A ROAD ANGEL APPEARS, AND THEN ...
I HIT THE DAILY DOUBLE


Internet minutes are more expensive than steak here. You can’t go to an internet café and just surf. No such thing. You go to a hotel, which has Wi-Fi. And sometimes only e-mail access. Thus the Central Hotel has become my unofficial headquarters. Just like on the Polar Star voyage last year, and the Hotel Chichen Itza about a week ago, the locals begin to learn about The Emperor Penguin and generally avoid sitting in a certain chair proximate to the charging outlet.

Virtually all morning is spent checking the internet for signs of Western Union money from home. Both sons seem to be working hard at it. Given the three hour time difference, I have to wait until noon in Havana to let things begin to happen by 9 AM in Seattle. I also go to the International Finance Center, which is rumored to cash American Traveler’s checks, and to a place called Asistur. No luck. Neither can help. Back to the hotel. Checking e-mail every hour on the half hour. Finally, I know I am running out of time for businesses to be open here. Bold moves must be made. The internet minutes spin by like the electric meter on Times Square.

For several hours, I have been getting quiet assistance and encouragement from an unassuming French Graduate student sitting across from me. Salome Roth is studying the alliteration of African slave music and drama into modern theatre performance. She watches me come and go numerous times and by 3:30 PM knows my full story. I ask her if anything can be done through France, for example? I float every idea that can be explained between us (given our language differences) that clearly won’t be dead on arrival. She offers many helpful suggestions.

Just as I am getting ready to leave, she offers to get me enough money to pay my Casa Particular bill, Cuba Exit tax, change fee for an early departing flight, and taxi to the airport from her European credit card. She is allowed a withdrawal of $400 CUC weekly. $320 of it is offered to me. I am stunned, frankly. This gesture is so incredibly trusting, and she has no collateral to ensure repayment. We try to make an immediate transfer using my Wells Fargo bank account online, but because the programming recognizes we are in Cuba, it won’t allow this without special coding being sent to my phone and then entered back into the bank transfer mechanism … and my phone won’t work in Cuba.

I am (beyond being dumbstruck at this piece of luck and extreme trust and generosity) also saddened. I had cut my visitation list down for Cuba mightily, to include just Havana and Vialles de Vinales – The “Cuban Yosemite.” The American version being my favorite place in the whole world since I was an ankle-biting rug rat. I can now afford to get out at least. Fidel won’t be having me as a guest of the Revolucion or working on a chain gang to pay off my hotel bill.

So I accompany Salome to the cash machine, and then to a friend’s house to see about less expensive housing for the night … and to see a different part of the city. Again, in a recurring theme, the greatest of hospitality is extended to me in Havana at all times. Many would dearly love to host me and as is the custom, “practice their English.” But doing so is risky. They are afraid of doing anything that is not official and transparent to the Cuban government.

Being caught with a foreign guest that is not registered is a heady offense leading to stiff penalties, including loss of your Casa Particular license. My four “Wharf Rats” from the previous night have confirmed the same thing for other offenses. They say if you assault a tourist, you can get 25 years in prison. That makes Cuba relatively safe, beyond very petty crimes like pickpocketing.

Salome and I repair to a local sandwich shop for dinner, where large Cuban sandwiches for locals are prepared for minimal pricing. These delectables are both large and delicious, particularly the island specialty – Pork. They are accompanied by chips sliced from a cousin of the potato whose name I did not catch – and a small glass of either orange or grapefruit juice, all for less than $1.50 CUC. That’s pronounced “Kook” locally (and no, no reference intended to the Daffy Dane from my first two nights in Havana).

Salome and I part about 6 PM, after paying my obligations with Ody back at Sr. Alberto’s Casa Particular. This includes the present evening – my fifth. I am left with just enough cash plus $30 CUC to get out of Cuba. We don’t say much. I feel particularly obligated and impelled to make a lengthy speech. She has duties to attend to, and shortens my ministrations. So much trust! Where is something like that nurtured? She has my Wells Fargo check, and promise to transfer money to her e-mail address via Wells Fargo to cover my $320 CUC debt as timelier recompense if it can work as soon as I get to Mexico or Belize.

