Healthy or not they are perfectly crispy. As the dinner courses proceed, Meiby and her crew dance and sing, with stylistic variations and costume changes. Meiby croons a romantic Celia Cruz ballad, while her friends perform a graceful modern ballet. One of the fellows then sings a peppy modern song with the dancers popping and hopping. Cross-dressed in a costume resembling a blue bird of paradise, the male dancer gives us a performance with high kicks, hip-shaking and splits to make a Vegas Showgirl jealous. Change of tempo to another slow romantic ballad featuring the female dancer.

During the show we are served a multi-course dinner of braised chicken, local spiny lobster in a criole sauce, salads and the ubiquitous moro rice with black beans. The chicken is full of flavor and the spiny lobster, which is often tough, is delicate and sweet. The best I've ever tasted; I need that recipe! Wine is served with the entrees and a tot of rum with the cafe and flan for dessert. Then it is everybody up on your feet to try a few dance steps. Meiby and friends demonstrate rumba and salsa moves and keep us all trying our best. We certainly are not as artful but we are as enthusiastic.

We have been wined, dined, entertained and trained and we are ready to retire. A block down we flag a late night taxi and slink back to Monica's. Tomorrow is our last day in Havana.

Monday 2/27/2017

Our last day in Havana. We need to print boarding passes. Our companion last night has recommended cigar purchase at the Havana Libre, the former Hilton. He reports that Cigar Aficionado advises the Montecristo #2. The cigars and a pair of souvenir cases are easy to obtain but the hotel has no business center. We will head back to Cohiba Melia Hotel on the other side of town. There we erase emails and tell folks we will talk with them Manana. We decide to return to the mall across the street. Can one buy a bottle of analgesic in Havana? In the grocery store there is only strawberry flavored ibuprofen on display but no cashier. A line has already formed awaiting his or her return.

All week I've been admiring the gorgeous lace hose women wear with their tailored office attire. Intricate designs suitable for a mantilla wrapped around their legs. The girls tell me the stockings can be found on the top floor. We head upstairs instead of waiting in line. From shop to shop I ask for socks, long socks, until I am corrected. Men wear socks, the lace tights are “melia”. Happily melia-ed we head back to the pharmacy counter where the patient Havanese line has grown waiting for the errant clerk. We are not so patient.

Our only other goal is to explore the Fort across the bay from the city proper. We flag a taxi and ride along the Malecon and across the river. Our taxi driver asks if we would enjoy a traditional Cuban meal and drops us off a restaurant in sight of the Fort with a wonderful view of the City from a new angle. 

The food is excellent and a traditional three piece combo is playing old songs. They repertoire ranges from revolutionary "Che Comandante" to “I want to hold your hand” in Spanish. At one point a musician pulls out a Melodian to accompany the guitars. Francis has little energy for tromping through ruins. We decide to linger there for the afternoon, enjoying the meal, the music and the scenery.

The nest morning we enjoy our last cafe on the terrace and head to the airport. Carlos, a friend of Monica's is giving us a ride. Down the urban blouevard to the suburban highway eventually passing in to rural farmland. Cows and rows of banana palms and fruit trees line the roadway. Good signage points the way to the airport  and the terminal. Carlos checks that we are in the correct location. Indeed, the gate is not open but we are in the correct area. Inside several others also wait for the gate to post. 

An older couple sit with a cart laden with bags. They are returning to Cincinnati after having spent the entire Winter in Colimar. They show us pictures of their rooms and the town, lovely! They tell of a performance at the Teatro Alicia Alonzo. Ms. Alonzo attended that night and the entire theater erupted in a standing ovation in respect for her. More reasons to return to Cuban! Later as we go through security, the guards expedite them and ourselves through the line in respect for our age. The couple are held to the side; apparently their visa was for 30 days and they stayed months. A few stamps and small fee and they are also on their way to their plane. Very polite bureaucrats even at the airport! 

That's it. A wonderful week away. My Spanish is 100% enhanced by the practice. A return trip to Cuba, to see the countryside? Maybe next year....

Saturday 2/25/2017 Cuban cables (or lack thereof) and horns

It is another beautiful day. The sun is streaming onto the front terrace. On the back terrace two french girls are having a full breakfast. Scrambled eggs, sliced pineapple and papaya, puffy rolls, fresh squeezed fruit

juice and coffee. We just yearn for cafe con leche. There is an issue with the gas supply. The stove flame is low and the heat is slow. Lingering on the front terrace is no trial.

Yesterday's attempts at finding a internet connected printer and usb cable, have made me curious about Havana shopping. We have seen some flea market / 14^th street NYC type open stalls in downtown Havana and some tourist shops in the old town but little by way of stores. Private ownership and commerce has only been permitted over the past four years, and then only on small scale. If you have the cash where do you spend it? Monica advises us there is a mall at the end of Paseo by the Malecon, just nine blocks past our banking destination yesterday. To spare Francis' back we'll catch a cab.

The mall, Galleria Paseo, is a four-story ramp reminiscent of an enclosed parking garage. Each level has one large shop except the top floor which has several small clothing stores. On the first floor is a household equipment store. A few gas stoves, clothes washers and refrigerators are on display. Not quite the display one sees at Best Buy. There is a counter with computer cables, including the usb we sought yesterday.

