HAVANA, CUBA
Upon landing, my first stop is the information booth after baggage claim. I know my preference is to stay at a Casa Particular – the string of private homes the Cuban government allows to be rented out to foreigners particularly, in return for half the cash – that are really the best option if one wants a full Cuban experience. The tender there made nearly ten calls for me, largely from a guide section found in Lonely Planet (but also from his own black book of locations). The prices are generally $20 to $40 nightly. This is more than I am used to paying say for South America, but a reasonable fee in these parts.
While negotiating, a confused gay Danish woman comes up to listen in. I seem to know what I am doing, and she gradually latches on. “Ask them while you are calling if they have two rooms available,” she says in decent English. Most places are full. Cuba is popular just now, given its perfect winter weather. After half an hour of patient inquiries, a place is secured with THE host supposedly being one of Havana’s leading actresses. I am careful to specify that passable English must be spoken at this location, and that they have access to the internet or Wi-Fi.
Having secured two rooms for two nights, we retire to the airport bar to celebrate our accomplishment. Anetta and I introduce ourselves and sip two excellent local beers, Cristal. It reminds me of Heinekin. She is from Copenhagen, and returning to Cuba after a 14 year absence. I run upstairs to the cash machine, to find none of them work for me in Cuba, either. A temporary setback, I assume. Surely the National Hotel in Havana or one of the many cambia houses will serve out the necessary CUC or Cuban convertibles that tourists use for currency here. After all, Rene (the airport magician who so cleverly escorted me through all the ticketing steps in Cancun), said this would be so (between furtive looks at his watch and rapid, behind the back gestures to his assistants).
Anetta and I share a cab. The cost is $20 CUC into the city. The first thing you notice going into Havana from Jose Marti International Airport 25 kilometers away is la brisa – the air. At this time of year, it is perfect. The next is the lack of traffic. No jams or congestion. The ride is smooth all the way. The next is how wonderfully decrepit Havana is. It is old and new and busy and quiet all at once, and all things confounding. It is nothing if not a bizarre series of contrasts. I fall in love with the place immediately.
We arrive at the home of Sr. Alberto Ruiz Jiminez. A grizzled fellow who looks like a retired Marine drill instructor. Apparently not the house of a famous actress. How could the phone wires have been switched? There is no internet. He doesn’t speak English. What English is useful, is learned from me as we proceed along slowly in my passable Spanish. Conditions are negotiated one word or short phrase at a time. I chuckle to myself once again. Predictable. Right on target. Par for the course.
I am on the third floor (which the Cubans call the second). My room is colonial style, with large louvered shutter enclosures. The room empties to a central catwalk which in turn looks over a large atrium four stories high. It is mindful of what I have seen of New Orleans, except with much more clutter and disarray. The interior ceilings are about 11 to 12 feet. It is clean and colorful, if a little worn about the edges. And I have my own bathroom. A clean one. Halfway modern. Dinner is taken after a short gander, five blocks down the street. On the corner of Aguila street and Havana’s famous coastal drive and walkway, The Malecon.
I order the grilled fish plate, for ten CUC. The food is remarkable. Tender, flavorful, adorned with a local butter-based sauce, accompanied by salad, and some of the best rice I have ever tasted. Along with the Cuban national drink, The Mojito. Rum, crushed mint, and sugar. Having had dozens of these treats, I note it doesn’t taste any different or better here. Breakfast (desayuno) is not the usual continental affair, but eggs cooked over hard, puerco (pork), rolls with cinnamon flavored marmalade, coffee, grapefruit juice, tomatoes, and fruit. Anetta offers up a treat of her own, a bit of imported Danish aquavit liquor mixed in with honey. It is delightful.
Even this early. An hour later -- Christmas Eve day -- the two of us decide to explore a bit together and hit the streets with no particular objective in mind. At least, I had none. She however is dead set on visiting the writing room of Ernest Hemingway on the 5th floor of the Hotel Ambos Mundos. I agree, but only after getting a sense of the streets. No taxi. We will walk. We start crisscrossing through Havana Central, and encounter a flea market. I have only Yankee dollars and keep to myself. Anetta buys the nearly mandatory Che Guevara revolutionary beret, named after the Argentine doctor who helped Fidel Castro run the military portion of the Cuban revolution nearly 53 years previous.
