CHRISTMAS IN HAVANA
Christmas Day begins bright and sunny. I had been decidedly ditched by the dubious Dane. To my utter delight. Now I could travel freestyle again. It was beautiful out. And wonderfully breezy. I begin with blogging, and explaining in short bursts and hand gestures to Ody (the maid, who is like my Den Mother here) and Alberto my money quandary at the moment. Then out to hit the streets again. Armed with computer, local map, Lonely Planet guide to Cuba, and not much else.
It is t-shirt and shorts weather. A grand day to see what is so. It ends up being a brief but intense day. I am off. Back to Ambos Mundos to enjoy their terrific bar. Then to the nearby exquisite Hotel Santa Isabel, ostensibly to check e-mail. I have another Cristal. Such a satisfying beer! Their internet won’t work for laptops. The young lady who has described their card system to me is crying. I notice she is limping badly, and look down to spot a heavily bandaged foot with blood escaping around the edges of her wraps. I am down to $35 CUC by that time, but give her $5 just to ease her day. “Feliz Navidad,” I offer in parting.
Again, I am mindful that the average salary here is between $8 and $32 monthly. Hopefully, this small gesture will take some of the edge off her pain. She offers me a hug, and some rapid Spanish gratis that I can not fathom. She has no help and her tears take on a different stripe. She still must work alone while injured on this holiday. I wish I could linger. Overall, from hours of wandering the streets, one has to say that the Cuban people are beautiful. The women – who always speak rapidly – are particularly so. The slower, more deliberate speaking men are an odd combination of macho or effeminate, with not much showing in between.
All are fabulously friendly. And generous, despite their obvious financial limitations. You get the occasional exception. Once I heard “Yankee dog” and the whistle of spit emanate from my admirer’s lips. I turn on him suddenly. He is a bit startled, and looks away, as if it is one of the many pelicans overhead that has offered up the insult. “Damn straight on that,” I bark in command English. “And be sure to put your emphasis on the dog part. Perro Americano. No Americano Perro!”
I repair to the nearby Hotel Florida with the same internet access objective in mind but their e-mail is not working. Then back to The Central Hotel for the requisite check of my daily addiction, at a cost of $8 CUC hourly. Only after do I hit the streets in earnest. No map as a guide. I know the general direction to The Malecon, and weave through the streets with the objective of eventually hitting the famous coastal drive and walking boulevard par excellence. Like Las Ramblas in Montevideo or its more famous namesake in Barcelona, The Malecon is the perfect combination of safety, sun, view, water, company, and openness.
It curves for 8.5 kilometers along the waterfront from the piers at Bahia de La Habana to the nightclub district in Vedado. Very few singles are there. Mostly, groups and families linger along the seawall and series of artillery forts that provide photographic backdrops and the occasional seating place. During daylight hours, I am repeatedly stopped. “Where you from, Meester?” they ask. Upon learning I am from the US, to a person they beam. They have no trouble with US. Only our government. “Do you like Cuba? Do you like Cubans?” they ask me. I nod enthusiastically. “Me gusta Cuba mucho. Es el mejor pais en el Caribbean.”
I probably am not stretching things much, to tell them that I like their country very much, and it is the best country in the Caribbean. Often they ask to have their picture taken. Or to take my picture. I know by now that this will result in a request for an “honorarium” for the privilege of taking their photo. Or perhaps a snatch and grab with my camera. So I demure, for the most part. And “waggle” constantly in the vicinity of crowds. Which means my backpack is in a constant state of motion and I will generally feel any attempt to frisk it or open it from behind. I also look at the shadows at my feet and look for rapidly approaching strangers. Only then, does it become possible to relax enough to engage in conversation with locals.
Along the way, I encounter a group of buffed young men playing futbol with an undersized stuffed cloth soccer ball in an enclosed courtyard with a singular, narrow gate. I consider the boundaries and the rough, sculpted, and swarthy build of most of them. Many are bigger than me. Deciding the photo op is too good to pass, I walk in as if they should be buying tickets from me just to be there. I put on a bit of a snarl, just to stay in practice. Sometimes, you have to wear your brass on the outside. Before I can count to tres, they are on me. But with smiles and questions. Not fists.
