Category Archives: Essays/Current events

Cuba: Day Four

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Cigars stink. But not in Cuba.

I don’t know much about cigars, but I’ve puffed one or two and have been around their foul odor.

Cuban cigars are different.

After spending a morning walking the tobacco fields, meeting the farmer, holding leaves that were curing in the thatched roofed storage house, then watching the farmer’s grown son roll each of us our own cigar…

… I can say these cigars smell and taste sweet and mild.

Most of our group sat in the small hut with Clara and her son puffing away and it was not offensive as cigar rooms elsewhere. No stale, foul odor.

Clara was puffing away on her own cigar when we arrived. I told her, “El nombre de mi abuela es Clara.”

She grinned, nodded and took me under her tutelage showing me how to hold the cigar and puff “just so.”

The family spends nine months harvesting their fields and receive the equivalent of 1,000 CUCs for their labor. “That’s the same cost as 1,000 beers,” says this morning’s guide.

We all stand still looking at our cigars and each other. Work for nine months for the price of 1,000 beers.

Most of us decided to buy as many cigars as allowable from Clara and her family.

The morning walk around the tobacco farm in the heat and humidity was tiring so we  adjourned to our private casas after lunch for siestas during the afternoon rain.

Dinner was on top of another hill with a vista view of the mountains and sunset.  Our tables and chairs sat on a  platform balcony leaning over the cliff.  The kitchen of this small, family-owned paladares was “out back” with the cats, chickens, turkeys, pigs and other farm animals.

The open fire grill was so hot that none  of us could stand within five feet of it.  Our chef just shrugged and prepared another delicious meal (of the same, in-season and only food available meal)

Our group was very compatible and our conversations covered politics, dating, parenting, travel…Dady, our lead guide was educated and well-informed and engaged in sharing her thoughts and perspectives about her country and the world.

Having these dinners talks while on a balcony suspended over the cliff, looking across the valley toward the sun setting behind the mountains made the evening paradise.

For the second night, I thought, “I really don’t want to leave this part of Cuba.”

 

Cuba: Day Three

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Cuba

 

New York is not The City. England is not London. France is not Paris. Cuba is not Habana.

Leave the city and discover natural beauty, a slower pace and people willing to sit and talk.

Less than an hour’s drive west of Havana you are in the middle of a jungle of rolling hills and distant mountains.

There are few cars in and Habana and almost none on the highways. Cars are expensive and gas is cost prohibitive for most. People stand in the shade under overpasses holding out money or bananas or mangoes in exchange for a lift. Now and then you see a horse drawn cart.

We spent most of the day in the Sierra del Rosario Biosphere Reserve, a UNESCO site of 12,355 acres of preserved natural beauty. Designated in 1984, it is one of six UNESCO sites on the island.

Beginning in the 1800s, coffee plantations stripped much of Cuba of its natural beauty. By 1959, only 19% of Cuba was forested. After the revolucion, the government decided to reforest the land. More than 3000 people were engaged in planting 8 million trees.

The village of Las Terrazas was established by Castro’s government as a model of socialist community and sits in the middle of this reforested paradise. Omar, our guide for this part of our day, was born and has lived in this village is entire life. As a result he can see and hear birds, animals and insects that none of us could without his careful prompting.

The village was planned by an architect and as a result the buildings have uniform white stucco walls with red tile roofs. Paths wander from building to building, the village school, houses, apartments, playgrounds, the zip line course primarily for tourists and down to the lake.

Cuban artist, Lester Campo, has his studio on the shores of the Lake. Omar was so proud to discuss this internationally successful artist and how, “though he has traveled all over the world, he always comes home to Las Terrazas.”

The artist was out of the country, but his girlfriend was in the studio and happy to sell us lithographs of his work. His originals were too expensive for our group.

The community was very quiet and a few people were seen.

My husband asked Omar if there were other such communities throughout Cuba.

“No. It’s too expensive.”

Too bad.

Lunch was the same as all meals: tomato, cucumber, cabbage, beans, rice, and your choice of pollo, cane or pork. It was a lovely lunch, however, because we ate in the shade outside beside a creek with small waterfall slides. Most of us went swimming after our meal.