I can not thank The One God nor the karma gods nor “giving it up to the universe” enough for the presence of this quiet and incredibly generous woman in my life this day. I have a feeling we will meet again, though for what purpose – other than to express gratitude and return a gigantic slice of grace – I can not determine. Salome has been an absolute Godsend. I wish I’d had the opportunity to get to know her better. Things would seem so much more balanced this way.

So, on my last night in Cuba, I begin meandering once again in earnest. First to the nearby Capitol area. The Cuban Capitol building is quite similar in design and appearance to the US Capitol in Washington, D.C. It is in fact, slightly larger I believe, equally attractive, and more ornamental. But more closed in by nearby edifices. Which are stunning in themselves. None of the bombed out, circa Dresden in World War II look that occurs in some Havana neighborhoods.

Among the buildings salivated over in this portion of Central Havana close to the Capitol are the Payret Theatre, The gorgeous Hotel Inglaterra, and the Fabulously Sumptious Baroque Gran Teatro De Habana. I only wish I’d been there during the day to photograph this stunning gem. Ironically, it is only five blocks from my Casa Particular. It has been necessary to travel other directions previously, however. Jose Marti Square, named after the Cuban poet and original Cuban revolutionary, is nearby and very attractive at night with generous lighting, multiple fountains, and numerous clean marble benches for relaxing.

Along my way to finally see Old Havana or Habana Viejo, I remember a modest surplus of cash in my pocket beyond what is necessary to get out of the country in the morning. It becomes an easy decision to stop in at Floridita, Hemingway’s favorite bar, and have the “Hemingway Special” – a tart blended Daiquiri without sugar. It is said that “Papa” had up to 15 of these daily in between bestsellers. A statue of him, in the corner, invites tourists from all over the world to lean in intimately and pretend for a brief moment they are marlin fishing together, or as if they are the inspiration for his terse but colorful, powerful verse. His muse as it were.

I finally round the corner in Plaza Viejo—a brilliant public square very mindful of “The Plaza de Armas” in my favorite place in South America, Cuzco (Peru). What they share in common are flawless cobblestones, no trash, coordinated whitewash and color schemes, excellent lighting (not all lights are on in Cuba at all times), an attractive variety of shops, and friendly locals. One of them hails me as I walk past. It is Manuel, a security guard at the Hotel Central – and now a familiar figure. “Lorenzo!” he beams. It is nice to be remembered. Perhaps even to stand out.

We talk for 15 minutes, he directs me across the square to a local brewery (“La Casa de Cerveza”), but I have miles to go before I sleep. This is my last night here. I still have much ground to cover to say I have done Havana justice. So I continue north toward Ambos Mundos and the well-trod Obispo Calle once again on the Calle Mercaderes. If there is ever a designated “must see street” in Havana, I would say it should be this one. It is lined with Colonial, Baroque, Spanish, Mission, Turkish, Moroccan, and half a dozen other architectural styles in its full six blocks. Not an ugly or disinterested building to be found on its entire length.

Among the classy gems found here are The Hostal Los Frailes, Café del Oriente, Hostal Conde de Villanueva, Macqueta del Central Historico, La Torre de Marfil, The Meson de La Flota, the Simon Bolivar Museum and of course the Ambos Mundos. Most have sumptuous décor, cushioned lounges, ample but soft mood lighting, rich leather, solid oak furniture, and wait staff or attendants dressed in crisp and clean tuxedo uniforms. This is the street I would want to take a lover to dine on in Havana.

Just before I hit Ambos Mundos again, one of my Wharf Rats (a term of endearment, believe me) from the previous night rounds the corner. He recognizes me immediately. “Yanqui!” cries out Hiram. He is slightly better dressed this night, but still easily recognizable by his trimmed sideburn mutton chops. Moments later, another member of the quartet appears, but from a different direction. Angel, this time. I offer to buy them the beer I had promised the night before, should I eventually run into some cash. We return to the square and The Casa de Cerveza. Manuel joins us. And moments later, from a still different direction, Barbaro appears. Only Juanacito is missing from the previous evening.

The lads fill me in more about their life. They are largely students, and cigar rollers. They offer me cigars if I wish at incredible prices, but without the hucksterism one usually finds on the street. I decline. Would have to smoke them here, as they can’t be carried back to the US. I am not in a smoking mood. They inform me that everybody has jobs here – official government approved jobs – but to survive, virtually everybody must have an angle, a separate “job,” their own little economic initiative that gets them access beyond local currency pesos. To CUC.

