As we
parted last night at Sofia, the Lezcanos, Ricardo, and I made plans to meet at
10:00 this morning to head into Habana Vieja. When I arrive, the Lezcanos are having coffee at a sidewalk counter, pero todavía no hay Ricardo. Two coffees
and an encounter with a pair of struggling English tourists later (Dixy and Sylvia, who
don’t speak a lick of español, and have
been trying to ask locals for directions to la
oficina de recursos humanas—“Excuse me, do you speak Spanish? Do you know
where the esquina is?”—But this is
exciting: they’re moving to New York City next week. Perhaps with my mindset adjusted down here—not by socialism exactly, but simply the sensibility that
everyone gets by with and shares what they have—I give them my contact info and
offer to be their welcoming committee upon llegando
en mi ciudad.), it’s past 10:30, and we’re off. Disculpa, Ricardo.
 |
| Statue of José Martí, Parque Central |
%2B%E2%80%93%2Bexterior.jpg) |
| Museo de Bellas Artes (Arte Universal) |
%2B%E2%80%93%2Binterior.jpg) |
| Interior of Museo de Bellas Artes (Arte Universal), with composer José Lezcano in foreground. |
In any event, I’m enjoying our stroll through the museum, obvio, but I can’t help but feel the time slipping away. I could see work just like this (and better) back home; I’m itching to see what I can only see here. I get it on our next stop: the Museo’s second building, dedicated to Arte Cubano, and mostly modern work. The art on display here is as electrifying as the music we heard at Sofia last night. It’s vibrant and strange. Much of it is explicitly referential to Cuban culture. There’s a map of the world constructed entirely of Cuba-shaped pieces. There are Trinidadian landscapes, Havana cityscapes and street scenes. There’s work that’s much more modern and abstract, but colored by strong folk elements. There’s even art that seems, subtly, to turn a sarcastic eye towards the government. But whether explicitly or not, everything emanates a distinct Cubanness. All of the post-Revolutionary art buzzes with a latent ferocity. This work, it seems to me, documents and expresses the experience of its people, in all of its facets, with a perfect, inarticulable clarity as only art can do. Suffice it to say, I’ve never seen anything like it.
Upstairs,
there are portraits, landscapes, etc., spanning the colonial era (clearly
Spanish-influenced, but already with something distinctly of la isla) to pre-revolutionary work
(cartoonish paintings and sketches by Rafael Blanco that evoke the Cuba of the
United Fruit Company). And the collection goes on, startlingly, forever. Every
corner I turn, as I think I’ve covered the entire labyrinthine floor, there’s
another tantalizing gallery. I have just a moment to ruefully glance at
Wilfredo Lam’s Picasso-esque canvases, and others that nod to abstract
expressionism—what might potentially have been my favorite wing of the
building, had I realized it was there, waiting—before I have to scurry back
down to the lobby to meet the Lezcanos. We’re due to meet Efrén, the Mexican
guitarist, and his wife Stella at Sloppy Joe’s for lunch.
We
arrive and find Ricardo sitting with Efrén and Stella at Sloppy Joe’s. (He had
missed his alarm, woken at 10:30 con un
recaso, but somehow found his way to our next stop.) Sloppy Joe’s has some
interesting history1, but
unashamedly caters today to tourists with spending power. In any event, we have
a fine time at lunch. Efrén is hysterically funny; I suspect that he’s twice as
funny as I realize, except that I only understand about half of what he says. It
starts raining heavily while we’re having lunch, so we postpone further paseando for the evening, when hopefully
the weather will have cleared up.
 |
| L–R: José Lezcano, Stella Gorrostieta, José's wife (Disculpa, ¡se me olvidó su nombre!), Efrén Gorrostieta, yo, and Ricardo Cuadros, at Sloppy Joe's. |
The
afternoon concert is just across the street, in El Palacio del Teatro Lírico
Nacional de Cuba—a dilapidated old building with poor lighting and a filthy
bathroom (I’m grateful for my conscientious wife, who has sent me to Cuba with
two bottles of hand sanitizer). When we enter the building, there’s a woman at
the door pointing us to the sala upstairs,
but says we have to pay the entrada. Well,
we’re musicians of the festival, and what’s more, there’s been no entrada, ni por nosotros ni por el público
general all week. She let’s us through. This is apparently one of Havana’s
signature scams: folks off the street posing as personnel for various cultural
events, collecting sham entrance fees until, one way or another, the jig is up.