We drove to Vinales late in the afternoon. Vinales is one of the most picturesque parts of Cuba. It is among the limestone pin cushion hills called mogotes. It is small community  filled with casa particulares, the equivalent of B & B’s.

I am so glad we were not there during tourist season because it is obvious this is an area that exists to serve tourists who want to see this exquisitely beautiful countryside.

We arrived at our casa just in time to sit on the veranda, sheltered from the hour-long torrential rain that marked the prelude to the hurricane season. Our hostess had fresh juice for us and we grabbed our light jackets to stay warm as temperatures quickly dropped, a welcome relief from the heat and humidity.

Dinner was the most magical dining experience I have ever had.

It was at the organic farm owned by Wilfredo Garcia Correa and his family. The farm house sat high on a hill over looking the Vinales Valley with craggy mountains seen off in the distance. Dinner was on the porch over looking the fields and valley with the sun setting off in the distance. It didn’t matter that it was the same food as all other meals.

Chickens, as always were everywhere and now we had the addition of farm kittens walking around our feet.

Not wanting the evening to end, our group declined our bus ride and, with Dady, our lead guide, we walked the two miles back to the center of the community and to our casas.

I want to stay here.

Cuba: Day Two

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Yesterday I had to pay for my second cup of coffee. So today, Shoilen, the young woman who serves us at the Casa, and I figured out I can just drink the one cup allowed each to my husband and son as part of their “free breakfast with room.”

Shoilen  is either in her late teens or early 20s and is a “maesta du salsa.”

“Ah. En el lugar al lado?” I motioned to the place next door where music blared and dancing occurred every afternoon and evening.

“No,” she motioned the other direction. “Dos bloques.”

She and I grinned like co-conspirators that we were when she poured my third cup of coffee. I slipped her 3 CUC’s as a tip. (The average Cuban salary is the equivalent of 40 CUCs per month)

 

Time to walk.

And walk.

And walk.

The group started at the Museo de la Revolucion y Memorial Granma. It is the former palace, and is elegant with marble staircases, a hall of mirrors work replicating the one in Versailles, ornate bas relief work and interiors design by Tiffany.

Rooms are dedicated to different aspects of the revolucion and contain Che’s beret, canteen and other items (how did they know they were his?). Several bloodstained uniforms and clothes from the martyrs of the Revolucion are displayed in cases.

The guide was proud to point out the more than 300 bullet holes in the Courtyard “where the last battle of the revolucion was fought.” (hmmm? yes to the bullet holes, but the last battle?)

More blood again as she pointed out the stains scattered along walls. We later concluded that it was not exactly correct as some of the stains appeared on walls that have clearly been repainted since 1959.

She tried to walk us quickly past the “Hall of Cretins,” but we were a renegade group and had to take photos of the 10 foot high cartoon characters poking fun at Batista, Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush and W.

Batista is a general’s uniform: “Thank you cretin for helped us to make the revolucion”

Reagan is in a cowboy outfit: “Thank you cretin for helped us to strengthen the revolucion”

Bush is in Caesar’s robes: “Thank you cretin for helped us to consolidate the revolucion”

W is in a Nazi helmet and holding a book upside down: “Thank you cretin for helped us to make Socialism irrevocable”

Our guide was afraid we were offended. We all thought it was funny.

It made me realize, again, how much Cuba thinks of itself in relation to the United States, even if negatively. (I don’t think most Americans even think of Cuba)

After that we walked for hours on the streets that were not wide enough for two cars much less a bus.

Walk

Water

Find shade

Stop. Listen. More history.

Please be time for lunch.

We melted into our chairs at the Art Bar surrounded by the owner’s photography. It was the first modern place we had seen in Cuba.

Yay, afterwords we were on our air-conditioned bus to visit Fusterlandia, a Tim Burton psychedelic film come alive on the streets of the Jaimanitas neighborhood.

For more than 20 years, artist José Fuster, has covered every house, roof, wall, sign and curb with brightly colored tiles into mosaics of Che, animals, people, street scenes… whatever.

His personal home feels like a Willy Wonka factory tour tile designs. (Ok, too many film references)

Supposedly all of this has helped his neighborhood become middle class as the residents sell lemonade and painted tile.

I was overwhelmed and went back to the bus.

Next up, La Floridita, for daiquiris supposedly invented there by Hemingway.

