December 2008
©2008 James Teitelbaum, all rights reserved.
Persistent prologue: I write these travelogues for myself, so that twenty years from now, I will be able to remember as much about these trips as possible. I include as much detail as possible so as to get it all fixed in writing before the memories fade. I share these with friends, family, and any complete strangers who find them, because people express interest. I know that these writings do ramble on a bit, but I do not require an editor; these writings are here as aids to my own memory not as attempts at serious travel writing -- although anecdotes from these journals have formed the core of my more formalized and proper travel writings, which have appeared in print and on the web elsewhere.
Part One Part Two Part Three Art Digression
v1.0
Part two, in which we learn about art, dance, architectue, music, literature, rum, and Cuban hospitals.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
There is a rooftop terrace at the Hotel Plaza which
affords
a lovely
view of the city. It is also the location of breakfast. The
buffet is
a feast by Cuban standards, and is marginally palatable by U.S. or
European standards. Having been told to eat what I could get, when I
could get it, I indulged on borderline-fresh fruit, fried eggs made by
(apparently) opening eggs into the sections of a small muffin tin, and
baking the whole tin, and some almost fresh pastries. This is Cuba,
mister. The orange juice pitchers were drained dry by yours truly in
order to undo last night’s Havana Club bender.
Speaking of which, the amazing art deco
Bacardi building is
right
across the street from the hotel, but is on the one side of the hotel
that I did not manage to explore last night. Bacardi was kicked out of
Cuba after the revolution (December 31, 1958), and moved to Puerto Rico
where they proceeded to corner the global rum market with an
exceedingly
shitty product.
Truly, Bacardi is the McDonalds of rum. Remember: just
because something is heavily advertised and seen everywhere you go,
does not mean it is good.
But the building that Mr. Bacardi left
behind: spectabulous.
On the second floor of the Bacardi building, on a balcony
overlooking a
renovated
lobby, is a small bar and cafe.
The wizened old bartender (Alberto) was the only
person up there, and as I took pics of the architecture, he made me
promise to come back to him for drinks. He claimed to be “the only
person who could make them properly”. I had little doubt that he
thought he meant what he said, and of course anyone who even says that
sort of thing has an unusual dedication to his craft. Properly.
They have
GranReserva (that $150 per bottle stuff) here for 10 CUC per shot (and
yet no Bacardi!), so if
you want to sample it without buying the bottle, this is the place to
do it. I didn’t see it at any other bars at all during my trip. You can
get a meal as well, including entree, salad, coffee, ice cream, and two
drinks for 10 CUC. Seemed like a deal, but sadly, my journey did not
take me back his way
again. Next time.
| Let us discuss ice cream. Cubans love them some ice cream. It seems to be the only frivolous thing that the average Cuban can afford to luxuriate in. They don’t have much dairy product at all, and of course refrigeration is expensive. But you do not separate a Habanero (Havana resident) from his ice cream. This was basically the only luxury item I saw any of them indulging in, but they all indulge in it. More on that later today. I’d reconnected with Nadine, and we wandered into
Havana Vieja, the large and restored tourist corral that I had stumbled
upon towards the conclusion of last night's ramble. I came across the foundacion for Alejo Carpentier (1904 to
1980). A few doors down is the La Bodeguita de Medio, a little tiny
cafe opened by Angel Martinez in 1942. A huge crowd of
tourists were gathered around outside taking pictures, and a few
people crowded inside, while belaguered-looking bartenders hurriedly
mixed up mid-morning Mojitos. A
tour
guide was telling people that you can’t get a Mojito outside of Cuba.
This was the second time I have heard this in the 18 hours I have been
in this country. A couple passed me on the street. They fell into step with
me.
Asked
me where I was from. Canada. They were on their way to have drinks
where the Buena Vista Social Club was filmed. Making my way back to a plaza I’d walked through late last
night,
I
wandered through a huge old church, watched a band playing outdoors on
the square, and checked out Tallers Lithographia, an art studio full of
ancient iron printing presses. A variety of artists were making
lithograph prints to sell to the touristas. They were enthusiastic
about urging curious visitors back into the work area to watch the
litho process in action. |
|
And then: not very cool.Clouds came over the sky.
The wind whipped up, began blowing hard, and it started to rain.
Nadine and I decided to head for the art museum, a good activity for a rainy day.
Then it started to rain a lot.
And then some more.
Everyone was running around, like cockroaches when the lights come on, trying to find cover. I ducked under an awning in front of a market and stood there, waiting for the rain to slow down.
Something microscopic, some insignificant little bit of dirt, some piece of matter as far removed from my notice as possible, suddenly took on major importance in my life when it landed in my left eye.
Crowded among other people trying not to get soaked, and with Nadine yammering away endlessly (as she does), the larger picture of the world I was in suddenly took on a quite narrow focus: all that mattered was clearing this tiny, tiny speck of unidentifiable something from under my eyelid.
It didn’t seem to want to dislodge.
Disinterested, Nadine went into the market to explore, leaving me on the street during a monsoon, trying to make my eyeball tear up and flush itself out. Time passed as I stood there in extreme discomfort under the drippy awning. As my eye swelled up and turned crimson, Nadine reemerged with a guy named Jeffrey who had been hitting on her in the market. He was a choreographer with a national dance company called Afrocubanizante.
Nadine, predictably self-absorbed,
had already forgotten
about my troubles. Looking directly at my swollen, tear-filled,
crimson-colored eyeball, she asked if I still wanted to go to the art
museum.No, you dumbshit, I am half-blind and in pain.
What am I going to do with the art museum?
So then, Nadine and Jeffrey wanted me to go with them to a cafe across the street. The rain had slowed a bit, but I was still extremely uncomfortable. I really wasn’t up for music or relaxing. The smoke, the noise, the people... no way. All of my attention was on clearing my eye. But Jeffrey now had a golden opportunity to be chivalrous, and to prove himself to be a really great guy by helping me out, thusly insuring that he’d curry favor with Nadine. Or maybe, just maybe, he really was just a really nice guy.