Manuel offers an example. “If you are a bartender, you cut the liquor, or the size of the drink. You make ten Daiquiris, but you serve twelve. The money from the extra two is pocketed. Or, if you work in a cigar factory, you take home two, sell them on the streets, and it becomes part of your income. Everybody knows this. Everybody looks the other way. You can’t survive without it.” This makes street annoyance when I won’t buy cigars much more understandable. They are not selling for somebody else – for “the man.” They are each extending their own private enterprise, and counting on me and so many others to eat this particular month.

After yet another photo op, beers in hand and promises kept, I continue my rounds. Manuel accompanies me. He is an interesting young man: 29, single, handsome, well-liked, fluent in Spanish of course but nearly so in Italian, French, and his English improves hourly. Friendly with everybody. An aspiring author. I still don’t know what he does though for cash. He has offered me taxi services, I have seen him as a security guard, he does some DJ work, apparently some interpreting, and perhaps even some singing. Sloth is certainly not one of his characteristics. He is a very engaging conversationalist.

He directs me past Ambos Mundos to the spacious and nearly intimidating Plaza de La Catedral. The square is full of late diners, the proverbial Cuban music from a well-dressed live musical ensemble plays on with continued gusto, and the coral brown large-block Mission architecture imposes a very commanding, almost enveloping presence despite the open lid of the surroundings. It is a brilliant place to hang for the evening. If one only had the luxury of such time.

We retreat down the narrow Calle Empedrado to another of Hemingway’s haunts, the Bodigeta de Medeo. Once again a late-night live band is packing the tourists in, with modestly priced drinks, a autograph rich plastered interior from dignitaries all over the world, intimate cubbies for dining and smoking, and a clustered “you are one of us” ambience to the place that makes you feel you belong. But I only belong for half an hour. I really belong at the Central Hotel. There is 15 minutes remaining on my internet card, just enough to see if I have any last minute reversal of fortune about being able to remain in Cuba. Manuel has occasionally spoken of his faith. I ask him to pray to the powers that be at Western Union. “Let there be a confirmation number,” I plead.

Now, I had really planned on being vague about how I got money to get out of Cuba. Or possibly continue with my journey. To leave it to your imagination as to whether I’d helped roll sailors at the docks, strapped a mattress on my back and paraded naked with a chicken feather headdress down Calle Paseo de Marti, stolen tips at a local bar, broken the strong box for candle donations at a local church, smashed a jewelry store window and hawked the goods to gullible tourists, or mystified rich widows down at some of the tonier haute coutier shops in Verdado.

There is still much incoming e-mail I’ve not been able to read, due to volume and rapid minutes usage. It takes time to scroll through it all. I am looking for an affirmation from Larry or Sean. A ten to twelve digit number that means cash, continuity, and credibility. “Give this story some legs,” I think to myself. My internet is down to three minutes. “Come on, Baby,” I chant. “Come up sixes.”

And suddenly there it is. A notice from Sean, that after trying Canada, Florida, four places in Seattle, and spending about four hours on the phone, he has finally reached somebody at Western Union who knows how to deal with Cuba. I have a confirmation number. I copy as quickly as I can. Twenty five seconds later, my internet time runs out.

An online number is not the same as cash. Any damn fool can take your credit card, give you a dummy confirmation number, and then use your private information to make bogus charges. Who knows what dubious creature Sean has reached? So the ultimate test remains for the morning. And yet, tonights’s prayer having been answered, I am now confident enough to breathe deeply, order a regular Daiquiri followed by God’s Gift to Grateful Guzzlers (The Brazilian Caipirinha) and a bowl of Cuban strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla ice cream.

If the number doesn’t actually come through as valid in the morning, whatever money I’d gone over budget tonight will just have to be begged or cadged or stolen from lepers or pinched from nuns and orphans later. Blind men with extended cups and prone maestros with open violin cases full of coin are always subject to a quick getaway. Maybe I’ll have to take up residence with the Wharf Rats for awhile. But tonight, we celebrate.

And in the morning, the number proves valid. The process takes two minutes. I have effectively won The Daily Double. Sean will start getting an allowance again, and his daily ration of sailor’s grog will be doubled. Vinales, here I come !