A woman comes up to me with her small child. She raises him up to kiss me. I stand still momentarily for what seems like a photo op. But there is no camera. Then the broken language pleading begins in earnest. “Please, Senor, I don’t want money. I just want milk for my baby.” I agree. What harm can this cause, or what dent can it possibly put in my wallet? She has me lift the child, and we amble what I thought would be about fifty feet. But no, Mama turns the corner. I nearly lose her. We begin to get separated by crowds. Anetta pauses, gestures at me as if I am a lunatic, and indicates she is going straight to Ambos Mundos. No explanation, just a signoff. I barely catch up to Mama.
She has stopped in at a government run food store, and slapped down four large bags of milk for her child. She strokes my hand and tells me how grateful she is. Her demonstration and gratitude draws a crowd. I am trying to put the child down, but she won’t let me. I ask the clerk what the cost of the goods are? Thirty CUC, I am told. I indicate no, and ask what the cost of one bag or possibly two would be, assuming there might be a quantity discount with volume. It doesn’t matter. I have greenbacks only, which are not accepted here (openly at least), and the store won’t take my credit cards. Neither will the cambio office across the street.
I am forced to take my leave, with the woman wailing and putting on as if I have left her at the altar. There is little I can do. Working my way to Ambos Mundos is a thrilling experience. I take the cross cutting Obispo Calle, which is open to pedestrians only. Many inquiries have to be made along the way for course correction. I am roughly navigating the center of Old Havana, with its remodeled Colonial style hotels anchoring the corners of public squares, seemingly out of place amongst all the decay one sees as the norm here.
I see street hustlers, women offering “companionship,” throngs playfully just walking – the poverty here ensures they have nothing else to do – tourists confused as to their next destination, well-dressed gentlemen ushering the landed gentry into hotel lobbies, and a constant procession of characters speaking with hand cupped over mouth offering me either private taxis or cigars.
Tourists taking a break line numerous shaded sidewalk cafes. The heat is moderate, but sweating continuous. The pulse of the street along Obispo Calle is infectious. Music from numerous sidewalk or café quartets first beckons and then blasts about every 50 yards or so. La Gente (the people) don’t just walk. They glide. They skip. They strut, if well dressed. They pulsate to the music, and some unseen driver moving them in mysterious ways. They bob heads, and chat excitedly. They sing to themselves, and each other. Always. This is La Vida – “The Life.” It is a force of nature here. You can’t avoid it, and it thankfully never leaves. If you are breathing and can fog a mirror still, this Life Force invests in you very quickly.
The animated local pedestrians playfully veer at you so you have to change course. With a smile, of course. Women particularly, make intense and sustained eye contact from a fair distance away. One never knows if they are offering services, are curious, or just have La Vida in them. One of them gives me a fetching look and then deliberately shoves her girlfriend into me. She laughs at the collision. Free entertainment for them. And no wonder. The average salary here in Cuba is between $8 and $32 CUC per month (even for doctors). A CUC is worth about 96 US cents, currently. I am sport for them. Yet don’t mind at all though.
Once at Ambos Mundos – a beautifully restored rust colored six story hotel with a delightful full-floor bar in the lobby – I proceed straight to Hemingway’s apartment on the 5th floor. No Anetta. No worries. Rudeness should not be immediately rewarded. But once again, my credit and debit cards won’t allow entry. I am advised by the very helpful and agreeable multi-lingual guide/attendant to go to a cambio house and exchange my greenbacks for CUC. Which I do. For about $45 CUC. Giving me a very limited budget. Most of my cash resrves planned for Cuba, went into the plane ticket on Air Cubana.