We went into an eyeglass store, hoping they’d have some eyedrops.
Nope.
Could I at least use their sink to wash out my eye?
Nope!
Bastards.
I told Jeffrey and Nadine I’d be fine, so they went into that cafe. I stood under the awning of a different shop, waiting for my body to eject the foreign intruder. Then I went into the cafe, and tried to wash my eye out in the bathroom. After walking into the restroom with my swollen eye covered with my hand, and walking back out in the same manner, the old lady attending the restroom was annoyed that I didn’t tip her. Whatever. She hadn’t offered any help, and in my state, my tunnel-vision world was focused on survival.
Jeffrey finally suggested that we go to a clinic.
I was skeptical. I did not want to be in a hospital. What would it cost?
Eventually, I relented; this situation needed medical attention. It was only a few blocks to the hospital. The rain had mostly stopped. Following Jeffrey and Nadine, I was trying to navigate the narrow and crowded streets with one eye closed. All of my depth perception was gone. I kept bumping into things. The hospital was really scary. The walls were painted that horrible light green color, the color of the scrubs that surgeons wear. The color that looks like it will glow in the dark, but really it won't. Paint was peeling, the tile floor was dirty. The lights were low, front doors were propped open for ventilation (no air conditioning in Cuba, not even in the hospital), furniture was old and utilitarian. There was almost nothing on any of the walls, neither art nor informational signs. I was told that there were two people waiting ahead of me. Two women sat in various places in the small and dimly lit lobby. I selected a seat. There had been no paperwork, no forms, and I was not asked for identification. Before long, it was my turn. I was led into a tiny little room. No windows, nothing on any of the four walls but the same peeling green paint. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling. There was one desk in the room (with almost nothing on it), and two chairs. One for the doctor and one for me. It looked like an interrogation room. With no more chairs, Jeffey and Nadine stood, translating for me.
Didn’t cost me a penny.
Jeffrey then offered to take me to the pharmacy. He said it would
be
cheaper if he bought the drops than if I bought them. We ended up at
the pharmacy across the street from Hotel Plaza, the one that I had
seen
yesterday, with a
cluster of people standing around outside. There was still a cluster of
people standing around outside. I joined them. Jeffrey told
me to give him 1
CUC. When it was his turn, he went inside, and emerged with a little
bottle of eye drops.
One freaking dollar.
Jeffrey had earned his reward: he was now free to enjoy
some alone-time with Nadine’s endless
prattle for as long as he wished, free of any troublesome third wheels
(i.e. me). I went across the street into the Hotel Plaza lobby,
reclined on
a rather comfy sofa, and put some drops into my eye. Within fifteen
minutes, I felt fine. I stayed there for a solid hour, just relaxing,
with my head tilted back resting on the back of the sofa, eyes closed,
feeling good that yet another disaster had been narrowly averted.
Pain is such an odd thing. We go through most of our lives (hopefully)
free of it, and seldom thinking of it. But when we experience it,
all we can think about is being
free of it again. Nothing else matters when we are feeling pain. When
the pain ends, there is that sensation: not pleasure per se,
but just a euphoric gratitude that the pain is gone. The velvety return
to simple normality after feeling pain is almost better than the most
pleasurable of sensations.
But I still have this cough.
Nadine and Jeffrey were walking the Prado. I’d seen it already, so I wasn’t missing out on anything. Nadine’s score was settled: if it wasn’t for her letting Jeffrey leech onto her, I’d never have had the experience with the hospital and pharmacy go so smoothly, easily, and cheaply. All of the trouble she caused me in Mexico was undone. Now if only she’d stop babbling about nothing every single waking moment of her life, I might refrain from strangling her before the end of the trip.
Upon the return of the lovebirds, Nadine and I headed by cab
across
town to the Vedado area. Located west of Central Havana, Vedado is a
huge grid of numbered streets containing single family homes and
apartment buildings. Even-numbered streets run in one direction, and
the odd-numbers are perpendicular. The area is a bit more modern than
Central Havana or Havana Vieja, so there is some art deco and modernist
architecture mixed in with the colonial style examples. In Vedado, we
easily found our new home, Casa Belkis (on 19th between 20th and 22nd).
Belkis is a Casa Particulare, or a sort of government licensed bed and
breakfast operation. My uncle’s pal Erno had recommended this place,
and had given me their card. Very few people in Cuba have internet
access, but Belkis does, so being able to set up a reservation ahead of
time via email was handy. Unlike the Hotel Plaza, Belkis was expecting
me.
It was a nice place, and only 25 CUC per night.
A fenced-in garden obscured the front of the
property. Inside, the
almost-elderly Mrs. Belkis had quite a collection of ephemera and
knick-knacks decorating the small but well-maintained foyer, dining
room, and rear living room. In particular was an entire wall covered
with little china plates, each decorated with a different pattern.
Quite a collection. She also had a sideboard with a glass cabinet on
it, filled with various etched glass or crystal cocktail glasses.
Across the dining room from the sideboard were a strange, interesting
surrealist painting, and a decorative Buddha statue - a very
unusual thing to see in Cuba.
Up a cramped tile stairwell is a lounge. Off of the lounge
are three rooms, each four more steps up for some reason, and each with
a private
bathroom, a small safe, a television, an air conditioner, and a locked
door. I have heard that some Casas are nice and others aren’t, and I
also knew that there are Casas to be had for even less than 25 CUC per
night. But at one-fifth the price I had paid for Hotel Plaza, this room
was just as nice, if not nicer, and it had that personal charm and
attention that you get in a smaller establishment. Mrs. Belkis showed
us how the safe works, showed us how to get through the security system
on the front gate, and then showed us the porch/patio outside the
second floor, where breakfast would be served.
Casa Belkis was a cute,
clean, quiet, secure, and comfortable place.
Outside of Havana Vieja, the tourist zone, there just aren’t many
restaurants in Havana. Habaneros just don’t eat out much. The economy
doesn’t allow for it. Far more common than proper restaurants are
Paladars, or small restaurants set up in people’s homes, and licensed
by the government. Paladars are to restaurants what Casa Particulares
are to motels. Like the Casas, some Paladars are really nice; they look
and feel every bit like a proper restaurant. Others are rather grubby
and definitely feel like you’re hanging out on someone’s back patio
while they bring out indifferent food.