Crowded

Fun

Happy people

Live music

Hundreds and hundreds of daiquiris being served in the hour or so that we were there.

Hundreds.

The obligatory photograph with the bronze statue of Hemingway in the corner of his favorite stool.

Frozen drinks after a long hot day of walking was refreshing.

Dinner on our own that night was at Sloppy Joe’s Bar where the specialty is, yes, you guessed it sloppy Joe burgers. My husband found it and I’ve leaned over the years to let him find him “American-type” place for a meal of two.

Sloppy Joe’s is a definite throwback to the Batista era when famous Hollywood celebrities came to the island to enjoy playtime. From the photos on the walls it appears many of them visited Sloppy Joe’s as well.

Early to bed.

Tomorrow we leave Habana and discover a Cuba I never imagined.

 

 

 

.

 

Cuba: Day One (con’t.)

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We joined our group in the afternoon. We booked a “People to People, Legal Trip to Cuba for Americans” with Intrepid Travel. We like their small groups ( no more than 14-16) and their emphasis on experiencing life closer to the “locals” with an essential tourist site mixed in.

We met in the lobby and quietly sized up one another.  A perfect balance of male/female; couples/solo; young/older.

Dady Rodriquez, our leader. Native of Trinidad, Cuba. University educated. Well informed about world events, politics, history. Loves Cuba. Does not want to leave. Wants a better quality of life for Cuban, but does not want her country to lose its soul to American style capitalism.

She loves Americans and sees the strain between the countries as being the egos of the leaders back in the 1960s.

We walk through the narrow streets of Viejo Habana to our tour bus and meet William our driver for the next week.Yes, there are American cars from the 1960’s, but not as many as you expect.

This first night felt a bit touristy.

Dinner at one of Havana’s first and best paladors. El Canonazo owned by Ivan Justo and Enrique Nunez. This family owned restaurant started in their home and the interior courtyard has now been expanded with thatched roofs and seating for up to 50 or 60 people.

It is clearly on the tourist path because the other groups arrive by bus as well. The bar had an abundance of photos from the revolution, including of course, Fidel and Che. Fidel, Che and, now, Raul are everywhere.

Chickens plucking around our feet underneath the tables.

A live band in the corner.

The meal:

Tomato

Cucumber

Cabbage

Frijoles negro y arroz

pollo, carne, pork

flan and citrus cake.

We have what money can buy, and this is what money can buy.

You eat what is in season and if you have more wealth you can eat meat.

There are no spices because there are few imports.

 

Across the road is Fortalenza de San Carlos de la Cabana.

It is the largest fort in Latin America. Construction began in 1763 and was completed in 1774.

Cobblestone streets

A moat, now dry

Former barracks, now museums, art galleries and tourist shops.

It is most famous now for the 9 PM canon ceremony which historically indicated the closing of the harbor.

Young Cubans dressed and Spanish colonial uniforms march around for 15 to 20 minutes and stand in formation to load the Canon.

I look for my son and see him in the far distance standing on the top another structure taking pictures of the sunset and Harbor.(how did he get up there?)

My husband comments that the colonial ceremony is a reminder that Cubans have not been left alone to be Cubans until the revolution. Other countries have controlled the small island for centuries.

The Cuban “soldiers” make much of the flaming torch, waving it around and pointing it at bystanders, presumably waiting for just the right moment when it is 9 PM then…

BOOM!

And it’s over.

Suddenly it’s dark and everyone makes their way to their bus.

Fortunately, this was the only touristy day of our trip.

No mas.

 

 

 

Cuba: Day One

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I was a little surprised when both my husband and son said that their “must see” in Cuba was Hemingway’s house.

The folks at Intrepid Travel told me that all we had to do was ask our proprietress  at our casa to call a cab for us.

Breakfast was on the café chairs and table located in the interior courtyard.

Fresh mango slices, pineapple and banana.

“Huevos con queso o bakon?”

“Um?”

Glance at one another

“Ah”

“Bacon por favor.”

Fresh squeeze juice (mango?)

“Cafe con leche por favor.”

“Agua”

“Agua”

Time to ask the proprietress for a taxi.

