Leo’s niece decides she’s going to teach me Spanish. I’ve been waiting for a taxi collectivo to pick me up and take me to Trinidad and we’ve been hanging out on the terrace together. I ask her how she likes Havana and she makes a face. She likes the house, but not the city. Her family is all in Texas; she’s in Havana to finish her education. It’s free after all.
She points to objects and parts of the body, repeating the words in Spanish. I follow along for a little while and then fail miserably. “Go to school!” she commands. She warns me that if I don’t take classes when I get back to New York I’ll have big problems with her. I’m already behind in my Duolingo lessons.
On Friday, It threatens to rain most of the day and I decide to spend my time in museums, starting with the international exhibits at the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes—Arte Universal and then continuing on to the building that houses Cuban art. While I appreciate the former, I love the latter, walking the floors of the Arte Cubano twice as it storms outside.
In a break in the storm I walk to the nearby Museo de la Revolución, housed in the former presidential palace. The mansion was originally decorated by Tiffany’s and one room was designed to resemble its namesake at the Palace of Versailles. Now the building hosts exhibits arranged chronologically from pre-Columbian culture to the current socialist regime, mainly in the form of photos and text arranged on wall-sized panels.
Behind the museum a glass structure houses the Granma, the 18m yacht that brought Fidel back to Cuba. Other vehicles associated with the Revolution dot the pavillion; in one corner, an eternal flame in honor of the heroes of the Revolution.
The marble steps are slick with rain, and I pull an umbrella out of my bag to walk between the building and the pavillion. Soldiers stand at the four corners, and are quick to shout at tourists confused as to how to enter the grounds.
Leaving the museum, I turn once again to the old quarter. It’s packed with tourists; I miss the quiet of my first evening.
I climb one of the towers of the Catedral de San Cristóbal de la Habana for its views over the Plaza de la Catedral and the city. From my vantage point, I watch a small group lead a young woman around the square. She’s dressed in a black gown and they direct her here and there to take portraits. I guess it’s her quinceañera; from the terrace of my casa I’ve noticed a similar portrait hanging in a living room across the street. It’s almost life-sized.
She attracts a small crowd as people angle for a photo. I walk past her to visit the Casa de Lombillo an 18th century palacio that once served as the post office. When I return to the courtyard she is gone.
The rain begins again in earnest and I hurry into the Taller Experimental de Gráfica, a center for graphic arts. I watch as artists confer with each other over their prints, comparing one against another before making a final decision. As I admire a set of prints a man appears at my arm. “I made those,” he tells me proudly. I ask him how much they are and he flips one over. The price is written in pencil on the back. “But for you it will be less,” he promises.
That night, I buy a ticket to see the Ballet de CamagĂĽey at the Gran Teatro de la Habana. In New York, I had met the associate director of a another company from CamagĂĽey. He had invited me to visit them on my trip, but CamagĂĽey proved too far to travel for the limited time I had. The ballet would be as close as I would get.
The recently-renovated theater gleams. As I wait for the performance to begin I peruse the program. The Ballet de Camagüey is to dance Peter Breuer’s Carmen. It’s the story of a Spanish gypsy choreographed by a German to be danced by Cubans. An announcement is made to turn off all devices, the lights go down, the curtain parts…
The next day I take a wayward path to Habana Vieja so that I can walk through Havana’s Chinatown. Outside the Escuela Cuban Wushu I watch Cuban parents pick up their children. Outside restaurants I see Cubans set up tables, sweep the sidewalks. The signs are in Chinese, the architecture is Chinese, but I see no Chinese people, not even a Chinese tourist at this early hour.
I take the ferry to Casa Blanca in order to visit the forts on the other side of the bay. The sun is shining and there is no shade during the 3km hike up from the ferry landing. It’s the first day that shows no sign of rain, and I find myself wishing for the overcast skies of yesterday. I fight the urge to flag down a passing car.
At the Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabaña I run across a group of schoolchildren. They’re disappointed I don’t speak Spanish and do their best to talk to me, but soon exhaust their English. After asking me my name and where I’m from they seem at a loss.
They gesture at their devices and I think they’re asking me to take their photo. It takes me a moment to realize they want a photo with me. The one tasked as photographer seems disappointed, but there’s no one else around to. They hand their phones to him and I do the same.
At the Castillo de los Tres Santos Reyes Magnos del Morro I climb the lighthouse. At the top a man startles me. He tells me the outdoor walkway is closed, but I can take photos from the door so long as no one sees me. If I am seen, he mimes a knife slicing his throat. I thank him for the views and make my way back down the circular steps.
As I exit the fort, I see my friends from before. I shake their hands and make a show of seeing them again. I ask if they’ve come to tour the fort. They’re noncommittal at first, but then I see them walk one by one over the bridge
On the ferry back, a woman is engrossed in her tablet. I’m curious what’s she’s doing and angle for a better view. She’s taking selfies.
That night I have dinner at El Cocinero, a loungey restaurant on the roof of an old oil factory. It’s full of tourists celebrating birthdays and anniversaries and their vacations. A small bar crouches within the old brick chimney, and from a narrow walkway above the patio the views stretch all the way to Habana Vieja.
The factory itself has been converted into the Fabricá de Arte Cubano, an art warehouse housing multiple bars, two restaurants (one serving mostly snacks), at least three performance spaces, galleries, and shops across its many floors. I get there early to avoid the lines and peruse the schedule.
The evening kicks off with a fashion show featuring Tusas Vanesa’s 2017 collection. A catwalk has been set up in the largest space and slowly people have been staking out spots in the chairs that surround it. Shortly after nine, the volume of the music increases and the stage comes alive.
I admire a pair of shoes in one of the boutique shops. A woman reaches over to arrange one of the tassels. She introduces herself as the designer and I tell her how much I love them. She’s only been designing for two years, but I like her style. I ask if she lives in Havana and she tells me she’s been splitting time between the Dominican Republic and Cuba. I ask which she prefers. Cuba, she says. It’s where her family and friends are.
The boutique begins to fill up and I move to make room. She has me wait while she looks for a card. When she hands it to me she points out her Instagram username. I promise to follow her when I again have access to the internet.
I linger at the club, wandering the galleries and catching part of Roberto Fonesca’s set and sipping mojitos. Around midnight a Cuban band takes to a stage near the entrance. They’re playing American rock songs from the 70s and 80s. As I go to settle my bill they strike up “Surrender.”
Outside, I bargain the taxi fare back to my casa. I ask the driver to drop me off at the corner of the Malecón and Escobar in hopes that he will drive along the sea. When he does I am in thrall to the mass of people lining the sea wall; it’s as if it’s been remade with people.
I ask the driver to let me off so I can walk. It’s a dream, being in Cuba, strolling the Malecón, and I’m not yet ready to call it a night. No one else seems ready to do so either. I find a place along the wall to sit and soak in the scene: the people, the cars, the moon up above and the sea softly lapping the rocks behind me.
When finally Iwalk back towards my casa, the streets of Centro Habana are still awake. A group of teenagers play dominoes on the sidewalk, a family sits in front of their home enjoying the cool night air.
The next day I leave for Trinidad. I’m surprised how sad it makes me to be leaving Havana; my only consolation is that I’ll be returning in a week’s time. Leo tells me that his casa is booked the night I plan to return but to drop by. He’ll find something for me. 🇨🇺