That is the Cuba I am coming to know and love. “Where is Seattle?” they ask, with genuine interest. “So, you play say you play soccer too. Goalie? Then I am treated to a real gem. I can’t help but burst out in laugher as one of the sweating young men calls out to another: “Amigo, El Viejo is un jugador tambien.” (Buddy, the old one is a player too). He doesn’t know they call me The Larinator on the pitch at home.
The highlight of my ambling along the Malecon is catching a photo of a pelican at the precise moment it hits the water in search of his latest meal. Like vultures, they swing lazily overhead, telltale elongated beaks giving away their make of species. But suddenly one of them spots a blip in the refraction of the water perhaps fifty of feet below. And they head nearly vertically with sudden determination. You think they will pull up, and hit the water as an eagle does, with talons only piercing the waterline. But no. It is full body immersion. This feeding baptism is often rewarded with a wiggling fish, reacting spasmodically and never knowing what has hit them. Or how. Often the meal is enjoyed at a very deliberate pace. Our pelicans appear to be showing off.
Upon completion of my walking tour, I retire for a brief dinner at a nearby diner that is priced in pesos. This is part of a dual money system here, in which the peso currency (which tourists can trade CUC for) generally stretches further for Havana locals. The exchange rate is about 25 pesos to one CUC. But a visitor has to be careful about being grifted by street con artists, offering phony pesos or pesos at much lower exchange rates and giving the impression you are getting a bargain at only two-to-one or perhaps three in the exchange, or maybe four-to-one rates.
My fish dinner is only 170 pesos, or $6 CUC. It is the combination plate, including fish, langostino (or lobster), and camarones (shrimp). It is combined once again with salad, wonderfully soft and sweet potatoes, and brown rice. A Pisces seafood lover’s delight. Complete with two lemonade frappes for $2 CUC to combat the heat and my fatigue from a long walk, this tasty yet economic meal is the perfect ending to my day. I am in bed by 8 PM, for the first time in many, many years.
Christmas Day begins bright and sunny. I had been decidedly ditched by the dubious Dane. To my utter delight. Now I could travel freestyle again. It was beautiful out. And wonderfully breezy. I begin with blogging, and explaining in short bursts and hand gestures to Ody (the maid, who is like my Den Mother here) and Alberto my money quandary at the moment. Then out to hit the streets again. Armed with computer, local map, Lonely Planet guide to Cuba, and not much else.
It is t-shirt and shorts weather. A grand day to see what is so. It ends up being a brief but intense day. I am off. Back to Ambos Mundos to enjoy their terrific bar. Then to the nearby exquisite Hotel Santa Isabel, ostensibly to check e-mail. I have another Cristal. Such a satisfying beer! Their internet won’t work for laptops. The young lady who has described their card system to me is crying. I notice she is limping badly, and look down to spot a heavily bandaged foot with blood escaping around the edges of her wraps. I am down to $35 CUC by that time, but give her $5 just to ease her day. “Feliz Navidad,” I offer in parting.
Again, I am mindful that the average salary here is between $8 and $32 monthly. Hopefully, this small gesture will take some of the edge off her pain. She offers me a hug, and some rapid Spanish gratis that I can not fathom. She has no help and her tears take on a different stripe. She still must work alone while injured on this holiday. I wish I could linger. Overall, from hours of wandering the streets, one has to say that the Cuban people are beautiful. The women – who always speak rapidly – are particularly so. The slower, more deliberate speaking men are an odd combination of macho or effeminate, with not much showing in between.
All are fabulously friendly. And generous, despite their obvious financial limitations. You get the occasional exception. Once I heard “Yankee dog” and the whistle of spit emanate from my admirer’s lips. I turn on him suddenly. He is a bit startled, and looks away, as if it is one of the many pelicans overhead that has offered up the insult. “Damn straight on that,” I bark in command English. “And be sure to put your emphasis on the dog part. Perro Americano. No Americano Perro!”
I repair to the nearby Hotel Florida with the same internet access objective in mind but their e-mail is not working. Then back to The Central Hotel for the requisite check of my daily addiction, at a cost of $8 CUC hourly. Only after do I hit the streets in earnest. No map as a guide. I know the general direction to The Malecon, and weave through the streets with the objective of eventually hitting the famous coastal drive and walking boulevard par excellence. Like Las Ramblas in Montevideo or its more famous namesake in Barcelona, The Malecon is the perfect combination of safety, sun, view, water, company, and openness.