Back at Papa’s writing loft, Francesca the guide is pleased to see me again. She gladly explains that most of the exhibits here are taken from Hemingway’s Hotel, about 21 kilometers away, and this month’s exhibit has to do largely with the Pulitzer Prize winning author of “The Old Man and The Sea” and his drinking. There are recipes for his favorites in print throughout the one-room stage. Along with copies of his books in different languages. Such as “The Sun Also Rises,” and “For Whom The Bell Tolls,” and “Islands in The Stream” and “To Have and To Have Not.”
The room is Spartan. There is not even a bathroom present. That is down the hall. Just shuttered windows, a small bed, a writing stand, and numerous bookshelves. He utilized the location for its view. Due to injuries received near World War 1, Hemingway had severe back problems, and was forced to write standing up. There is abundant evidence of his hard drinking in photos on all the walls of Papa with celebrities from all over the world. And his four ex wives.
I am directed to two of Hemingway’s favorite bars, the nearby Paris Café, and The Floridita (his favorite). Along the way, I run into Anetta again. She decides to buy me lunch, to make up for her sudden departure near the flea market. We retreat once again to Ambos Mundos, but this time the flawless sixth-floor “Plaza de Armas” Restaurant. The view is the best in the city. Across the Bahia de la Habana entry to the city’s large bay, lie massive twin forts built by the Spanish to keep privateers and foreign navies from invading their shores and capturing treasure ships bound for Spain. Both are included in the Habana Viejo (old Havana) Unesco World Heritage Site.
The Castillo de los Tres Santos Reyes Magnos del Morro was built at the direct harbor mouth between 1589 and 1630. With deep moats, three meter-thick walls, and a polygonal shape, it is a classic example of Military Renaissance construction. For 100 years, the forth withstood many attempts by pirates and foreign navies to take her by force. But the British – as was their hobby – finally took the fort by siege after a 44-day siege with a 14,000man force in 1762. Their subterfuge was to attack from the landward side. The castle’s famous lighthouse was added in 1844.
Immediately after the departure of the British, the neighboring Citadel of Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabana was constructed, and completed in 1774 on the ridge which the British had taken advantage of to subdue The Castillo do los Tres Santos. At over 700 meters in length and covering a whopping 10 hectares, the fort is the largest ever constructed by the Spanish in the New World.
My seafood lunch is, once again, absolutely delicious. Cuban food is remarkable not in its variety – there is little of that – but in the variety of ways the same meal can be cooked. I think the secret is in the sauces. The basic dishes are rich, warm, spicy and yet not too much so, generous in the portions, and always it seems accompanied by a generous portion of side dishes including variations on the proverbial rice and beans and house salad.
After lunch, I chase money once again. And I finally learn the whole picture. I am an American. We are culturally and etc at war with Cuba. At least our governments are. So our credit cards and debit cards don’t work here. At all. Not even traveler’s checks in most places. The guidebooks don’t tell you that. If you are an American, only cash will speak. And best if it is not dollars. Then it gets converted to CUCs at a 13% minimum commission rate. A Canadian or European issued credit card will also work.
Accessing the internet via paid card an hour later at the richly appointed Hotel Central, I find myself in good company. At least half a dozen of us are momentarily stranded, wondering “What The Hell Do We Do Now?” And we can’t go to the US Embassy. That is truly for dire emergencies only. Your passport will get lifted immediately upon visiting that court of last resort. So, for the first time in my life, I had to write (thank God for the internet) my sons back in Seattle and ask them for money. It is an ironic turn. Perhaps it is payback for putting them through a collective eight years of private college and an excellent, Critical Path Jesuit Education at Gonzaga University.
My message is fairly terse: Please get over to Western Union immediately and transfer money to an office in Central Havana. Luckily, they are not like me. They do not hold me hostage and negotiate extortion level daily interest rates. Both Larry & Sean are of the new generation, attuned and wired in at all times. Their response is immediate, and generous. “Now, about that trip you were going to take to Africa, Dad … you think the three of us can make it to that Game Reserve in Kenya? I hear your credit cards have lots of room on them now.”