I would eat at many Paladars
over the coming week, but tonight I dined in one of the few proper
restaurants in Vedado, Union Francesca de Cuba (at 17th and 6th).
This is basically the remains of a once-opulent social club for French
expatriates living in Cuba. The building is a lovely late-19th century
mansion with great circular porches on all three floors. The locals do
their best to serve French food, while working within the strict
limitations of their scarce supplies. The white tablecloths are
threadbare, and the candles on the table are little more than stumps,
but this is about as good as you’re going to get in Vedado.
This is
Cuba, mister.
Near the stairwell are framed, signed pictures of celebrities who
have
dined here, including Harrison Ford (from 2001). I wonder why and how
he found himself in this residential area of Havana?
I paid 8.15 CUC for a piece of mediocre mystery fish with a sweet fruity grey-green glaze on it. It was served with a small salad of cabbage, beans, and not-quite-fresh tomato, plus the ubiquitous plate of rice and beans, a few tiny rolls, and a handful of potato chips(!).
One cannot complain about a meal like this in Cuba. As I learned, a lot of the locals have little more than rice and beans to eat. Meat is scarce, and is usually pork. The Cuban government wants the tourists to have a good experience, so the tourists get the better food. There are markets that only accept CUCs, and they have the better food. Since locals can’t legally posses or spend CUCs, locals can’t shop there, unless they are buying food for the Paladars or Casas that they run. Therefore, it stands to reason that the owners of Paladars or Casas live better than their neighbors, because they have access to goods and services that are supposed to be for tourists only (and can be purchased with CUCs only). But let us factor in human nature. If you are a Habanero who runs a Paladar, and who therefore has access to better cuts of meat than you would normally be entitled to, would you not make sure that you were eating as well as your guests? Naturally. The clerk at the market does not know how many dinners you’re selling, so if you buy ten filets of fish, and only eight are served to guests that night, then who will know the difference if the other two morsels of fish are going into the bellies of you and your wife? I am sure that Mrs. Belkis would not have quite as nice sheets on her own bed or quite as impressive a display of china plates if she weren’t working the tourist trade. Her house is nicer than that of any of her neighbors.
After dinner, a constitutional walk seemed in order. Vedado felt
like a safe place to walk around at night, so I wandered around and
looked at the buildings, the people, the world. Like last night, I
ended up at the water (but now two miles or so down the coast from
where I ended up last night). There is no beach in Havana, just rocky
breakwalls with the city built right up to the edge of the Caribbean.
On the very edge of the land in Vedado are a few abandoned high-rise
former luxury hotels. Pre-Castro, these had been playgrounds for
Americans who had made the 90-mile boat ride from key West to relax in
exotic Cuba for a weekend. Now, they are completely empty. Cuba relies
on tourism from South America and Europe, but there is no longer quite
enough tourism to keep all of these hotels in business. That will
change when our embargo is finally lifted.
These hotels are built up on concrete risers, so the first floor is a
few dozen feet above sea level. The powerful waves were rolling in and
crashing mightily against the bottom edge of the building. I do not
know how it is possible that fifty or more years of erosion have not
sent these buildings crashing into the ocean. But, the foundations
looked solid, from this layman’s perspective. If the swells, which must
have been twelve feet high, were much taller, the water would be taking
out windows on the first few floors of the building.
Got to bed early, and watched a few minutes of a Cuban cop drama (with English subtitles) on television before losing interest and crashing out.
The dry, persistent cough is still annoying me, but at least it
isn’t accompanied by fever, snot, or any other symptoms. The eye
irritation came back a little bit since using the drops this afternoon,
which had temporarily cured it. Just to be safe, I redosed my eye with
drops before bed, even though it felt 80% better.
Friday, December 12, 2008
|
Eye drops. Time for a walk.... The residential area of Vedado is located between Central
Havana
(to
the east) and the erstwhile upper class district of Miramar (to the
west).
Havana Vieja is even further east, beyond Central. Miramar is still
full of grand tropical estates, most of which are now home to
diplomats; most of the foreign embassies are in Miramar. Today’s
mission was simply to walk around and marvel at the many wonders of
Havana. You’ll remember me mentioning my good friends Sven and Naomi,
and their pal Pete. Pete wrote a book on modernist architecture in
Havana. Sven had taken a lot of the photos for it. I photocopied a few
pages of maps from the book, and brought them with me as an ad hoc
sightseeing guide. I also brought Naomi’s list of must-see spots.
Although Pete’s modernism gems are scattered widely, there is a
particular concentration of them in the northern parts of Central
Havana. Modernism, by the way way is a confusing term for the
non-initiated. European modernism encompassed the very late 19th
century until around World War II. American modernism started a
bit later, after World War I, but lasted into the 1960s. So
within the realms of art, architecture, literature, music and other
arts, "modern" is roughly the early to mid 20th century; things from
the 1960s to present are "contemporary". Casa Belkis is in the western part of Vedado, so getting to Central Havana meant crossing most of Vedado - perhaps two miles. A cab would be only 4 CUC or so, but a decision was made to hoof it. There are so many wonders to explore, why let them all flash by from a taxi window? Anyway, the major roads here all stink like smog from all of the old cars spewing their exhaust. But still, for a classic car enthusiast, this town is like a car show, 24/7. Some of the cars are falling apart, and some are in like-new condition, but all of the American cars are pre-1959 and they represent at least a quarter of the cars on the road, if not a third. Seeing people fixing their cars on the street is not an uncommon sight. The newer cars are considerably less cool. As soon as Castro and communism took over, the chrome and fins stopped being imported, and instead, compact, efficient, and nondescript little Ladas made the scene, imported from Russia. There are a fair number of these around too, dating from the 1960s to the near-present. They day was mostly nice, but there was a little drizzle now and then. Mrs. Belkis had said that the weather was unusually cool, but with temps in the low 80s, “unusually cool” was perfectly cool by me. Avoiding the smoggy main roads, a route was selected heading towards Central Havana on 19th. The walking route eventually drifted into 17th, and then later onto 15th, but always in a northeastern direction (the grid of Vedado is 45 degrees off axis to the compass). On every corner, on every block, there was a wonderful building, and a lesson in Cuban culture. For every grand Colonial-period estate (restored or otherwise) or art deco apartment building (restored or otherwise), there was a tiny corner market with almost nothing on the shelves, or a rickety wooden stall in an empty lot selling carefully measured morsels of pork. Maybe a single pig’s worth, total, for the neighborhood. A farmer’s market carried mostly carrots, onions, beets... roots. Rice and beans. Not much else. |
|
Vedado market
And yet, these people seem happy. They don’t have a lot of
money
for
clothes, but they all take pride in their appearance. No one in Havana
looks sloppy. Maybe it is their attitude, they way the carry
themselves. They don’t have much, but they don’t need much. It
isn’t a Prada bag that makes these women feel good about themselves, or
an Armani suit that gives the men confidence; it is a sense of
community and a pride in their land and their culture. A culture of
poverty? Why not: there is more to life than buying a 50” television or
spending $500 on a purse. These people have their beautiful island,
their music, and each other. Family is key here. Community is key here.
