Now that travel to Cuba is becoming easier, we wanted to get there before McDonald's. I spent a little time researching the best way and decided a travel agency specializing in getting Americans there was the easiest route. I contacted Cubatodo.com in December; we made reservations for January. To avoid the possibility of weather delays, we flew Portland to L.A. to Miami, then a 45-minute charter to Havana.
We arrived January 14 after dark, were picked up at the airport and driven to
Casa Telefonica, a small hotel in
Habana Vieja, where was made, according to the plaque on the wall, the first telephone call in Spanish in the world.
More important to us, it was located in the middle of Old Havana, two short blocks from
Plaza Vieja, where we headed that same evening.
One of our delightful discoveries in Havana was music; almost every bar or restaurant we frequented had musicians, sometimes one or two, sometimes a band, playing to appreciative audiences. At a corner of the plaza we found
La Vitrola, a restaurant with umbrella covered tables in the street and walls covered with photos and music-related artifacts.
After midnight we walked back to the
Casa.
The next morning, after a breakfast of fresh fruit, omelet, tea and coffee in the
Casa, we walked back to the plaza, which was as appealing in daylight as night,
with delightful cat sculptures around the central fountain,
a bronze sculpture by Roberto Fabelo of a naked lady holding a dinner fork riding a giant rooster,
and canon balls marking off areas.
We walked in the rain down fascinating cobblestone streets, canons inserted upright to block vehicles,
until we arrived at the
Iglesia y Convento de San Francisco de Asis, completed in 1730,
now housing a museum of religious art,
(with few artifacts, all enclosed in Plexiglas display cases)
and a 40-meter bell tower. Wood stairs led to the top, past openings that let the blowing rain soak us.
Deb rang the bell.
In front of the church stood a life size bronze by José Villa Soberón of
El Caballero de París, a mummer who wandered Old Havana for many years.
His real name was José Maria López (lived 1899-1985).
Habaneros claim that pulling his beard or finger brings good luck.
Deb is rolling in luck. Many mummers continue the
Caballero's tradition throughout Old Havana. One, simulating a bronze, worked an entrance to the church only feet from the actual bronze, remaining stock still until a tourist walked close to take a photo, then asking for payment.
My telephoto caught him unawares.
Another caught a tourist—we were alerted by her surprised scream when he grabbed her and pulled a toy gun.
Some dressed in traditional garb,
Others more imaginatively.
Even pets get into the act. In the case of two cool dogs, their owner stood nearby to dun whatever tourist was attracted enough to try to photograph the pair.
In the plaza, one pooch worked tables on his own.
On a balcony being used to dry laundry, I saw a cat and took a quick snap. A passerby called to the landress who came onto the balcony to demand her peso.
Old Havana is a prime tourist destination for the Western World (with the sole current exception of the United States), and
Habaneros work them just like carnies the world over.
We fled Havana for the
Parque Nacianal de Viñales, two hours or so southwest of the capital, to see some of the country. Once out of the city, the road was a divided fourlane highway, running through subtropical country of farms and farmsteads, orchards and fields, with the light traffic made up of automobiles, tractors, trucks, tour buses, and the occasional horsecart. Along the way, we visited a reststop as nice as any in Oregon.
The nearby farm boasted a fine tobacco drying barn;
the farmer posed with his ox team.
Deb said they were the cleanest farm animals she had ever petted. I gave him 5 pesos for his photo.
Our first stop within the park was at
Cuevas del Indio, a grotto named for the Indian remains found inside, the parking lot crowded with tourists and tour buses but our guide led us to the head of the line and quickly to the stairway leading down.
The cave is four kilometers long, the path lit regularly with electric lights.
About half way through, we came to a river and a pier where we waited for the ferry (twelve passengers, outboard motor) to carry us on.
We rode a short ways upstream while the boatman pointed out formations that sort of resembled tobacco drying, an Indian profile, other sights,
then he turned the boat and headed down stream.
Perhaps most spectacular was the exit, moving from dark to vibrant green.
We drank a cold beer and then drove a bumpy dirt path to a tobacco farm not far away.
Four generations of one family run the farm and one of them demonstrated cigar making and gave us a sample. He told us that the state took 90 percent of the crop, but farmers kept the best leaves.
As he rolled a cigar, he said that 90 to 95 percent of the nicotine was in the leaf's stem; the state cigar makers discarded about 50 percent of the stems, he took out 90 percent so his cigars were less addictive.
In the town of
Viñales, we stopped for lunch at a palapa restaurant, lobster with platters of salad, beans, and rice, washed down with Cuban beer and Mexican Coke while we looked out at the local farms and animals.
Viñales has a number of pastel painted cottages, many with rooms to let for tourists who come for the same reason we had,
to see the striking limestone formations, called
mogotes (haystacks), scattered across the valley.
We drove to the
Horizontes Las Jazmines hotel and its pavilion on a ridge that offered spectacular views.
While we gazed at the formations starting to be obscured by an oncoming storm, we were entertained by an all-woman band.
Mogotes are remnant of a great limestone plateau formed some 160 million years ago that eroded over the eons, leaving hummocks as high as 1000 feet.
Back in Havana, we continued sightseeing, visiting plazas, cathedrals (pictured is the
Catedral San Cristóbal de la Habana),
neighborhoods beyond
Habana Vieja, the
Hotel Nacional, noted for the 1946 meeting of Mafia bosses to discuss carving up Havana, now notable for the trenches, tunnels, and gun emplacements built in the '70s to defend against American invasion.
The cathedral had interesting knockers on every door. Those on doors easily accessible to tourists were muffled.
