Havana
The four hour bus ride from Cienfuegos to Havana passed quickly. We were tourists again, away from Sea Quill for the first time, on an air-conditioned bus with other tourists, traveling in the old way of departure schedules, tickets, reservations, and rest stops; after four months of cruising, land travel felt novel. When the bus dropped us off, we caught a cab into Habana Centro. Our driver was a hip, Debbie Harry type blond, who would fit in just fine in the East Village; when she needed directions to the first Casa Particular on our list (a sort of B&B), she hung out the window and shouted down a guy on the street, "Hey, Niño..." ("Hey, Baby...").
Set loose on the street, within a few minutes, we were excitedly talking about how to move to Havana... no more cruising (though we just started); let's get an apartment in an amazing building like that and spin up some work in tourism, or whatever.... We were in Habana Centro, a neighborhood barely touched by renovation. Around every corner was another amazing photograph. Improbably, we walked the area without seeing another tourist.
Along the cool and breezy Malecon, we found some relief from the blistering midday heat. When we got hungry we had yummy pizzas for 6 pesos (25 cents), as we had in Santiago. Outside the breaker walls, Havana kids swam in the ocean and sunbathed on the rocks... and everywhere, boys were playing ball in the streets.
Eventually, our rambling brought us into the neighborhood of Habana Viejo, the real tourist attraction of Havana. Here, in the oldest part of the city, most buildings are already renovated, or are under renovation; the blocks are jammed with designer bars and restaurants -- which, in turn, are jammed with tourists. At every step, we were invited to come inside for mojitos or cigars, those Havana staples. Meanwhile, on several blocks, we came across charismatic old men and women who asked us to take their pictures, posing with cigars in their mouths. Although the buildings were gorgeous, the ambiance was a bit too "Disneyland Havana." Yes, it was beautiful; yes, it was entertaining (at tourist prices); but it could not hold our attention like the neighborhood of Habana Centro, or the other Cuban cities we had visited, Cienfuegos and (our favorite) Santiago. The (nostalgic) dream of seeing old Havana "before it changes" was moot. Havana is already quite "changed," and clearly, it had been changing for a number of years.
We took a barge -- a real commuter ferry -- across the bay to Casa Blanca (a Weehawken to Havana's Manhattan), a sleepy neighborhood with a military base, where we walked up a steep path to get a bird's eye view of the city and harbor of Havana. At the top of the hill is the military zone, including the luxurious, isolated (and well-guarded) house where Che lived after the revolution. We were metal searched, along with the rest of the ferry passengers, as we came and went from Casa Blanca.
Back in Habana Viejo, we strolled the open-air book market. The range of available subjects can be summed up in a short list: Castro's autobiography and speeches, the Revolution and revolutionary heroes (Che, Jose Marti, etc), Lenin and Marxism, Spanish colonial history, some decrepit Russian novels, and Hemingway. Slim pickings for the biggest book market in Cuba's biggest city. We were reminded of a man we met back in Santiago, a lover of Jazz and Gospel, who complained to us that he couldn't get his hands on any music but Cuban music. The book situation looked the same.
The first Casa Particular where we stayed was odd. We came to it on a recommendation, and we were greeted warmly by the friendly hosts. They invited us up to their sunny, fourth story apartment, and offered us coffee on a pleasant balcony overlooking the street. A room was available for $25 a night. Perfect. When the coffee was finished, we asked to see the room, but instead, the nice couple brought us downstairs to a neighbor's dark, backside apartment. We all filed into his windowless living room and were shown a large bedroom, with private bath, and windows that faced the air shaft. Breakfast would be served upstairs, in the first couple's apartment. Was it okay? Did we like it? The first couple and the neighbor were all looking at us, waiting for our answer. We looked at each other, certain that we absolutely did NOT like it, but neither one of us is good at saying no. We didn't want to be rude. After all, we had just drank their coffee. Coming home later that night, we turned the lock, and entered the apartment. The man, his wife, and their toddler were sitting on the sofa watching TV. We had to walk between them and the TV to get to our bedroom, ten feet away.
Later, as we lay in bed, we thought about the apartment. It was really small. The living room was at the center, right off the front door. A small kitchen, and the baby's room with a bunk bed, opened off the living room. Then there was our room, with the bathroom accessed through it. There were no other rooms. Where did the couple sleep? Where was the other bathroom? We lay in bed, whispering to each other... are we sleeping in their bed? The man was gracious, but the wife seemed uncomfortable, even a little rude. We were pretty much certain that the husband had rented out their own bedroom (and the only bathroom in the apartment) to make $25 a night -- one month's wages in Cuba -- in exchange for sleeping in the baby's room (and using the neighbor's bathroom?). We felt bad for them, but we couldn't get out of there soon enough.