The less Castro gives them, the straighter they stand, almost defying
life itself to dare mess with them, even in their near starvation. The
men seem care-free, and the women dress for the hot weather,
unselfconsciously letting it all hang out, no matter what their body
type, or age.
Across the street from a 1950s synagogue, men were restoring a
Colonial mansion. It was their lunch time, and they were cooking bean
soup in a big pot over a charcoal grill. It didn’t look very tasty;
they didn’t seem to care.
While checking out the vaguely modernist
synagogue (Gran Synagoga de la Comudad Hebrea), the young lady who was
minding the place said hello. When the word “Chicago” slipped out, her
face lit up. In broken English: “State of Obama!”. She was far from the
only Cuban (already) who had expressed unsolicited enthusiasm for our
election results. My airport cab driver, and, yes, even the scam artist
from
Wednesday night had mentioned him favorably. Obama had been
elected just a month earlier, and even in Cuba, there
was optimism for the coming administration. A few months ago, everyone
I spoke to while visiting Japan was enthusiastic about Barack too.
Also, Mexicans earlier in the week were universally favorable.
I
believe that the (few) Americans who think of themselves as Bush
supporters are the same ones who haven’t traveled much outside of the
U.S., and who have not witnessed first hand the unilaterally negative
impact that the Bush administration has had on the global reputation of
the U.S. During the Bush administration, I was in Chile, Spain,
France, England, Easter Island, Japan, Mexico, and now Cuba. Everyone
around the world hated Bush, truly loathed him, and
everyone sees
Obama as a chance for the U.S. to get back on track. Most Americans
can’t even tell you who the leader Japan or Mexico is right now, but
the common people of those nations - and so many others - have been
watching the U.S. anxiously for many years, following our nation’s
problems with great interest. And virtually all of these people feel
that we made the right choice in November of 2008. I have seen this
with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears - even just on this trip
people from Cuba, Mexico, France, The Netherlands, and elsewhere were
already speaking favorably of Barack, even when they thought they were
speaking to a Canadian!
Perhaps next time the United Nations General Assembly meets, the
vote
to end the embargo against Cuba will be 176 to 0, instead of 173
to 3 (as it was last time).
When this happens, the Cuban people will be better off as a whole, but
also, everything that makes Cuba unique, interesting, and special will
inevitably become corrupt and diminished.
Arriving in the Central Havana area, the first of many wonders was
a great Art Deco apartment building
designed by Mira and Rosich, at 108 13th St., near M (the streets use
letters instead of numbers closer to Central Havana). A plaque in front
of the towers states that the leader of the Orthodox party lived here
from 1944 to 1951. Next door is another building, three stories instead
of ten, which is almost as impressive.
And thus begins the zone of Havana modernism. Scattered throughout
this town are world-class examples of virtually every major
architectural style from the 16th century until 1958. Even with
so many of the buildings restored and as well-preserved as Cuba can
manage, far too many of
the structures are falling apart. Peering past the crumbling
concrete,
mildew, and rust, one can see incredible details: black terrazzo,
murals, iridescent tiles, stained glass, glazed terra cotta, and
granite facades inlaid with bronze. But my favorites - possibly -
are
the varied styles from the first half of the 20th century: from Art
Nouveau through deco and
Bauhaus, followed by modernism (mid-century or otherwise) and then
whimsical “Googie” styles.
 |
 |
 |
For the next four or five hours, my senses were most favorably assaulted by wave after wave of spectacular mid-century modern buildings. In the 1930s to 1950s, Havana was booming, and some of the best architects in the world were designing Jetsons-worthy edifices all over the Havana area, but most particularly in this neighborhood. Pete’s book and Naomi’s notes guided me to some of the best ones, but I stumbled across a few classics on my own as well. Did some exploring. Took some pictures. Learned some things. Decided that for an art and architecture nerd like myself, a visit to Havana is absolutely essential. And, if there is one thing that I am more nerdy about than art and architecture, it is rum -- and they have that here too.
They also have scam artists and evil little pieces of debris that have a vendetta against my eyeball, but no place is perfect.
The walking tour eventually deposited me at the former Havana
Hilton
(now the state-run Havana Libre), which is home to the former Havana
Trader Vic’s (now called Polinesio). Like everything else in Havana,
this site has remained virtually unchanged since the day it was
completed in the late 1950s. The spectacular modernist hotel lobby, the
astounding mosaic mural on the front of the building, the wonderful
murals in the upstairs bar, and the relatively intact fifty-year-old
tiki bar make this holy ground for the mid-century modern enthusiast.
It is all here: the ultra-modernist hotel of the future, complete with
the requisite and contrasting oasis of urban savagery in the basement
(Trader Vic’s). Nowhere else is there such a sterling surviving example
of Sven’s thesis (a thesis that I echo in my own writings on the
subject) that the faux-tribal tiki style was an essential component to,
and a mirror image of, the larger genre of space-age modernism.