Hemingway’s home located in the suburbs of Havana is known as “Finca la Vigia” in American guidebooks. Of course the one guidebook we brought has no mention of Hemingway at all. (Really?)

Our proprietors was very friendly and kind, but she spoke almost no English and our infant level Spanish was mostly ineffective.

“Taxi à la casa du Hemingway?”

(was that French or Spanish or neither)

She smiles. I smile.

We wait.

Try again.

“Es posible…”

Nope.

My son laughs.

“Wrong language, mom.”

“I don’t see you trying.”

With my thumb and pinky finger, I pretend to hold a phone to my ear.

“Taxi à la casa du Hemingway?”

Then I pointed at her and pointed at the phone.

“Ah, si.”

She was on the phone for 15 minutes.

30 minutes later a Soviet era Lada sputters to the front of our casa. I am pretty sure I saw wire holding parts of it together.The small, box-shaped car was a reminder of how the former Soviet Union propped up Cuba’s economy for years… and then pulled out abruptly when Union fell apart.

Cubans call the post-Soviet era the “Special Period.”  The economy bottomed out and most Cubans lost twenty pounds the first year due to food shortages.

Our driver is bald, short, very muscular and wearing a slightly dirty T-shirt revealing tattoos.

“A la museo du Hemingway , wait, y regress. 25 CUC? OK?”

“Si.”

After a considerable amount of yanking on each door, my husband and I settle inside the back seat while our son rides shotgun. The car has no shocks and the seats have no springs and so we bounce our way through the capital of Cuba.

Hermes, our driver, motions us to roll down our windows and we pass through the streets of Habana Viejo, through centro Habana, passing dogs, people, horses, motorcycles and large factories now shuttered closed.

People waiting everywhere. For a ride to somewhere I guess.

Habana’s former elegance is now mostly hidden behind crumbling buildings and faded facades.

Somehow the afternoon rain showers aren’t enough to freshen up public spaces. There are no flowers and no grass in any park or public median.

People seem to linger just to linger.

The high heat and full humidity induces a slower pace. People don’t seem to be in a rush anywhere at anytime.

Hermes stops to ask a parked motorcyclist for directions. Almost there.

We turn off the crowded road and drive up a hill where there are several white Hacienda style buildings, an outdoor café which is just white plastic tables and chairs scattered around a hut and a small stall with tourist items.

Hermes walks us to a woman sitting under a tree where are we pay five CUCs each and walk the path to the writer’s Cuban home.

The house and grounds retain enough beauty to make you wish you’d been there when el Papa was alive.

Well, maybe not since el Papa was a drunk and apparently not really a nice person.  We can pretend though, today, on our visit, that it was different.

Guidebooks say do not go if it’s raining because the house is shuttered closed.  You aren’t allowed inside, but every door and window is open and so we walk around like night stalkers peering in and snapping photos on our phones.

Mosiac tiled floors.

High ceilings

Fans

Books in every room

Trophy animal heads mounted

His military uniform, pressed and hanging in the closet

Only one bedroom though. Guests slept in a house next-door

Patios shaded in flowering trellis’

And the tower.

A watch tower separate from, but next to the main house.

One room on top.

His writing room.

A table, chair, and lounge chair.

Book case.

Telescope with a panoramic view of Habana and the sea.

THE typewriter.

(Though I read where he really didn’t write on a typewriter?)

I didn’t want to leave.

The attendant in the room took my phone and snapped photos I couldn’t from where I stood outside. (our little secret as she quickly handed the phone back when others approached)

Stone paths lead you to the swimming pool, former tennis courts, former arena for cockfighting, past his private softball field, past the cemetery for his four dogs and down to the covered structure where his small yacht, the Pilar, is on display.

The property is so complete with entertainment and comfort that it is a wonder he ever left.

I did not want to leave myself.

But it was time to go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cuba: Day Zero

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IMG_5327

MIA to HAV

Airport

Four hours before flight.

Havana Air

Riot of people

Massive mounds of luggage wrapped in plastic by spinning machines. Vertical saran wrap.

Spanish. No English

Confusion

Lines Lines Lines

Spanish

Wait Stand

Line for Visa check

Wait Stand Spanish

Wait

Visa in hand. Next line

Stand

Wait Wait Wait

Counter. Almost there.

