FINAL OBSERVATIONS ON HAVANA …

 

The city is a disaster, really.  Thick clouds from low-hanging smog hang inches above the street.  American cars left over from Pre-Revolution days (1959) when American Gangsters ran the city, rumble through the streets like light tanks.  They never exceed 20 mph.  Thus there are few accidents.  I don’t have any idea how they get spare parts, but watch any corner and it will appear as if you are stuck in an old Jimmy Cagney movie.  The exhaust belching troglodytes never stop appearing.  Many have been beautifully restored.  Most are used as taxis, at least part time.

 

Piles of garbage proliferate, and go untended for weeks on end.  Locals stand around regularly in small groups, with nothing much else to do.  Potholes and obstacles abound.  Police are everywhere, but they do nothing.  Except talk on their cell phones and surreptitiously sell cigars.  Only Detroit looks worse as far as a city’s infrastructure goes.  And yet, the better parts easily do justice to Seville, Barcelona, Madrid, Paris, and London – and boast more style variations.

 

The citizenry is famously friendly and hospitable.  And generous with what little they have. When in doubt, all answers end in “Yes.”  Or -- “Of course.”  Strangers are neither turned away nor neglected.  Very few hosts take advantage of a visitor’s naivete as to Cuban pricing, customs, dual monetary system, or government edicts.  They all have “businesses on the side” but manage to stay within tolerable limits of what the government will allow.  Mainly, Fidel & Company just want their share.  And they don’t want to be politically challenged.

 

Manuel seems to be a charming exception to the “don’t take advantage” rule.  Not sure what his job is, but he appears capable of being gone for days at a time and nobody really requires a check-in from him.  This seems to be commonplace in Cuba.  Drifting is allowed, even encouraged, when opportunity raises its capitalistic head.  Somehow on the morning of my departure, he has it in HIS head that WE are going to Vinales.

 

So he appoints himself in an assumptive sort of way as my handler.  He earnestly takes over my conversations, stops listening, and begins directing.  Somehow he fancies that he has fathomed my intentions.  For awhile, I am amused by this.  And appreciate the duty of constant interpretation being lifted.  He seems as if he’d be good company for a couple days, but there is no way I am going to pay his way for the weekend or give the impression we are more than friends.

 

We have a world class lunch near the station for the bus carrier Viazul.  This, to continue celebrating the arrival of money and make up for lost meals over the previous three days.  Having missed one bus, there are three hours to kill.  So, a nearby seafood restaurant with air conditioning and a fine internet reputation called La Casa beckons.  Immediately inside, I notice an indoor stream and a waterfall.  They try to put us in the back, where it is warmest, but I balk.  I clarify that “My preference is to be closest to the waterfall.”

 

Manuel orders a mixed seafood appetizer plate, consisting of fish, minced ham nuggets, raw calamari, rabbit in chile relleno sauce, ceviche, and several other delicious sidecars.  Then grilled fish with jamon for himself.  I order my usual paella (whenever it is available, unless the Italian Cioppino version is present, or its French cousin Bouillabaisse).  Halfway into the appetizer, I scoot backward to retrieve my napkin.

 

An unseen vertical drop swallows one of the legs of my chair, and I tilt backward.  Slowly at first, and then inevitably ass over teakettle.  I slam my head against the rear wall beside the waterfall, but avoid full immersion in the cascade or the stream by doing a reverse crab move.  Only my butt takes a dunking.  People nearby are stunned.

 

Momentarily the same is true of me.  “Did they score?” I cry out.  Nobody understands this, of course.  That I had nearly four months previously, knocked myself out in a collision with a soccer goal post by diving to prevent a well struck scoring attempt in an International Friendly match against a Canadian team.  The locals expect me to be dazed, helpless, and bleeding.  I brush myself off, retrieve my watch from the stream, and act as if nothing has happened.  Manuel is not sure how to react.  A bit of careful humor is parlayed.  “You said you wanted to be close to the waterfall,” he chirps.

 

The staff can not do enough afterward to assist.  They move the table away from the stream.  Free drinks on the house are offered.  They are very conscious of my every need.  And I in turn, use the occasion to clarify with Manuel that his company and interpretive powers have been very valuable, but it is time to hit the road on my own.

 

It is difficult to write and think given constant attention and differing needs, if you do not have a very clear prior understanding with a guest, temporary company, travel partner, or lover.  That is one reason I write late into the night.  It is a long-standing habit.  That way you don’t miss the field trips, the parties, the excursions, the conversations, diversions, and other fun as well.  None of that takes place early mornings anyway.  A good time to sleep in.  A good tradeoff.