The next morning, we woke early and went looking for another Casa Particular. We quickly found a much better place, in a pretty colonial with three rooms for rent off of a sitting room in the front; the family's private rooms were in the back (this time we checked). When we returned to the first Casa to say that were moving (we lied that a room had opened up in the house where our friends were staying...), the wife burst into a happy smile, and for the first time, she became friendly and warm. She was genuinely relieved that we were leaving. Some things are not worth the money. The pictures below are of our second Casa Particular on the edge of Habana Viejo. It was an excellent place to stay, spacious and private, for $30 a night.
As night fell in Havana, fleets of old American and Russian cars lit up the streets, and we headed out to find the music and drink the juice -- Cuba Libres and Mojitos (after years of bartending, Jen finally learned that the 'secret ingredient' in mojitos is a dash of Angostura bitters, duh).
We thought we would be staying out all night long in Havana... weren't we the ones who used to close the bars in Brooklyn? Instead, we discovered that the cruising life had changed our circadian rhythms; we could barely stay awake past 10 p.m. Just the same, we had some fun and heard some good live music in the early hours. One evening at a great cafe called Montserrate, we met Christoph, a cigar broker from Germany, who struck up a conversation and got us laughing. Christoph quickly learned that we were cigar tyros. He must have taken pity on us, because he gave us a mellow starter cigar (nothing too complex for the neophytes), and clipped and lit it for us. He invited us to meet him at the famous Partagàs cigar factory in the morning for an inside view. Partagàs is a must-see for most visitors to Havana, so we jumped at the chance to see it with a connoisseur.
In the morning, we scarfed down breakfast and coffee, and headed out to Partagàs on foot. When we walked through the main door of the factory, we found ourselves in a crowd of tourists filing up for tours in Spanish, English or French. A doorman swooped over and knowingly plucked us out of the crowd; he led us through the gift shop to a VIP room in the back, where Christoph was already waiting. We settled into deep leather seats in the clubby, wood-paneled room, and Christoph lit a $50 cigar for us. Within a few minutes, his other guests arrived, a fun group of cigar collecting friends from Germany. Out came a round of mojitos and more cigars. It was 10 o'clock in the morning.
Whatever we were smoking was fantastic...our conversion was quick; we saw the light. Christoph's company, La Casa del Habano Hamburg, ships premium Cuban cigars to private buyers all over the world; they have a huge business in the U.S., despite -- or maybe even because of -- the embargo. (Check out his web site from the link above.) A little while later, at Christoph's request, a Partagàs employee came to collect us, and we were treated to a tour of the production line, where hundreds of skilled cigar makers sit in rows of wooden desks, hand-rolling, cutting, labeling and sorting the different cigars that Partagàs manufactures. It was a cool tour, and at the end of it we were both impressed with the craft that goes into cigars, and how nuanced and individual the different varieties are. Afterwards, back in the VIP room with Christoph and the guys, more a.m. herf, and another round of rum drinks, awaited us. (A big thanks to Christoph for treating these low-budget, no frills travellers to a first class experience. We could get used to it....)
Later in our adventure...
Take a look at what was sighted on the streets of Havana... THE WEREULF:
Ulf was getting lots of funny comments from Cubans on the street. Although our Spanish wasn't good enough to catch the rapid-fire jokes in their entirety, the salutes, "Comandantes," and big grins tipped us off. Ulf's salty style was an unintentional gag: mui revolutionary. We spent our last morning in Havana at the barbershop. Ulf cued up behind a few Cuban men for his turn in the seat. He paid in convertibles (the tourist currency); they paid with ration coupons.
On the fifth morning, we caught the bus back to Cienfuegos, where Sea Quill was tied up at the marina. Returning to the boat after our first trip away from it, we both were struck by how much Sea Quill is our home now... and how strange it feels that "home" is wherever Sea Quill is, for whatever period of time.
Back in Cienfuegos, we walked the two miles from La Terminal, the bus station, to the marina, through streets that we knew. It was late afternoon, and people were standing in their doorways, or sitting in lawn chairs out on the sidewalk. Kids were playing, and a few men were selling vegetables from wheelbarrow carts. Each man had only one thing to sell. We bought a bunch of cilantro from one, a tin's worth of tomatoes from another. In a peso store, where only Cubans are allowed to shop, they were not supposed to sell us eggs, but they did.