Why am I reading dreaming in hindi while my son, Xander and are in Havana? Why not Hemingway? Why not Telex from Cuba? So every now and then, here in Cuba, I've felt like I am in India. Driving 2 1/2 hours west of Havana to Vinales* in the country-side, there are Brahman cattle in the pastures-the same humped-backed oatmeal-colored cattle that wander the streets of Mumbai. Across the street from our flat (thank you Airbnb), in La Habana Vieja (Old Havana) is a yellow house that could be transported from Kolkata. I remind myself I'm in Cuba, a Spanish-speaking country in the Caribbean only 228 miles and a half a century from the United States. Sin embargo, (nevertheless--my favorite Spanish word in the world) it is exotic and special. Along with India, it's a little of the Dominican Republic where I spent years of my life on layovers with American Airlines. Even a flair of New Orleans is present with the small, wrought-iron Juliette balconies dotting the second, third and fourth floors of the apartment buildings.
The buildings, in their past beauty, must have been breathtaking-sweeping staircases, echo-inducing, high, domed-ceilings. In their present decrepit state of crumbling stone, peeling paint, and occasional odor of propane gas, a different ethereal beauty emerges. It's a beauty where I long for a past that I never experienced. I yearn to be transported to the glitz and glamour days when the rich, creative, and powerful made Havana a stop on the circuit, the place to see and be seen. Would I be in awe if I walked into the El Floridita where Hemingway hung out or would I saddened at his state of drunkenness?
To add to that yearning of bygone days are the cars. You know what I mean. The 1948 Packards. The 1959 Chevys. The two-toned convertibles with fins. Our taxi to Vinales was a 1951 Ford. I sat in the back seat with my legs splayed out and my fingers interlaced behind my head. A spring occasionally kicked my butt when Josue, our driver, was unable to avoid pot holes. I felt like I was in my Grandpa's 1951 Ford pick-up that he'd pick me up in every day after kindergarten. I cranked down my windows to hasten the fresh air inside. For safety, I sat in the middle in case the 65-year-old locking mechanism keeping the doors shut, decided to call it a day. The freedom of no seatbelts, no dials to adjust the temperature perfectly, no radio to fumble with was intoxicating. Even if there were a radio, the loudly "purring" engine and whipping wind satisfied my need for audio stimulation.
I let my 6'2" son sit in front with Josue to practice the Spanish he'd been studying since kindergarten. The busy Havana streets were replaced with Brahman cattle and goats dotting the rolling, red-soiled hills. Peddlers were selling their goods of roasted chickens and fat, raw onions The modern highway colluded with horse and oxen drawn carts, motorcycles with side cars, the classic Buicks, Fords, Chevys and French Peugeots. One heart-stopping event happened when we turned to drive north for several miles on a small, more intimate road-one meant only for a horse and cart carrying hay from the field to the barn. Now our 1951 1.5 ton Ford is negotiating this lane as another similar vehicle is doing the same, coming in the opposite direction.
But first, let's get back to the quaint streets of Old Havana where pedestrians flatten themselves against the buildings to allow cars and trucks to squeeze past. Our quaint flat on Compostela street was very adequate, which is all one needs right? Xander did make the mistake of showering one morning. Alas, no hot water, regardless of what our host, Yurian, had said. I waited until evening to take mine. Yurian had not lied. The water dotting my skin was indeed, adequately warm.
The day of our arrival, Yurian met us outside the flat and quickly carried my one piece of luggage up two flights of stairs. Xander trudged behind us with his. Machismo (and age) take turns as to whom it benefits. To welcome us was his brother, his girlfriend, and his father. After some pleasant exchanges in Spanish, the men lit their cigarettes, after offering us one, and turned on the small tv to watch soccer. I wondered if we were going to reside with our host and his family in the 700 square foot flat with a full and twin bed and sofa in one room and a small sofa in the living room/dining room area. The magnet-decorated fridge was prominently angled in the corner. The men were enjoying their smoke and game when Yurian propped our door open to get a beautiful cross breeze flowing through the rooms.
Another neighbor opened her door. Oh, La Abuela, I thought. No, she wasn't Yurian's grandmother. However, they treated her as one. After introductions, she and I took a quick turn sashaying around her living room to the beat on her radio as Yurain told me she was 101! She could have taught me a few dance moves. Though she was spry, I wondered how often she negotiated the steep, winding stairs to the street. After a little more visiting and a display of fine cigars Papa had for sale, our host and his family did leave and went their way and we went ours.