(Efrén tells us that four or five different people had tried to sell him
tickets to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes earlier in the day, ranging from
$8 to $60.)
It’s a
program of música de cámara
internacional: mostly Cuban composers, but with pieces too by composers
from Costa Rica, Georgia, and Spain. Especially memorable is the young (20-ish?)
Cuban composer Javier Iha Rodriguez’s Ciclo
de cinco canciones on texts by Nicolás Guillén (one of Cuba’s great poets;
I’m hoping to find a volume of his work before I leave), for baritone, tenor,
and piano. His singers are young too, and not yet fully developed, but the
music is well-written and deeply expressive, and Rodriguez plays the piano part
himself, with expert facility. The concert ends with three pieces featuring lute—creo que nunca he oído música moderna para
el laud—the last a wonderfully raucous piece by Ariadna Amador Oropesa for
piano, lute, and tres (a Cuban cousin to the guitar). Judging by their names
and ages, I think the pianist and lutenist are the composer (and tres player)’s parents, which gives
the performance an even more satisfying, living-room intimacy.
The
concert ends at 5:54, and there’s a “6:00” concert at the Basilica. And it’s
started raining again. Maestro Gavilán takes a couple of musicians in his car,
but Ricardo, Antipe, and I opt to take a taxi—which ends up being two
bici-taxis, which is exactly what it sounds like:
Our cyclists take us through a maze of dark (and wet) back alleys, weaving fearlessly between cars, pedestrians, and other bici-taxis, towards La Plaza de San Francisco de Asís. The ride is bumpy and terrifying and riveting, and offers yet another unique view of this ciudad preciosa.
Our cyclists take us through a maze of dark (and wet) back alleys, weaving fearlessly between cars, pedestrians, and other bici-taxis, towards La Plaza de San Francisco de Asís. The ride is bumpy and terrifying and riveting, and offers yet another unique view of this ciudad preciosa.
The
concert begins with a set of solo piano music by Bolivian composers—Eduardo
Caba, Alberto Villalpando, and Cergio Prudencio—played by the Bolivian pianist
Mariana Alandia Navajas. I dig the music, but dig the pianist even more. Her
sound is lindísima, just bewitchingly
beautiful. The second half of the program features the Nuevo Ensemble de
Segovia, from Spain, under the direction of Flores Chaviano. The lineup: flute,
clarinet, saxophone, piano, and percussion. Super-tight band, and a spicy set
too. Enrique Muñoz’s Trenza(do) and
Sebastián Mariné’s BB—Homenaje a Béla
Bartók particularly impress. This conjunto
is on tomorrow night’s concert as well. I’m psyched to hear more.
* * *
Another
item on my checklist is a meal or at least a drink at La Torre, a restaurant and
bar on the top floor of the Edificio Focsa in Vedado. Focsa is a 39-story
modernist building from the 1950s; it’s much ballyhooed as a great feat of
engineering (it was built in a record 28 months using advanced computer
technology, and without the use of cranes), but is actually kind of an eyesore.
But Emilio, Sage, and Lonely Planet all
insist that La Torre offers the best views of the city. Miss it at your own
peril.
Ricardo
and I try to go, but it’s full—there’s a big group of Chinese tourists who have
pretty much taken it over for the night—so we go instead to an open-air eatery around the corner (muy Cubano, promises Ricardo, who's dined here earlier in the week). The floors, tables, and chairs are all
dripping wet from the day’s weather, and it’s still coming down as we sit to
eat. I order a rum, Ricardo a mojito—but it’s just late enough that the owner
has locked down the bar, and they’re only serving beer and soft drinks.
The
food is humble, in style and in price, and very delicious.