We visited
Parque Almendares, a lovely stretch of ivy covered trees along the
rio almendares, unfortunately marred by a great deal of trash and remains of chickens used by
Santerías in religious observation.
While we were there, a group of about a dozen, one holding a live chicken, walked past us into the trees. For a moment, I considered following to photograph their ritual. I passed up that opportunity, but not the chance to snap a 1930s Ford that brought other tourists to the park.
Havana is now known for the old American cars still running and we saw a lot, mostly being used as taxis. We caught a ride from the
Hotel Nacional in a 1928 Ford,
but while the streets are an old-car buff's dream, the city is not a repository of concours candidates. The nice looking Chevy we took to
Viñales was powered by a Mitsubishi engine,
another had a Toyota under the hood, the ride from the
Nacional was a Russian Lada. Nevertheless, the cars are a joy to see.
Of course, other forms of transportation are prevalent as well: tricycle trucks
and taxis,
horse carts
and carriages,
but we liked best the
coco-taxis, scooped-out Easter eggs on three wheels.
Even kids in Cuba love cars. This father had just unloaded his daughter and her car from the tricycle taxi.
As we walked the streets, we were captivated by many sights: imaginative signs announcing the business within: the Tobacco Museum,
an hotel,
a perfumery
which also had a sign proclaiming its great age.
This was the same business that had lovely copper alembics in the window and the reflection of a couple of familiar travelers.
We found interesting postal boxes set into walls, but do not know if they are still in use.
We found the remaining segment of the city walls. Construction was started in 1674, completed in 1697; further building continued until it attained its final shape in 1797, then beginning just sixty-six years later it was torn down to allow for the city's expansion.
Other walls displayed Cuban art.
We spent an evening at the
Buenavista Social Club, a Grammy-winning CD and Academy Award-nominated documentary movie of the 1990s, in Havana now, a band playing '40s and '50s Latin music in a colonial building on a second floor balcony surrounding a courtyard some 30 yards square open to the night sky.
An unusual musical venue, the band playing one corner of the balcony, listeners spread around the opening.
Among the featured performers was Juana Bacallao, a singer famous in the period, born in 1925 and still belting out the songs.
We looked in on
La Bodeguita del Medio, a bar and restaurant with claims to the invention of the
mojito, purported hangout of many famous artists including Ernest Hemingway,
now a tourist destination so popular we did not try to squirm our way in.
Our last night in Havana we went to
El Mesón de la Flota to see a production by
Alma Flamenca, an organization dedicated to the preservation of traditional flamenco dancing, and enjoyed perhaps our most satisfying musical evening.
Although A.F. is an international organization, members passed a basket after each set to collect appreciation, as did every musical group we found.
Our stay in
Casa Telefonica was made particularly nice because of the friendly staff, made up of the owner,
Señor Elvis, his wife and daughter, none of whom spoke English.
On our final day, we had an hour or so before we had to leave for the airport, so we decided to return to
Plaza Vieja for a last drink at the
Factoria de Plaza Vieja, a brew pub with huge copper vats behind the bar. While we sat with mugs, a young lady stopped beside the table, scribbled on a piece of paper for a minute, then showed us the results.
I asked her how much, and she said "Ten pesos, but anything you would like to give will be fine." She had recently graduated from art school and had a show in a nearby gallery. I gave her 10 pesos, and got my sole souvenir from our trip.
The house is a one-story Spanish colonial built in 1886 or '87 by Catalan architect Miguel Pascual y Baguer on a hilltop 12.5 kilometers (or maybe 20 kilometers—accounts differ) south of Habana Vieja, about a twenty-minute taxi ride from our hotel. Hemingway and Martha Gellhorn rented the estate in 1939 for US$100 a month, and in 1940 with his first royalty check from For Whom the Bell Tolls, bought it for US$12,500 or US$18,500 (accounts differ). It sits on about 20 tree covered acres, the once open country around it now a suburb of mostly working-class houses.
A guard at the entrance to the long driveway collected 5 pesos each from us and we drove to the parking area below the original garage.
We walked past the garage, currently in the process of restoration but housing museum offices,
to the entrance to the main house.
For whatever reason (Hemingway's fallen standing, the distance from Havana central), few tourists were there when we visited; in fact, there were more custodians than visitors.
Cords prevented entry but all doors and most windows were open allowing a clear view of the interior, supposedly arranged as Hemingway left it in 1960. We walked around the house and photographed each room.
Sitting room.
Two views of a study
and the trophy mount that dominates the wall.
Bedrooms.
Bath
and closet off the bath.
Another study
and trophy on the desk.
Dining room.
Back door.
View down the hill behind the house.
Mary Welsh had a four-story tower built so Ernest could write in privacy, but as the custodian told me, he did not write much there, preferring the bustle of the house.
I climbed the exterior stairs and looked in. The tower custodian offered to photograph from the inside.
She took a photo of the Corona on the table, the same model as my first typewriter. My grandfather gave it to me, a 1917 portable with only three rows of keys but with three levels of type on each key: lower case, upper case, the third level numbers and symbols. The roller is hinged to fold over the keyboard to fit the machine into a compact carrying case.
The name "Lookout Farm" is confirmed by the view from the tower.
Downtown Havana is visible in the distance.
The tennis court is berth for Hemingway’s 38-foot cabin cruiser, Pilar.
Despite reports, it seemed in good shape, although perhaps not seaworthy.
Another view of the Pilar.
The gazebo at the front of the house.
The gazebo at the pool.
A poster in the sitting room.
More photos on walls: Hemingway as a younger man.