Christmas Eve Dinner on my first full night in Havana is with Alberto and his family. It was exquisite. I am startled. Was frankly expecting a modest affair, rich with trapping and ceremony but short on calories. Oh no! We start with hors ‘d oeuvres. Then beer. Then potatoes, the usual rice but with a killer black bean and lentil based sauce over the top. Then chicken and pork. The Cubans really have the manual on pork, in the same way the Portugese make the finest chicken and the Spaniards the finest ham (or jamon). White wine, red wine, salad, and more beer punctuate the meal. I am full halfway through. They try to force feed me. I politely decline.
My intention is to wait out the arrival of Christmas writing in my room. But Anetta wants to return to the Hotel Ambos Mundos for a late drink. It is perhaps 10 PM. I am shocked to find how many people are still wandering the streets and squares nearby, on Christmas Eve. Recognizing me/us from earlier in the day, the staff has a special air of friendliness. Have to say, they genuinely appear to love Americans. We are very well treated here. Whether it is because we have more money than the locals, tip well, or are a rarity, I can not give the real reason for this hospitality. But it is genuine.
Which begs the contemplation: 50 years after the Cuban Revolution and the expropriation of American property by Fidel Castro and his henchmen, why do we still not recognize Cuba? This economic embargo we have against them makes absolutely no sense at all. We do business with 1.3 billion Chinese and their particular brand of communism and government is much more restrictive! Nobody can offer a reasonable explanation of why this dinosaur of a policy remains, except for the existence of some rabid right-wing Cuban expatriates in Florida who will not allow normalization come hell or high water. This from a slightly right-leaning but truly independent voter from Seattle. Who is also rabid …
Upon preparing to leave, the security guard – again adorned in a uniform worthy of an Ambassador to the Court of St. James – ushers me aside. “Cigars?” he asks. “I can get you a very good price. Five Cohibas for $15 CUC.” Having been to the bank in the afternoon and converted my last $200 dollars to CUC, I want to preserve what I can. “No thanks,” I respond. “Perhaps manana.”
Anetta wishes to listen to music. I reluctantly agree to join in, only because I want to see what Havana still has to offer at this late hour on a holiday. We are directed to La Casa de La Musica Del Mar, one township to the west in Vedado. It is a slightly taller, more modern quarter of Havana. The taxi ride takes perhaps 20 minutes, and costs about $11 CUC. We arrive early, to find the place not yet open. We are rather forcefully directed around the corner for drinks to await the band. I resist. These Cubans, they love cutting you from the herd when they smell a turista.
A quick look around reveals this to be a mover’s paradise. Well dressed music afficianados and professional lounge lizards proliferate nearby. Local women–of-the-night approach from taxis, and stay on the periphery of the property, just beyond the range of primary lighting. They make their intentions very plain. They are well dressed, but not subtle. Constant approaches are made for cigars, taxis, and female company. Trouble begins when the bill is paid for a couple of mojitos. Anetta pays in Euros. Change is given. Or is it? Or have they kept the surplus to pay the cover charge? We are told we have paid our cover charge, but then at the door denied entry.
I complain to the security man and ask for someone who can speak English – even a little. We return to the bartender to straighten the situation out. After much tortured discussion lasting 20 minutes, I learn Anetta’s 20 Euro note is not acceptable in payment. The bar doesn’t want the conversion bother. She has already been paid change, and the bar wants both payment for the drinks and her change back. She throws up her hands, and walks away – just like earlier in the day when I encountered Mama and her photo op child trying to wheedle milk money out of me. I am left to solve the problem myself, and pay the 20 CUC back to the bar.
Somehow Anetta has already slipped the 20 Euro note back into her purse. I am thus left without leverage, and a rapidly diminishing supply of already limited cash. Only laughter serves once again. I learned you get what you are supposed to get on these ventures. When I round the corner, the security guard tells me she has already departed via taxi. My own cab ride home taxes me further. No, it is not a wasted night. Just another rich experience by a Stranger in A Strange Land …
Upon landing, my first stop is the information booth after baggage claim. I know my preference is to stay at a Casa Particular – the string of private homes the Cuban government allows to be rented out to foreigners particularly, in return for half the cash – that are really the best option if one wants a full Cuban experience. The tender there made nearly ten calls for me, largely from a guide section found in Lonely Planet (but also from his own black book of locations). The prices are generally $20 to $40 nightly. This is more than I am used to paying say for South America, but a reasonable fee in these parts.
