Visa Run: Havana

There is so much to tell and describe about our visit to Cuba, that I beg forgiveness if this post runs a little long. At the same time, it is going to be a challenge to encapsulate the soul of Havana in words; it is more of a feeling you get from being there. The historical elegance and chic, the Spanish colonialism, and of course, the Revolution are all interwoven throughout its buildings and its people.

But then there’s the sense of defiance in abandonment, that lost in time fragment that speaks of a lack of modern things, for better or for worse. The city feels like your great aunt’s memorabilia, tastefully arranged. The Cuban’s resourcefulness in repurposing old things and cleverly rearranging what they have carefully preserved amazed and utterly charmed me. The decor and articles in every house and restaurant echo the same theme that is evident in the restoration and maintenance of the ubiquitous antique cars: we will make do, and we will do so with style.

In short, I loved it. Of course, there were also the high ceilinged bars with their black and white prints, piano players, and elegant service. For the tourist who wants to spend a little money, it is like stepping back in time. You have a great day, Lady. My waitress bows to me as we leave the bar. And I think to myself–after years of wincing at “Ma’am”, “Mrs.”, “Dear” and recently “Señora”– I could be called “Lady”. I kind of like that…

Everywhere we have gone in the world (except for maybe Norway and Germany) the people mistake the boys for locals. Cuba was no exception. Mis hermanos cubanos, proclaimed our taxi drivers, waiters and tour guides. Henry has started keeping track of the number of times he and Russell get the “Hola” and then I get the “Hello”. He thinks it’s hilarious, but I must confess that it is annoying to me. I have started introducing myself as “la gringa madre” which always draws some good natured laughter and an apologetic touch on my arm.

Havana has its fair share of historic buildings, plazas, and sidewalk cafes in which to sit and drink antique china cups of perfect coffee. For the first and probably last time in my life, I found myself wishing I smoked cigars. The local music scene is both sophisticated and completely unique with its own sounds and rhythms. This year I have become extremely fond of Latin pop (which I crank in my car in Costa Rica), but the Cuban music was refreshingly complex, and at times Havana felt like a Latin sister city to New Orleans. Also, a bit like Athens…

It was interesting to hear about life in Cuba, monthly subsidized rations, and government jobs versus private jobs. There are some private businesses now, and the Cubans are allowed to rent out rooms in their homes (Casa Particulares). Here is a look at our Casa Particular:

They have two currencies, one mainly for Cubans, and one for tourists. Our driver took us to a Cuban restaurant one night for dinner, and we realized how much we had been overpaying in those Hemingway haunts with ambiance and old world charm. Cubans just don’t go to places like that; there are other restaurants, off the beaten path, where you can get a plate of shrimp and pasta for 1.50 and a beer for .75. But I regret nothing; I loved those old bars, and I’m glad they have kept them. The nice thing is that even as a tourist you are allowed in both worlds. So, sure, a double standard of a sort, but I found it to be an acceptable one.

We hired a car and driver to spend a day in Viñales, the countryside West of Havana. During the nearly three hour drive, the boys offered me minimal help in trying to keep up with the fast, animated Spanish of our driver. The Cuban accent is quick, rounded in the mouth, and clipped leaving the front halves of many words up to the imagination. After a few days, we were all pretty humbled about our knowledge of the language.

We hired three horses for a tour of the campo, an excellent call since after many less than ideal experiences, Oli has vowed never to ride a horse again in his life. The boys loved it, but the horses were a bit more lively than many work-weary ones I have rented in the past. They each wanted to lead so there were occasional outbursts of competitive racing–probably really good that Oli was not with us.

We arrived too late for the lanchita (small, sketchy boat) ride into the caves under the mountains, but we walked through some of them. Crazy cave formations throughout these mountains, and unfortunately I hadn’t the Spanish to understand what-all our driver explained to me about them.

 

At a rest stop on the way back to Havana, we encountered a bronze man who looked utterly perfect except for the whites of his eyes. Obligatory photo:

With one last day to spend in this fascinating country, we had to opt for our usual: a visit to the beach. Thirty minutes East of Havana, the aptly named Playa del Este was lovely with blue waters and white sand. The water was a little chilly though, by our new equatorial standards. In fact, the whole visit was a little chilly–it felt like Florida in winter. Usually pretty nice, but you can’t always bank on it.

We dined out with our hostess the night before we left, and she contrived a game with the boys in which she would speak as quickly as possible, and the boys would try to decipher what she had said. It was fun for everyone, and by dessert we all agreed that progress had been made.

As we departed, I felt like we had been in Cuba for more than five days. This city has soul, and it is very much worth the visit. I will say that some knowledge of Spanish is really helpful, at least enough so that the Cubans can play the guess-your-nationality game. No one guessed that we were from the States, and if they hadn’t been parading about with a Giant Gringa, the boys would probably have drawn no notice at all.  But since they were (how embarrassing!) Argentinian was the most common guess aimed at us. In response to my question why not guess Canadian, one man replied, Canadians don’t speak any Spanish. Americans do sometimes.