I also noted that most of the lights are off. Big hotels
and small
homes are no different in a communist nation; everyone must obey the
rules and save energy. The skylight was providing almost enough
light, but it was still a bit murky.
On the second floor balcony, there was a themed art show,
in which
Cuban fashion designers created clothing inspired by famous works of
art from the Cuban art museum. I could take or leave most of the
threads, but this preview of the art museum made me eager to visit
(tomorrow).
Some of the works were labeled and some weren’t (this is Cuba, mister).
Highlights:
Mujeres con Pesces (Women with Fish) by Cundo Bermudez (art)
with Oscar de la Portilla (rags). Figura de Dama by Federico
Beltran Masces (art). And a few unlabeled ones... plus some figural
drawings by Hescalona, which were displayed like the stripe on a candy
cane, wrapped up some of the columns holding the balcony up.
Hescalona’s work seems to be the same as the person who did the cover
images for Depeche Mode’s 1985 single Shake the Disease.
Near the Havana Libre Hotel is another much smaller hotel called
the
Capri; this one is closed but appears to be under renovation. Across
the street from the Havana Libre on one corner is a movie theater
called Yara; due to the Cuban Film Festival taking place, I could not
go inside and check out the lobby. Wish I comprende’d more Espanol
- it might be cool to check out an entry or two in the festival.
On the opposite corner is a wonderful space-age ice cream stand
called
Heladeria Coppelia (La Catedral de Helado - The Cathedral of
Ice Cream). The name is accurate! A series of small atomic-era
buildings are spread out over a few lush and green acres of land, with
the buildings almost obscured by plant life. Ice cream abounds within.
90 cents (CUC cents, natch) for a cone, and people are waiting in line.
Also near there is the Hotel Nacional, a stately and elegant 19th century edifice with a sprawling green patio out back. Built up on an embankment and overlooking the Caribbean just a few dozen yards away, the expansive back patio is a lovely and relaxing spot. Three musicians strolled around entertaining people as the guests sipped Mojitos in the warm afternoon sun. These three men produced the most delicate, creamy, perfect vocal harmonies I have ever heard (and I have worked in the music business for over twenty years!). Effortlessly matching their vibratos and blending seamlessly, the three voices performed as one, and renewed this tired and jaded old record producer’s ability to be amazed by music. I was able to listen to them for all of two minutes before they went on break, but that’s all it took to make an impression.
Discovered the Union de Esretores and Artistes de Cuba
(Union of
Writers and Artists of Cuba) building, yet another spectacular 19th
century mansion that has been restored and repurposed (at 17th and H). On a patio dominated by a few big banyan
trees, some sort of awards
ceremony for the Cuban Film Festival was taking place. No one seemed to
object when I selected a table and sat down. It was a shady and
relaxing spot to rest after a long hike. I had no idea who was being
awarded what or why, but I did enjoy the live music that happened after
the ceremony. People were drinking and relaxing, and I suspected that I
was rubbing elbows with a who’s who of the Cuban film industry. But
again, my Spanish is so severely limited that rather than trying to hob
nob, I just observed.
I suspected that I was at a free reception; the waiter was walking
around enhancing people’s cups of cola from his bottle of rum. Making
Cuba Libres... for free. Get it? Never mind. I wasn’t sure what the
deal was, so I just ordered a Mojito and paid for it. But I think I
could have drank free if I wanted to stick with the rum and cola. But
really, it is so cheap to drink rum on this island, that the appeal of
crashing an awards ceremony just for the free booze is considerably
diminished. In this case it was Castillo brand rum, poured from
two-liter plastic bottles. Hmmm, maybe even for free, I’d rather not.
There was no food being offered. That is something the Cubans cannot
afford to give away. Rum, they have. Food, not so much.
I listened to the music while watching the ice cubes melt in my
drink.
I have been very careful about not drinking any local water,
here or in Mexico. It has been strictly bottled water, only.
But just a
few ice cubes, and with the sterilizing properties of rum... couldn’t
do me much damage, could it?
The band were amplified and a little loud for my taste.
Amplified
music always seems to be a little bit too loud, as if the mics and p.a.
system somehow mandate their own over-use. This is universal, and I
guess I am hyper-sensitive to it since I run this kind of gear for a
living. I am quite critical of 95% of my peers who can’t help but to
overdo it. Making the music heard is the goal, not beating the audience
into submission with abusive sound pressure level.
On a tip, I went looking for (and found) a Paladar called
the Gringo
Viejo (Old Gringo) en route back to Vedado and Casa Belkis. An old man
sat on the sidewalk looking for tourists, and inviting them inside. He
didn't lure me in per se; the Gringo was my destination
anyway. The
house looked kind of crappy and average from the outside, but the
Gringo Viejo had come recommended. Inside, down a hallway, and then
through a door. And now: this did not look like someone’s house any
longer. This looked alike a proper restaurant, and a sort of cozy and
cute one at that, cleaner and better maintained than most of what I
observed elsewhere in Havana.
Dinner was a little expensive for Havana: my chicken was 6 CUC, bread was another 2 CUC, water (bottled of course) was 1 CUC, and a double Havana Club 7-Year was 3 CUC. The food was nothing special, naturally, but at least they made an effort on the presentation.
After dinner, it was time to go to the Teatro Mella (Mella Theater), for an Afro-Cuban dance performance. The troupe is called Afrocubizate. Jeffrey - the guy who took me to the hospital the other day - is the choreographer. They were performing all weekend. After their run of performances at the Mella, they were off to England to dance there. I’d heard some gossip that at least one member of the troupe was planning on defecting while in the U.K.