While negotiating, a confused gay Danish woman comes up to listen in. I seem to know what I am doing, and she gradually latches on. “Ask them while you are calling if they have two rooms available,” she says in decent English. Most places are full. Cuba is popular just now, given its perfect winter weather. After half an hour of patient inquiries, a place is secured with THE host supposedly being one of Havana’s leading actresses. I am careful to specify that passable English must be spoken at this location, and that they have access to the internet or Wi-Fi.
Having secured two rooms for two nights, we retire to the airport bar to celebrate our accomplishment. Anetta and I introduce ourselves and sip two excellent local beers, Cristal. It reminds me of Heinekin. She is from Copenhagen, and returning to Cuba after a 14 year absence. I run upstairs to the cash machine, to find none of them work for me in Cuba, either. A temporary setback, I assume. Surely the National Hotel in Havana or one of the many cambia houses will serve out the necessary CUC or Cuban convertibles that tourists use for currency here. After all, Rene (the airport magician who so cleverly escorted me through all the ticketing steps in Cancun), said this would be so (between furtive looks at his watch and rapid, behind the back gestures to his assistants).
Anetta and I share a cab. The cost is $20 CUC into the city. The first thing you notice going into Havana from Jose Marti International Airport 25 kilometers away is la brisa – the air. At this time of year, it is perfect. The next is the lack of traffic. No jams or congestion. The ride is smooth all the way. The next is how wonderfully decrepit Havana is. It is old and new and busy and quiet all at once, and all things confounding. It is nothing if not a bizarre series of contrasts. I fall in love with the place immediately.
We arrive at the home of Sr. Alberto Ruiz Jiminez. A grizzled fellow who looks like a retired Marine drill instructor. Apparently not the house of a famous actress. How could the phone wires have been switched? There is no internet. He doesn’t speak English. What English is useful, is learned from me as we proceed along slowly in my passable Spanish. Conditions are negotiated one word or short phrase at a time. I chuckle to myself once again. Predictable. Right on target. Par for the course.
I am on the third floor (which the Cubans call the second). My room is colonial style, with large louvered shutter enclosures. The room empties to a central catwalk which in turn looks over a large atrium four stories high. It is mindful of what I have seen of New Orleans, except with much more clutter and disarray. The interior ceilings are about 11 to 12 feet. It is clean and colorful, if a little worn about the edges. And I have my own bathroom. A clean one. Halfway modern. Dinner is taken after a short gander, five blocks down the street. On the corner of Aguila street and Havana’s famous coastal drive and walkway, The Malecon.
I order the grilled fish plate, for ten CUC. The food is remarkable. Tender, flavorful, adorned with a local butter-based sauce, accompanied by salad, and some of the best rice I have ever tasted. Along with the Cuban national drink, The Mojito. Rum, crushed mint, and sugar. Having had dozens of these treats, I note it doesn’t taste any different or better here. Breakfast (desayuno) is not the usual continental affair, but eggs cooked over hard, puerco (pork), rolls with cinnamon flavored marmalade, coffee, grapefruit juice, tomatoes, and fruit. Anetta offers up a treat of her own, a bit of imported Danish aquavit liquor mixed in with honey. It is delightful.
Even this early. An hour later -- Christmas Eve day -- the two of us decide to explore a bit together and hit the streets with no particular objective in mind. At least, I had none. She however is dead set on visiting the writing room of Ernest Hemingway on the 5th floor of the Hotel Ambos Mundos. I agree, but only after getting a sense of the streets. No taxi. We will walk. We start crisscrossing through Havana Central, and encounter a flea market. I have only Yankee dollars and keep to myself. Anetta buys the nearly mandatory Che Guevara revolutionary beret, named after the Argentine doctor who helped Fidel Castro run the military portion of the Cuban revolution nearly 53 years previous.
