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.
BethenyReid 