On the outside, and in the lobby, the theater was another beautiful mid-century masterpiece, with an only slightly older style present in the hall itself: almost a Gaudi feel to it, but far more restrained than what that famous Spanish architect might have come up with. The stage was quite large. To my left was a huge bear of a Cuban man who was very friendly and wanted to practice his English. I helped him with a few words. To my right was a mother and daughter from South America, who were reluctant to converse at first. When Nadine showed up they saw me as less of a threat and were a bit more chatty. And of course “a bit more chatty” is the key phrase whenever Nadine makes the scene. Admission was 5 CUC, a bottle of water was 70 cents, and a pint of Anejo Reserva was 3.85 CUC.
The show was quite spectacular, well worth
the five bucks. There
were fourteen large production numbers with live percussive music and
more than a dozen dancers in elaborate costumes. The themes to the
numbers (reflected in music and costume) ranged from the African roots
of the Cuban population, to Colonial-era Cuba, to the modern era. The
program was delightful, but it went on for something like three hours,
and I was satiated and ready to go by the tenth number or so. I noticed
that most of the rest of the crowd were getting restless towards the
end as well. But do not let it be said that the Afrocubizante troupe
fails to give you your 5 CUC worth of entertainment. Music,
performance, costume, and staging were all solid.
Afterwards, Nadine met up with Jeffrey again, my hero and savior. He and some of his friends wanted to go out. They were speaking rapid fire Spanish, and I really was completely out of the loop. Nadine told me we should go with them, so we did. She didn’t know where we were going or how far away it was. While I am normally up for random adventures like this, bounding off into the night planless and obedient to whim, I was wary of following Nadine, in particular, on such an adventure. We jumped on a city bus with a bunch of people. I didn’t even catch most of their names. There were perhaps eight of us. The bus driver didn’t charge us as we piled on, but we did all have to stand; the bus was already crowded. We headed in the opposite direction from ‘home’ (Belkis), rode for a mile or so as the bumpy buss tossed us about and challenged our ability to remain vertical, and then Nadine told me that the plan had fallen apart and that everyone was going home. Naturally. So we got off of the bus, and took a longer than necessary cab ride back to Belkis.
Just as there are two currencies in Cuba, one for the locals and one for the tourists, and two different types of shops as well, there are two different types of cabs. One can tell the difference easily: the license plates are either yellow or blue. Our cab driver was apparently a “local” driver who was trying to make a few extra bucks. He didn’t turn the meter on when we got in the cab. When we got to Belkis, and asked how much the ride was, he just sort of shrugged and said (in heavily accented English) “whatever you think”. So we gave him about 3 CUC. He was probably thrilled with that, because CUCs are worth about four times more than the local pesos.
A couple from Quebec were also at Belkis when we got back; they had been at Afrocubizante too.
My eye is basically fine now, but I have been coughing all day
long... still no other symptoms though. Weird. Annoying.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
After another Angela's specialty breakfasts at Casa Belkis, a cab took
me back to the neighborhood
of the Hotel Plaza on the border of Central Havana and Havana Vieja.
The destination: Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes (Cuban national
art
museum), which was a great surprise ( 5 CUC). As much of an art nerd
as I can be, and as relatively deep as my knowledge of art history
goes, I was hard-pressed to come up with the names of many Cuban
artists before coming to Cuba.
Wifredo Lam, of course, and then.... hmmmm.....
Thinking that the museum here -- which
is devoted entirely to Cuban art -- would be rather small and limited,
I was delighted to discover that Cubans have participated in -- and
excelled in -- every important art movement since the early 19th
century. The museum is no Louvre, but the substantially
large three-story edifice contained a wealth of revelations for me.
I
now have quite a healthy list of new (to me) artists to research... as
soon as I finish the ongoing research into the backlog of artists that
I discovered in Japan earlier this year, and France the year before,
and in San
Francisco, Detroit, Chicago, and Cleveland in between... and then back
through 2007 and beyond...
| As has been the case in some of my previous
travels, I took rather copious notes on what I observed. In this
case, there was so much art that was new to me, that my notes became
even
more extensive than usual. So, I have segregated my notes on the
specific artists, and my thoughts about Cuban art in general, into a
separate document. Those interested can see the Art Digression by clicking here. Suffice to say, I spent the afternoon learning a lot, and opening my eyes to a huge variety of work by artists including Tomas Sanchez, Manuel Mendive, Ever Fonseca, Zaida del Rio, Carmelo Gonzales, Sandu Darie, Dolores Soldevilla, Salvador Corratge, Jose Mijares, Leopoldo Romanach, Armando G. Menocal, Jose A. Bencomo Mena, and many others before it was time for a break. I aneeded to take a
load off of my feet after two hours in the museum, and also to clear my
head and digest what I had seen before continuing. So: a bottle of water, a rest, and maybe I’ll feel a little
better. My Spanish is improving a little bit. I was a bit
self-satisfied that I managed to cobble together an almost complete
sentence in Spanish for the
woman
at the
counter: Woah. |
|
Ladies, you may be used to hearing this sort of stuff from men all the time, to the point where it loses value or even becomes annoying, but guys just don’t hear things like this every day. I think it might mean more to men to hear this sort of thing, because it is so much more rare. Maybe when I was beanpole’s age, two decades ago, and had a full head of hair and a waist that was five inches narrower, I’d get complemented by random women once or twice a year... but not very often, and it has been a long time. C’est la vie.
Well, this nondescript snack counter woman suddenly became the most beautiful lady in all of Cuba!
But I still didn’t know what to make of it, how to take it.
So I humbly thanked her, and went off, trying not to
trip over anything as I left. I selected a seat in the patio area of
the museum, and drank my water slowly, reflecting on the art I’d seen,
and on how much one little compliment can really make someone’s day.
What eye problem? What cough? What digestion issues? What annoying and
potentially lethal travel buddy? What scam? What short-of-cashitude?
It’s sunny, there is good art here, I am alive.
I vowed to dish out sincere and heartfelt compliments to more people in
the future.
Anyway...
Things in Cuba are half-assed.
I don’t think it is that people don’t care, it is more that they don’t
have
the raw materials or resources to do things properly. They do what they
can with what they have. But still, even large institutions like
this museum -
which is less than a decade old - has peeling paint on the walls, and I
spied one corner of an indoor stone staircase in which a few dozen
people put out
their cigarette butts and left them there.