A woman comes up to me with her small child. She raises him up to kiss me. I stand still momentarily for what seems like a photo op. But there is no camera. Then the broken language pleading begins in earnest. “Please, Senor, I don’t want money. I just want milk for my baby.” I agree. What harm can this cause, or what dent can it possibly put in my wallet? She has me lift the child, and we amble what I thought would be about fifty feet. But no, Mama turns the corner. I nearly lose her. We begin to get separated by crowds. Anetta pauses, gestures at me as if I am a lunatic, and indicates she is going straight to Ambos Mundos. No explanation, just a signoff. I barely catch up to Mama.
She has stopped in at a government run food store, and slapped down four large bags of milk for her child. She strokes my hand and tells me how grateful she is. Her demonstration and gratitude draws a crowd. I am trying to put the child down, but she won’t let me. I ask the clerk what the cost of the goods are? Thirty CUC, I am told. I indicate no, and ask what the cost of one bag or possibly two would be, assuming there might be a quantity discount with volume. It doesn’t matter. I have greenbacks only, which are not accepted here (openly at least), and the store won’t take my credit cards. Neither will the cambio office across the street.
I am forced to take my leave, with the woman wailing and putting on as if I have left her at the altar. There is little I can do. Working my way to Ambos Mundos is a thrilling experience. I take the cross cutting Obispo Calle, which is open to pedestrians only. Many inquiries have to be made along the way for course correction. I am roughly navigating the center of Old Havana, with its remodeled Colonial style hotels anchoring the corners of public squares, seemingly out of place amongst all the decay one sees as the norm here.
I see street hustlers, women offering “companionship,” throngs playfully just walking – the poverty here ensures they have nothing else to do – tourists confused as to their next destination, well-dressed gentlemen ushering the landed gentry into hotel lobbies, and a constant procession of characters speaking with hand cupped over mouth offering me either private taxis or cigars.
Tourists taking a break line numerous shaded sidewalk cafes. The heat is moderate, but sweating continuous. The pulse of the street along Obispo Calle is infectious. Music from numerous sidewalk or café quartets first beckons and then blasts about every 50 yards or so. La Gente (the people) don’t just walk. They glide. They skip. They strut, if well dressed. They pulsate to the music, and some unseen driver moving them in mysterious ways. They bob heads, and chat excitedly. They sing to themselves, and each other. Always. This is La Vida – “The Life.” It is a force of nature here. You can’t avoid it, and it thankfully never leaves. If you are breathing and can fog a mirror still, this Life Force invests in you very quickly.
The animated local pedestrians playfully veer at you so you have to change course. With a smile, of course. Women particularly, make intense and sustained eye contact from a fair distance away. One never knows if they are offering services, are curious, or just have La Vida in them. One of them gives me a fetching look and then deliberately shoves her girlfriend into me. She laughs at the collision. Free entertainment for them. And no wonder. The average salary here in Cuba is between $8 and $32 CUC per month (even for doctors). A CUC is worth about 96 US cents, currently. I am sport for them. Yet don’t mind at all though.
Once at Ambos Mundos – a beautifully restored rust colored six story hotel with a delightful full-floor bar in the lobby – I proceed straight to Hemingway’s apartment on the 5th floor. No Anetta. No worries. Rudeness should not be immediately rewarded. But once again, my credit and debit cards won’t allow entry. I am advised by the very helpful and agreeable multi-lingual guide/attendant to go to a cambio house and exchange my greenbacks for CUC. Which I do. For about $45 CUC. Giving me a very limited budget. Most of my cash resrves planned for Cuba, went into the plane ticket on Air Cubana.
Back at Papa’s writing loft, Francesca the guide is pleased to see me again. She gladly explains that most of the exhibits here are taken from Hemingway’s Hotel, about 21 kilometers away, and this month’s exhibit has to do largely with the Pulitzer Prize winning author of “The Old Man and The Sea” and his drinking. There are recipes for his favorites in print throughout the one-room stage. Along with copies of his books in different languages. Such as “The Sun Also Rises,” and “For Whom The Bell Tolls,” and “Islands in The Stream” and “To Have and To Have Not.”