Old man weighing bags decides to weigh our very small carry-ons.

We packed so little wanting to avoid chasing bags

“One bag, one pound over weight. Check.”

“There is no over weight on a carry-on bag, ” protests my son.

Stalling on all sides.

Spanish.

Another bag “over weight.”

He motions. We check two small, light carry-ons.

Agitated.

Try my baby Spanish

“No”

Three boarding passes.

One hand written invoice

Next line

Stand

Wait

$83 owed. Bags and fees.

Cash only.

2-1/2 hours later, cleared to stand in line for security

Long, long line.

One line. One worker

No TSA pre-check

No priority pass

Wait

Looking at the massive amount of carry on bags the Spanish speakers carry

Look at our one carry-on we didn’t have to check.

We understand

The Spanish speakers are carrying essentials family back in Cuba

We are just tourists.

Plane. Havana Air red seat covers over Eastern Airlines logos

Clean. Fresh. Nice

Applause on take-off, even louder when landing 30 minutes later,

Habana, Jose Marti International Airport.

Walk across the tarmac

Heat Humidity

“We’re on a tropical island”

Immigration fast. We are the only plane.

Luggage

Wait

Wait

Wait

Wait

Wait

An hour later, bags appear on the conveyor belt

Finally ours.

Leave the Arrivals Hall

Family and friends every where

Waiting

Jubilant.

“Thank God. Intrepid Travel always comes through”

We see our driver with a sign:

Betheny/Richard/John

“Money exchange?”

“Si”

Another building

Another line

More than two hours after landing, we are in the taxi.

Retro cars

Bicycle rickshaws

Horses pulling carts

Trucks used as buses

Faded plaster

Crumbling concrete

Parks dry and brown

Che staring from a building across the Plaza de la revolucion

“Who’s that other man? He looks like Juan Valdez, the coffee guy.”

Habana Viego

Our B & B, a casa particular

an oasis in what our son thinks is a slum.

It’s not.

It’s very poor

And decayed.

Twenty foot high ceilings

Mosiac tile floors

Old but maintained furniture

Rooms with window a/c

Feeling like an ugly American, we turn on the cool air immediately.

Twin beds

Mini bar: water, beer, wine, soda

En suite

Hot water

Remember to put the toilet paper in the trash can, never the commode.

Starving.

“Donde esta un restaurante?”

“Si. Cafe Ron Ron.”

Just down the street

First Cuban meal: cucumber, tomato and cabbage for salad. Frijoles y arroz. Pollo, carne or pork.

Realize later, these are the choices for EVERY meal.

EVERY meal.

“You eat what’s in season.”

Afterwards, we walk.

Cubans pay us no notice.

No begging. A casual glance

As if we are one of them

Dogs trotting their neighborhood

Kids playing in streets.

Back to the casa

Shower

Nap

Dress

Men in suits

Down the street, standing for a car

Someone stops

“10 CUCs para Hotel Nacional?”

“Si”

We glance at one another and whisper:

“This really isn’t a cab is it? A future Uber driver.”

Hotel Nacional, regal, standing high on a hill over looking the Malecon and sea.

Elegant lobby

Chandeliers

Marble floors

So glad we came here

Large painting of Fidel

Flag of Che

Revolutionary buddies.

We are the only only formally dressed.

People stare thinking we must be “somebody.”

Purchase our tickets for “Le Parisien Cabaret”

Then we wait outside in the courtyard.

Lovely.

Soft breeze

Jazz trio and singer

Chairs and eating everyone inviting guests to linger,

and they do.

Finally, showtime.

Inside the Cabaret, red velvet seating

frayed carpeting, but dignified waiters in tuxedos

Most are 65-75 years old.

We are seated in the center on the first raised platform

Perfect seats probably because we are the only ones who dressed to code

Everyone else in shorts, jeans and tourist clothes.

Blue daiquiris served to all.

Showtime

Dancers, singers

Feathers, costumes, bright colors

Recorded music

The story of Cuba re-enacted.

Not the famous Tropicana production located just out side Habana and three times the cost,

but quite good.

Real taxi ride back

with glassy-eyed driver.

Bedtime.

End of day zero.

 

 

 

Be Willing To Close The Door

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door as a safe

In the fullness of family

it is difficult to close the door

shut out the cry for “mommy”

and sit still.