That art and fashion exhibit that I saw (at the hotel formerly known as
the Havana Hilton) is apparently the subject of
some sort of event or reception here at the museum this
week. In
the courtyard of the museum, there is a stage set up with video
screens and lights, and chairs ready to go for the fashion event. Might
even be tonight. Meanwhile, in the men’s room, there is no soap, to
paper towels, no toilet paper. So typical of Cuba. Sound and light
systems they can do, but paper towels are in short supply even in this
grand institution of culture.
This is Cuba, mister!
Back to some art from Jorge Camacho, Fayad Jamis Tierra, Fideilo Ponce de Leon, Marcelo Pogolotti, Sanz Carta, Henry Cleenewerck, Viktor Patricio Landaluze, Robert Diago, Mariano Rodriguez, Wifredo Lam, Carlos Enriquez, and many more...
Leaving the museum, a cab (3 CUC) took me
back to Havana Vieja in
time to visit the Havana Club-sponsored rum museum.
The guided tour was relatively expensive (7 CUC) and cursory at
best. Within the museum are a mockup of a rum distillery, antique
sugar presses, and a scale diorama of a larger sugar plantation
(featuring an electric train and lights that are far, far cooler and
more elaborate than anything that any Cuban child has ever seen on
Christmas morning). The tour is guided and fast, so visitors
don't have time to linger and absorb info at their own pace. The
woman
who guided the rushed tour spoke passable English. She had a spiel to
get
through, and did so at lightning speed. She was disinterested in
dialogue or in taking questions. Interruptions were not accepted
gracefully.
Rum geeks will be disappointed; there is no true
love here for the spirit, it is all just a cash-cow and another ad for
Havana Club. The thimble full of “free” rum that ended the tour was
hardly worth the price of admission.
Atypical for Cuba (but not so
elsewhere) was the extensive gift shop between the end of the tour and
the exit; it was here that I saw the $1700 bottle of Havana Club Maximo
(left)
stored safely in a glass display case, cradled in velvet.
I tried to engage the tour guide woman in a more in-depth
conversation about rum, but it was
short-lived; she had to busy herself herding people into the gift shop.
Some things truly never change no matter where you go. She did confirm
for me that the Havana Club Anejo Reserva is a six-year-old rum, one
scant year younger than the rather more expensive 7-year. She also
agreed with me when I said I preferred the younger Reserva.
Hey, if better is
also cheaper, then so be it.
The sun was just starting to get low in the
sky, but it was bright
and pleasant out. Tourists from all over Europe and South America were
wandering the clean and brightly colored streets of the designated
tourist zone. If there were any other Americans, their secret was safe.
I found a little garden behind a tall wrought iron gate, dedicated to
Diana of Gaia. The old coot tending to the little park wanted to chat.
I liked the bronze Nouveau bust of the goddess near the entrance. Near
there is Casa de los Arabes, an Moorish-styled building with some
peacocks wandering around the courtyard. Just yards from there is a big
open warehouse full of classic cars, all restored. Cars from the 1910s
up to the 1950s; race cars, sedans, all types.
This street ends in the Corner of Justice, and then opens up into a big square plaza across from the Malecon (the coastal highway). The Natural History Museum is on this plaza. There was a book fair going on here (Wednesdays through Saturdays until 6 p.m.). Naomi had told me about this, and I was glad to have found it. On all four sides of the square, vendors had little stalls selling used books. Of course, most of them are in Spanish, but I had been tipped off to the fact that if I poked around I’d be able to find six-decade-old souvenirs from pre-Castro Havana: nightclub brochures, cocktail recipe books, men’s magazines, tourism guides, postcards, and even a fair number of art books. Most of the people were selling books on Communist politics and bios of Fidel and Che, but with a bit of asking around, I got some of the vendors to produce fascinating and dusty old artifacts from underneath their tables.
Once I had managed to make clear what I was looking for, word spread like wildfire, and after a while, people were handing me books preemptively as I walked up to their tables. Word of my needs had arrived before my body did. Who needs the internet?
I picked up a recent book on the artist Wifredo Lam (whom
I had developed an appreciation for earlier this afternoon), and a
small colorful vintage 1950s
collection of Cuban rum drink recipes for 5 CUC each. It’s a theme for
me: art books and cocktail books. Everywhere I go.
Neither really have
to be in English, do they?
Everywhere I go...
I did have to pass on an absolutely gorgeous hardback book full of
wonderfully lithographed reproductions of deco-era liqueur ads on all
of the right-hand pages, with recipes to the left. The book was falling
apart and the pages were mildewing, but the vendor still wouldn’t go a
nickel under 50 CUC! The red velvet cover (probably once covered with a
dust jacket) had a simple gold stamp on the lower right corner:
“Manzarbeitia y cia”. Turns out there is a famous doctor named
Manzarbeitia, so doing a web search for this book yielded nothing but
hundreds of hits for medical papers on organ transplants.
Ironically, Dr. Manzarbeitia is an expert in liver swaps!
Even more outrageously priced was El Arte del Cantinero o las Vinos
y
los Licores by Hilario Alonso Sanchez (1948, published by Imp. P.
Fernandez y Cia), a handbook of old recipes, a bartender's guide, also
full of old ads for liquors and liqueurs I have never even seen before
(Ron Jiqui?). 100 CUC, and the book was completely falling apart. I
imagined some of my cocktail snob friends having apoplexy at me passing
this one up. Martin Cate and Jeff Berry, I am typing at
you. There was a treasure trove of new material to plunder in
this tome.
But there was no way I was spending 100 CUC.
I also passed on a 1945 English hardback copy of Tomorrow’s House
by
George Nelson and Henry Wright for 10 CUC; I can find that one at home.
Another guy had stacks and stacks of cool old lithographed lobby cards for Cuban and Mexican movies for only 3 CUC each. But... they’re wider than my suitcase, and I’d have to carry them around all the way back to Chicago... they’d get trashed. Too bad. I did grab three 1950s men’s magazines that I think my pal Dean - a collector of these - might get a kick out of. Those were around 20 CUC for the lot.