The room is Spartan. There is not even a bathroom present. That is down the hall. Just shuttered windows, a small bed, a writing stand, and numerous bookshelves. He utilized the location for its view. Due to injuries received near World War 1, Hemingway had severe back problems, and was forced to write standing up. There is abundant evidence of his hard drinking in photos on all the walls of Papa with celebrities from all over the world. And his four ex wives.
I am directed to two of Hemingway’s favorite bars, the nearby Paris Café, and The Floridita (his favorite). Along the way, I run into Anetta again. She decides to buy me lunch, to make up for her sudden departure near the flea market. We retreat once again to Ambos Mundos, but this time the flawless sixth-floor “Plaza de Armas” Restaurant. The view is the best in the city. Across the Bahia de la Habana entry to the city’s large bay, lie massive twin forts built by the Spanish to keep privateers and foreign navies from invading their shores and capturing treasure ships bound for Spain. Both are included in the Habana Viejo (old Havana) Unesco World Heritage Site.
The Castillo de los Tres Santos Reyes Magnos del Morro was built at the direct harbor mouth between 1589 and 1630. With deep moats, three meter-thick walls, and a polygonal shape, it is a classic example of Military Renaissance construction. For 100 years, the forth withstood many attempts by pirates and foreign navies to take her by force. But the British – as was their hobby – finally took the fort by siege after a 44-day siege with a 14,000man force in 1762. Their subterfuge was to attack from the landward side. The castle’s famous lighthouse was added in 1844.
Immediately after the departure of the British, the neighboring Citadel of Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabana was constructed, and completed in 1774 on the ridge which the British had taken advantage of to subdue The Castillo do los Tres Santos. At over 700 meters in length and covering a whopping 10 hectares, the fort is the largest ever constructed by the Spanish in the New World.
My seafood lunch is, once again, absolutely delicious. Cuban food is remarkable not in its variety – there is little of that – but in the variety of ways the same meal can be cooked. I think the secret is in the sauces. The basic dishes are rich, warm, spicy and yet not too much so, generous in the portions, and always it seems accompanied by a generous portion of side dishes including variations on the proverbial rice and beans and house salad.
After lunch, I chase money once again. And I finally learn the whole picture. I am an American. We are culturally and etc at war with Cuba. At least our governments are. So our credit cards and debit cards don’t work here. At all. Not even traveler’s checks in most places. The guidebooks don’t tell you that. If you are an American, only cash will speak. And best if it is not dollars. Then it gets converted to CUCs at a 13% minimum commission rate. A Canadian or European issued credit card will also work.
Accessing the internet via paid card an hour later at the richly appointed Hotel Central, I find myself in good company. At least half a dozen of us are momentarily stranded, wondering “What The Hell Do We Do Now?” And we can’t go to the US Embassy. That is truly for dire emergencies only. Your passport will get lifted immediately upon visiting that court of last resort. So, for the first time in my life, I had to write (thank God for the internet) my sons back in Seattle and ask them for money. It is an ironic turn. Perhaps it is payback for putting them through a collective eight years of private college and an excellent, Critical Path Jesuit Education at Gonzaga University.
My message is fairly terse: Please get over to Western Union immediately and transfer money to an office in Central Havana. Luckily, they are not like me. They do not hold me hostage and negotiate extortion level daily interest rates. Both Larry & Sean are of the new generation, attuned and wired in at all times. Their response is immediate, and generous. “Now, about that trip you were going to take to Africa, Dad … you think the three of us can make it to that Game Reserve in Kenya? I hear your credit cards have lots of room on them now.”
Christmas Eve Dinner on my first full night in Havana is with Alberto and his family. It was exquisite. I am startled. Was frankly expecting a modest affair, rich with trapping and ceremony but short on calories. Oh no! We start with hors ‘d oeuvres. Then beer. Then potatoes, the usual rice but with a killer black bean and lentil based sauce over the top. Then chicken and pork. The Cubans really have the manual on pork, in the same way the Portugese make the finest chicken and the Spaniards the finest ham (or jamon). White wine, red wine, salad, and more beer punctuate the meal. I am full halfway through. They try to force feed me. I politely decline.