 

There is no silence really

even when the door is shut.

Even if, somehow, everyone has agreed

to “quiet time”

doors are slammed

refrigerators are opened and closed.

Feet stomp loudly

even on carpeted floors.

Whispers are louder

than normal conversations.

 

The closed door becomes a symbol.

To Mom, it is a declaration of Self.

“Me time.” Recharge.

 

To the family, the closed door says,

“Rejection.”

 

No matter how much explanation.

No matter how many articles or books

are shown and read

about the restorative nature of “me time for moms,”

the family only sees an action no less cruel than

Abandonment.

 

If she manages to close the door for a while,

the family looks at her with questioning eyes

when she emerges to see

“how she’s changed.”

 

They seem concerned that they may

somehow no longer be in the same

order of importance in her life.

“Mom’s just not the same”

 

For Mom,though, that moment behind the door

was salvation.

 

Tick Tock

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felix clocks

 

Tick Tock

The alarm on my phone announces it’s 6 AM. Again.

I’m still exhausted.

Tick Tock

One of my cats stretches bedside me. The other one walks into the room.

They both stare.

“We’re ready for our breakfast .”

Tick Tock

I try to remember what day it is. How many meetings today?

My stomach tightens.

“Shit.”

Tick Tock

The routine starts.

I put the dinner table mats on the floor to signal the cats that food is on its way. One brushes my leg in thanks then sits on his mat and waits.

The other stretches again. Paces. Looks worried that he’ll somehow not be served. Anxiety left over from his early days at the shelter I guess.

Tick Tock

“Can I eat my cereal, drink coffee and read the paper before my young son wakes?”

Just looking for a few moments of me.

Tick Tock

He’s up. Cute. Happy. “Mommy come hug.”

Why would I want to resist?

Tick Tock

“We need to get going now.”

“Pancakes?” he asks.

I look at the clock.

“No time today.”

He gets his cereal.

I go dress for work.

Tick Tock

The rush to remember what goes into my backpack for work and his for school.

He’s put on shorts and a t-shirt (again). It’s cold and wet outside.

“Why don’t you step outside and see if you’ll be warm enough today.”

He does. He won’t. He changes clothes. Four times.

I’m anxious. I look at the clock. Wonder about the traffic. Maybe I yelled, “Hurry up.”

Tick Tock

Dropping him off. I know he likes learning, but talks too much for school rules. They’re not patient. Will we get another call from the Principal today?

“Bye. I love you, son.”

“Love you too.”

I watch him walk all the way to the door, ignoring the cars behind me.

I adore him.

Tick Tock

More bad news on the radio. “Why don’t I listen to music?  Because I need to be informed.”

Lots of traffic. Cars are crawling. I call my assistant at work. We review the day, talk business, make decisions…we talk my…entire…drive…in.

Tick Tock

I rush into the office. My assistant waits at the door. She gives me meeting notes. I give her my backpack. The meetings start.

Every minute of the day is scheduled. Every minute.

Tick Tock

My husband picks up our son and takes him home where they start homework.

I stop at the grocery store to pick-up pre-made dinner.

On the drive I return business calls. Mostly leaving voice messages.

Tick Tock

Home.

Our son sets the table while I dish the food on plates.

My husband starts the laundry.

We sit down together with a candle burning in the center of our plates. (To calm us?)

We pause to give thanks.

They are finished eating their entire meal by the time I’ve had my third bite.

Tick Tock

Bathtime for everyone.

Reading time for everyone.

Tick Tock

Lights out.

I fall asleep (again) in my son’s room after reading to him.

Tick Tock

Our son is older.

He plays hockey.

We add it to the daily schedule. Every day. At the rink. Every day.

Tick Tock

We look for free wifi at the rink.

Laptops so we can work during practice and between games.

We are lined up in the bleachers with the other parents doing the same.

Tick Tock

We’ve rushed.

We’ve juggled.

We’ve stressed.

We’ve argued (not much though, whew)

We’ve laughed (much, fortunately)

We’ve loved.

We’ve bonded.

Tick Tock

Our son is grown.

We can hardly wait to see one another.

We enjoy each other.

Tick Tock

During all these years…

We made family.