Some of the vendor guys were talking about how Americans are always the ones who wanted to buy things. I know that I am a whole lot less interested in buying and owning things than most of my countrymen (although I have and will continue to admit to this weakness for books). Yet to the Cubans, my walking away from this bazaar with two small tomes and some magazines seemed typical of American excess. People here just don’t shop. The main streets are lined with homes, not commercial districts. Aside from the ubiquitous Havana Club, there is no advertising here, at all. The endless commerce zones lined up on the main boulevards of every country I have visited in North America, Europe, South America, and Asia (even on Easter Island!) are missing in Cuba.
There are no grocery stores even as big as a
7-11. They don’t do pet
stores here - feed the dog table scraps, and if you want a puppy, wait
until your neighbor’s dog has a litter. Auto parts? Hack ‘em
together
yourself. Home Depot? Ingenuity and resourcefulness go a long
way; that
and taking good care of grand-dad’s old tool kit. Cell phones? You must
be joking. Toys? The kids here fly paper kites for fun. Paper kites.
Like the freaking 1920s. These people are so used to getting by on the most simple of necessities that the idea of having more than they really need seems frivolous, wasteful, and just odd to most of them.
Coming from the U.S. of A., the only country in the world that has a thriving industry in self-storage facilities (we have so much stuff that we have to rent places to store it all!), I have always admired the minimalism that I have seen exhibited elsewehere, even by residents of major cities like Tokyo and Paris. But these Cubans have the concept of getting by on nothing down pat. It is admirable, but once again I have to wonder what they’d do if given the choice to consume with abandon.
Speaking of consuming, it is beverage time. A rather famous and legendary watering hole called Dos Hermanos is virtually next door to the Havana Club museum. Naomi and Sven reported it open but seedy in 2007. It is now closed, but I think the closure is just for renovation. A bronze plaque outside says something abut the place's historic significance and lists some names: Ernesto Garcia Lorca, Marlon Brando, Ernest Hemingway, Eroll Flynn, and Enrique Serpa. Not at all bad company to be drinking with.
Ok, rum later then, time for dinner. Naturally, my dining
companion
was Nadine. For some reason I was in a super bad mood all of a sudden.
I can’t remember why. Upon reflection, I was being a bit petulant, but
I can’t for the life of me remember why. That’s the thing about me and
anger: I tend to let things go, and not let them stay with me. It isn’t
worth it. Whatever it was, I am over it!
Taberna de la Muralla has outdoor seating on the Placa Vieja (the big
public square by the church in Havana Vieja, at the corner of Calle
Mariah(sp?)). It is very touristy-feeling. They serve house-made beer
in a three-foot tall glass cylinder, with another, narrower cylinder
inside it. The inner cylinder is full of ice, and the beer is in the
outer ring. A tap on the bottom of the contraption lets one pour the
cold cerveza at will. We didn’t get one; I am not much of a
beer guy
anymore. The restaurant also sells skewers of meat, like kebab. Each
skewer dangles vertically from a ring of wrought iron hooks above a
wooden dish. I was starving, but I didn’t order any food; I munched on
a few of the bite-sized rolls that showed up with Nadine’s skewers.
The band were playing acoustically, that is without amplification of
any sort, and they sounded good. There really is music everywhere here,
and as someone who made a living in the concert industry for close to
two decades, I actually appreciate the pure and harmonious sound of
people playing music without mics, amps, speakers, and other
electronics in the way.
A 5 CUC bartered cab ride (no meter; we named our price and the cabbie accepted) took us to Dos Gardenias, a recommended nightclub in Miramar, the westernmost part of Havana (so we passed all the way through Central Havana and Vedado, having come from the easternmost part of Havana, Havana Vieja). The show was expensive and didn’t start until hours later, plus the place didn’t look very interesting, and we had to get up early the next morning. So we skipped it. But I did discover some more rum in the liquor store/gift shop in the lobby. This was the only place that seemed to have an extensive collection of Cuban rum brands other than the ubiquitous Havana Club.
Mulata rum (several varieties, all with a cutie girl on
the label), Santero (Anejo Blanco, Aguardiente, and Palma
Superior), Arecha (Elixir de Ron), Ron Anejo Legendario, Brandy Torres
Perfecto, Ron Anejo Santiago de Cuba (Blanco and Anejo), and Ron
Varadero (Palma Superior and Anejo 7). I don’t know what any of these
are, but they’re all 4 to 8 CUC per bottle.
On the higher end, Mulata has a Solera for 45.90 CUC, and a Palma
Reserva for 37.80 CUC. I was also shocked to see some very dusty old
bottles
of Johnnie Walker Blue for 292 CUC!
Doing a price comparison, Havana Club Anejo Reserva is 10.30 CUC here,
so actually this place is a bit on the expensive side, for Havana.
I also discovered a beverage from a brand called Cubé, made
(apparently, based on Nadine’s translation of the label) of anejo rum
and Spanish sherry. We thought it might be like a relative of port, a
rum-fortified wine sort of thing. “Ajerezado” (sp?). The same company
also make liqueurs of banana, cacao, triple sec, coffee, and
maraschino, which
makes me suspect the quality of their rum. Seems like Cuba’s answer to
De Kuyper.
I picked up six little one-ounce “airplane bottles” of the Mulata and the Santero.
We decided to walk back to Vedado and Casa Belkis. Although we had
to be up early to leave for Trinidad, it was still too early to go
home. The night was pleasant, and the stroll through part of Miramar -
once the ritzy part of Havana, and now home of embassies and diplomats
- revealed some nice architectural treasures. In addition to the large,
fenced in Colonial-era estates, we found a pair of amazing mid-century
modern apartment buildings at the corner of 7th Ave., and 6th
St. Pete
Moruzzi missed these for inclusion in his great tome - woe is he, for
they amaze! Five story glass-enclosed stairwells with starburst lights
at the top, cloud-shaped balconies, flagstone details, iron
balustrades, and deco-ish details on the rails and porches. Nice.
Cars du Jour:
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