On the second floor is a super market of sorts. The shelves are filled but there is little selection. An entire aisle is filled with a single brand of saltines. Another with two flavors of the same brand of cookies. Francis has read that there is no beef available. There are a few steaks on display in a small fresh meat case and many bags of frozen hockey-pock burgers in the freezer case. The wine and liquor sales have a dramatically wider variety; there is every type of hard liquor: rum, vodka, rum, gin, rum, brandy, and lots more rum. International wines are represented, all countries except the US. No California Chardonnay here..

Across Paseo, The galleria faces the Melia Cohiba International Hotel and fronts onto the Malecon facing the Sea. The Hotel Melia Cohiba is a beautiful modern structure. The open lobby is cool and inviting and they have business center open to the public! Yes, internet access is available with printing capability! A sign states access is 5CUC per half hour but the agent provides a card valid for 75 minutes. The process is a bit confusing but she clarifies and after a bit od keyboard fumbling, we have a Googler login. 300 messages to delete unread and a few requiring response. Most importantly Francis' lost phone can be suspended and we will be able to return and check in for our flight home in a few days.

A small park and fountain sets between the Malecon and Paseo. A young woman is walking a great dane. The lumbering beast jumps into the fountain, laps up a drink and shakes itself off. I'm glad we are on the far side of the fountain as the owner tries to avoid the spray.

We notice there are cones along the Malecon drive and no cars. What is going on? Then a man running slowly approaches from the direction of old town. Another runner follows far behind him. They have numbered chest tags. It must have been a Marathon and these are the stragglers finishing. Fast or not, they are hot in the tropical sunshine. One discards a water bottle and wipes his brow before heading further West. The ground is littered with empty water bottles scattered between the traffic cones with the glittering Caribbean the background.

We cross and sit on the seawall watching giant cruise ships in the distance, small brightly colored fishing boats pass closer by and a snorkeler paddling just off the seawall. Groups of young boys carrying fishing tackle walk on top of the seawall accompanied by their dogs. One says “excuse me” in English and looks pleased with himself. He then jokes “one dollar, one dollar” with hand outstretched

. His friends look slightly embarrassed but we all laughed at his audacity.

Our missions accomplished, cable and internet pass in hand we wander back to Monica's. The first new yellow licensed taxi quotes us 10CUC, the next an older model quotes 3. Francis opines that the older the taxi the lower the price. From then on we flag down the beaters.

We rest before our evening out at La Zorra y el Cuervo, the fox and crow. This club dates back to the 1950's. While the Copacobana and La Parisian go for the glitzy Vegas show-girl style revues, this is a Jazz club. It is all about the music. The location itself is interesting. Imagine a old-fashioned red-painted wood and glass window phone booth quarded by a tall gentleman in a red and black tuxedo suit. Entering the phone booth you discover a hidden flight of stairs and a large night club, the music venue version of Dr. Who's inter-dimensional Tardis.

The show starts at 10 PM. We arrive a few minutes before 10 and the line already extends all the way down the block. Meiby is nowhere to be seen but the couple from Delaware is already in line, chatting up another American couple. Francis has brought a wrap for the sprained ankle. With her ankle supported she is looking forward to an opportunity to salsa. As we begin to chat, Meiby appears. We have tickets and reserved seats, she tells us, go get down the stairs! The three New York gals are not apparent so the other couple tags along with us. The show must go on.

The club is dark. Dark walls and low lighting make it hard to calculate the exact size but it is a big room. A full stand up bar runs along the central staircase with flanking rows of seated cafe tables ranging out from the bar. The stage at the opposite end of the room from the bar and entrance is surrounded by more cafe seating. We are escorted shown to seats at the very center front edge of the stage. A drum kit sets at the back, with a stand-up base to the right and a electric piano to the far right. Several styles of brass, keyed trumpet, flugelhorn and slide trombone set at ready to the right. Colored lights wash across the instruments as the single and soon to be stressed waitress brings us our complementary mojitos.

Very quickly, the tables, chairs and stand-up bar are filled with patrons and the musicians begin to take their oplaces on stage. We are close enough to reach out and touch Yazak Manzano as he welcomes everyone. The acoustics are excellent, the sound balanced not loud. He begins to play, starting with the trombone. He makes the brass cry and moan. The base lays back, providing the foundation beat, while the drummer syncopates and weaves complicated rhythms, which the pianist intertwines with his notes and solos. A second horn player on saxophone similarly trades off with Yazak. The set ranges from standard jazz with a mid-century California mellow style to Santeria rhythmic chant inspired syncopated songs. All the performers are superior, immersed in their instrument.

It is electrifying performance. Yazak moves from trombone to to horn to flugelhorn with ease. He and the sax literally step aside in order that the drummer, piano ad bass have the limelight. The drum solos are inspired. Never before have I seen brushes and sticks used under and over the drum bodies, heads and cymbals to create belended tones. The pianist is excellent combining Bill Evan-ish riffs into Latin Rumba tunes. The base is more laid back just thrumming a solid beat. Between the two sets CDs are available. Definitely, this is the souvenir to take home.

2 one hour sets is a long experience; the musicians maintain their power to the end. At the end of the second set Meiby is convinced to get up on stage, where she sings a traditional Cuban Son trading choruses in a duet with Yazak's trombone. Yazak makes his brass come alive and sing. She sits down and he continues his own scat singing and trombone duet to close the show. 

As we emerge through the phone booth, the streets are thronged with crowds of young people. We hail a taxi back to Calle B. The basketball games are still full swing under the lights but we are ready to retire to bed. 

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.