Ours was to lunch on a rooftop café that Yurian recommended. I sipped my mojito and looked around our setting. Xander and I nodded and both smiled at our good fortune of being in Havana, eating our ropa vieja, (a delicious beef dish, though the literal translation is old cloth) and listening to a couple of local musicians. We learned that live music was as typical as an old man smoking a cigar on the street corner. If your home is across the street from these rooftop cafes, well, you get a free concert every night.
As we meandered around the cobble-stoned street, a way of life was revealed. People live openly, literally. The apartments on the ground often had their front door open to catch the seductive breeze from the ocean. Each door way was cine'ma ve'rite'---life in raw reality. Cats, dogs, birds, TV, laughter, young, old pregnant, shouts, music--all emanated from these open, yet private spaces. Nosy Nancy, Gloria Gogs-Too-Much, and Polly Peers-A-Lot were just a few nicknames Xander bestowed upon me because my headed swiveled uncontrollably, left to right and left once again.
I even found it difficult to relax on our tiny Juliette balcony. I constantly jumped up to see if a 1945 Packard was squeezing its way down our narrow street or decipher a pig's squeal from a child's screech. For those of a certain age, you could call me Mrs. Kravits.
Our first morning, Yurian (not just host, but tour guide and cook as well) came to prepare breakfast. I had requested 8 am. He told Xander that was too early. He arrived by 9. His coffee was exquisite so all was forgiven. I asked about his thoughts on Fidel who had recently died. The older set, like his father, remembers the better days. Where as the younger group, (he is 37) not so much. Obama had been there recently and wooed the crowds-along with Michelle and the girls. He doesn't like Trump, but didn't dwell on it. Unlike an Austrian woman we spoke with. Not only did she dis on Trump, but our Electoral College system as well. At least, she was informed.
With Yurian, we also meandered around the serpent-like streets, but this time with a purpose and explanations! One highlight was the Museo de la Revolucio'n. Prominently displayed were four nearly life-sized cutouts of four well-known politicians, President Batista and three US presidents. Two of them are related and I'll let you guess the remaining one. The display was entitled Rinco'n de los Cretinos (corner of the cretins).
What is Cuba without cigars? Josue, our driver to Vinales, drove to a UNESCO cigar farm--no chemicals or nicotine in the cigars! After a spirited explanation from an employee of the farm to Xander, a French woman, an Argentinian and myself about cigar growing, drying, aging and rolling, we then lit up. He rolled, cut, then dipped our cigars in honey--just as Che Guevara and Fidel used to, he assured us. Xander and I walked around on our own to the fields and drying barns.
Josue took us to a couple of sights that weren't on our radar. We visited Cueva del Indio (Cave of the Indians) and Mural de la Prehistoria conceived in 1959. A Cuban artist, a student of Diego Rivera, was commissioned for the job. One of the largest in the world, painted on a mountainside, displaying the story of evolution and reflecting bones that were found in the area.
Unlike the drive to Vinales that felt leisurely, Josue seemed to be putting pedal to the metal on the return. No more onion and roasted chicken peddlers on the roadside to distract us. Although, the horse-drawn carts seemed to be in abundance. With dusk descending on the rolling hills and highway, I thought the cart drivers were rushing to get home before dark. But it didn't feel like that when I watched their smiling faces and saw the spirited horses. In fact, it seemed like the darker it got, the more horses were on the highway. We came upon two horse-drawn carts riding next to each other trotting down the highway. Instead of one pulling behind the other, they split. One moved slightly to the left, the other, slightly to the right. As our Ford shot through the gap, I closed my eyes. But then, I thought, "If I'm going to buy the farm in Cuba, I want to see it happen." The twilight horse-cart riding felt like a dare-devilish activity for the locals to discuss over rum and cigars late into the night.
I also felt like a dare devil since Josue hadn't turned our headlights on yet. Finally though, we pulled over and he opened the hood of the car. My son turned and looked at me and said, "We've had a good run, haven't we Mom?" Or maybe that was his remark when the police pulled us over to the side of the road ten miles later to check Josue's paperwork.
Josue jumped back into the car, assuring us he twisted some wires and now the headlights were working.
I was a little thankful to see the lights of Havana getting closer, but it did mean our short time in Cuba was over. I told Xander I didn't plan on returning. Some places I want to preserve in my mind as I first embraced them. Cuba is on that list.
*Vinales should have a tilde over the "n". I clearly had challenges getting it there. Apologies!