It curves for 8.5 kilometers along the waterfront from the piers at Bahia de La Habana to the nightclub district in Vedado. Very few singles are there. Mostly, groups and families linger along the seawall and series of artillery forts that provide photographic backdrops and the occasional seating place. During daylight hours, I am repeatedly stopped. “Where you from, Meester?” they ask. Upon learning I am from the US, to a person they beam. They have no trouble with US. Only our government. “Do you like Cuba? Do you like Cubans?” they ask me. I nod enthusiastically. “Me gusta Cuba mucho. Es el mejor pais en el Caribbean.”
I probably am not stretching things much, to tell them that I like their country very much, and it is the best country in the Caribbean. Often they ask to have their picture taken. Or to take my picture. I know by now that this will result in a request for an “honorarium” for the privilege of taking their photo. Or perhaps a snatch and grab with my camera. So I demure, for the most part. And “waggle” constantly in the vicinity of crowds. Which means my backpack is in a constant state of motion and I will generally feel any attempt to frisk it or open it from behind. I also look at the shadows at my feet and look for rapidly approaching strangers. Only then, does it become possible to relax enough to engage in conversation with locals.
Along the way, I encounter a group of buffed young men playing futbol with an undersized stuffed cloth soccer ball in an enclosed courtyard with a singular, narrow gate. I consider the boundaries and the rough, sculpted, and swarthy build of most of them. Many are bigger than me. Deciding the photo op is too good to pass, I walk in as if they should be buying tickets from me just to be there. I put on a bit of a snarl, just to stay in practice. Sometimes, you have to wear your brass on the outside. Before I can count to tres, they are on me. But with smiles and questions. Not fists.
That is the Cuba I am coming to know and love. “Where is Seattle?” they ask, with genuine interest. “So, you play say you play soccer too. Goalie? Then I am treated to a real gem. I can’t help but burst out in laugher as one of the sweating young men calls out to another: “Amigo, El Viejo is un jugador tambien.” (Buddy, the old one is a player too). He doesn’t know they call me The Larinator on the pitch at home.
The highlight of my ambling along the Malecon is catching a photo of a pelican at the precise moment it hits the water in search of his latest meal. Like vultures, they swing lazily overhead, telltale elongated beaks giving away their make of species. But suddenly one of them spots a blip in the refraction of the water perhaps fifty of feet below. And they head nearly vertically with sudden determination. You think they will pull up, and hit the water as an eagle does, with talons only piercing the waterline. But no. It is full body immersion. This feeding baptism is often rewarded with a wiggling fish, reacting spasmodically and never knowing what has hit them. Or how. Often the meal is enjoyed at a very deliberate pace. Our pelicans appear to be showing off.
Upon completion of my walking tour, I retire for a brief dinner at a nearby diner that is priced in pesos. This is part of a dual money system here, in which the peso currency (which tourists can trade CUC for) generally stretches further for Havana locals. The exchange rate is about 25 pesos to one CUC. But a visitor has to be careful about being grifted by street con artists, offering phony pesos or pesos at much lower exchange rates and giving the impression you are getting a bargain at only two-to-one or perhaps three in the exchange, or maybe four-to-one rates.
My fish dinner is only 170 pesos, or $6 CUC. It is the combination plate, including fish, langostino (or lobster), and camarones (shrimp). It is combined once again with salad, wonderfully soft and sweet potatoes, and brown rice. A Pisces seafood lover’s delight. Complete with two lemonade frappes for $2 CUC to combat the heat and my fatigue from a long walk, this tasty yet economic meal is the perfect ending to my day. I am in bed by 8 PM, for the first time in many, many years.
You're doing it again, my friend, getting me nervous and worried for your safety and then pulling off a rescue at the last minute. You know how to do the adventures! Have fun! (And thanks for the pelican story!)
ReplyDeleteDear Larinator-Do your nicknames never end? Delighted to hear Cuba is 'all things confounding', and that you're enjoying the uniqueness and sharp contrasts. Glad you've both tapped into La Vida so quickly, and had a chance to practice your snarl. :-) Sounds like a perfect Christmas Day for you.
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