My intention is to wait out the arrival of Christmas writing in my room. But Anetta wants to return to the Hotel Ambos Mundos for a late drink. It is perhaps 10 PM. I am shocked to find how many people are still wandering the streets and squares nearby, on Christmas Eve. Recognizing me/us from earlier in the day, the staff has a special air of friendliness. Have to say, they genuinely appear to love Americans. We are very well treated here. Whether it is because we have more money than the locals, tip well, or are a rarity, I can not give the real reason for this hospitality. But it is genuine.
Which begs the contemplation: 50 years after the Cuban Revolution and the expropriation of American property by Fidel Castro and his henchmen, why do we still not recognize Cuba? This economic embargo we have against them makes absolutely no sense at all. We do business with 1.3 billion Chinese and their particular brand of communism and government is much more restrictive! Nobody can offer a reasonable explanation of why this dinosaur of a policy remains, except for the existence of some rabid right-wing Cuban expatriates in Florida who will not allow normalization come hell or high water. This from a slightly right-leaning but truly independent voter from Seattle. Who is also rabid …
Upon preparing to leave, the security guard – again adorned in a uniform worthy of an Ambassador to the Court of St. James – ushers me aside. “Cigars?” he asks. “I can get you a very good price. Five Cohibas for $15 CUC.” Having been to the bank in the afternoon and converted my last $200 dollars to CUC, I want to preserve what I can. “No thanks,” I respond. “Perhaps manana.”
Anetta wishes to listen to music. I reluctantly agree to join in, only because I want to see what Havana still has to offer at this late hour on a holiday. We are directed to La Casa de La Musica Del Mar, one township to the west in Vedado. It is a slightly taller, more modern quarter of Havana. The taxi ride takes perhaps 20 minutes, and costs about $11 CUC. We arrive early, to find the place not yet open. We are rather forcefully directed around the corner for drinks to await the band. I resist. These Cubans, they love cutting you from the herd when they smell a turista.
A quick look around reveals this to be a mover’s paradise. Well dressed music afficianados and professional lounge lizards proliferate nearby. Local women–of-the-night approach from taxis, and stay on the periphery of the property, just beyond the range of primary lighting. They make their intentions very plain. They are well dressed, but not subtle. Constant approaches are made for cigars, taxis, and female company. Trouble begins when the bill is paid for a couple of mojitos. Anetta pays in Euros. Change is given. Or is it? Or have they kept the surplus to pay the cover charge? We are told we have paid our cover charge, but then at the door denied entry.
I complain to the security man and ask for someone who can speak English – even a little. We return to the bartender to straighten the situation out. After much tortured discussion lasting 20 minutes, I learn Anetta’s 20 Euro note is not acceptable in payment. The bar doesn’t want the conversion bother. She has already been paid change, and the bar wants both payment for the drinks and her change back. She throws up her hands, and walks away – just like earlier in the day when I encountered Mama and her photo op child trying to wheedle milk money out of me. I am left to solve the problem myself, and pay the 20 CUC back to the bar.
Somehow Anetta has already slipped the 20 Euro note back into her purse. I am thus left without leverage, and a rapidly diminishing supply of already limited cash. Only laughter serves once again. I learned you get what you are supposed to get on these ventures. When I round the corner, the security guard tells me she has already departed via taxi. My own cab ride home taxes me further. No, it is not a wasted night. Just another rich experience by a Stranger in A Strange Land …
Larry, great description of the promised accomodations (English spoken, Internet availability - NOT) vs. reality at the home of the 'famous actress'. Quite the story with your 'milk run' and 'leaving poor Mama at the altar' - perhaps SHE was the actress referred to? Quite the repeated 'cat and mouse' with the daffy Dane, too - nothing like Charlotte and Jon who adopted you so warmly in Buenos Aires?
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