Our cuenta, for two very generous plates of food, two beers apiece, and a fresh pack of cigarettes for Ricardo comes to about $20. And with each transaction this week, I realize how badly I was duped by Ricardo and Gina on my first night in town. There’s no way two rounds of drinks cost CUC$37.50—and now, a word about the currency is in order.
There are two currencies in circulation in Cuba: the peso (moneda nacional) and the CUC (pesos convertibles). It’s confusing to the point of silliness. Cubans generally use pesos, extranjeros CUCs. CUC$1 = 24 pesos. (1 CUC is also roughly equivalent to US$1, though it’s practically worth more, considering the hefty tax on exchanging US dollars to CUCs.) Each denomination also has centavos, ie, something can cost $8.75 in pesos or in CUCs.
(The peso : CUC :: nacionales : extranjeros equation is both practical and symbolic. It's not uncommon for paladares, museums, and other businesses to charge foreigners more than locals. Entrada to the Museo de la Revolución, for example, is 8.00: pesos for nacionales, CUCs for tourists.)
Our cuenta, for two very generous plates of food, two beers apiece, and a fresh pack of cigarettes for Ricardo comes to about $20. And with each transaction this week, I realize how badly I was duped by Ricardo and Gina on my first night in town. There’s no way two rounds of drinks cost CUC$37.50—and now, a word about the currency is in order.
There are two currencies in circulation in Cuba: the peso (moneda nacional) and the CUC (pesos convertibles). It’s confusing to the point of silliness. Cubans generally use pesos, extranjeros CUCs. CUC$1 = 24 pesos. (1 CUC is also roughly equivalent to US$1, though it’s practically worth more, considering the hefty tax on exchanging US dollars to CUCs.) Each denomination also has centavos, ie, something can cost $8.75 in pesos or in CUCs.
(The peso : CUC :: nacionales : extranjeros equation is both practical and symbolic. It's not uncommon for paladares, museums, and other businesses to charge foreigners more than locals. Entrada to the Museo de la Revolución, for example, is 8.00: pesos for nacionales, CUCs for tourists.)
But
there’s more to it than the exchange rate. Say the bill comes to CUC$9.50. You
pay with a 10, get 50 centavos back in CUCs. This is equal in value to 12
pesos, but you can’t use it as 12 pesos. When Ricardo and I took that cab back
from the Fortaleza to Vedado, the fare was CUC$6. Ricardo gave him a 5, and I
had 1 CUC in centavos, but the driver wouldn’t take it—CUC centavos were
useless to him. He would only take a 1-CUC coin. You can buy a sandwich on the
street for 10 pesos and a bottle of water for 1 CUC, at the same counter. You can pay for a meal at
some eateries in pesos or in CUCs, but they prefer to receive CUCs. I asked
Emilio why CUC$8 should be preferable to 192 pesos. He explained, because son igual, pero no son igual—they’re
mathematically equal, but you can do more with CUCs. Some shops selling
everyday things—soap, shampoo, deodorant—will only accept CUCs. Cubanos who are
paid in pesos have to line up at a currency exchange—in their own country—to obtain CUCs for basic toiletries.
Why
such an absurd system? I don’t get it, and I stop trying. Los extranjeros no pueden entender. porque los Cubanos no entienden.
But I
do now understand that my compartiendo with
Ricardo and Gina cost 37.50 in pesos—about CUC$1.50. I paid twenty-five times
the total bill. Vale, as I’ve said, I
knew at the time that I was ultimately being had, but not to the tune of 2500%.
It’s hard not to take umbrage. But then, I think: what a fucked up thing to
take umbrage at—that I, who am able on any given night, without much thought,
to cross the street to my neighborhood pub and drop $20 on dinner if I decide I’m too
tired to cook, that I’ve been tricked into feeding a Cuban family for, how
long, a week? two weeks? more?
1 “In 1919, young Spanish immigrant José Garcia (aka ‘Joe’) opened a humble bar on the corner of Calles Agramonte (Zulueta) and Ánimas. Not over-fussy about the finer points of hygiene, José’s joint quickly became notorious for its sloppy lack of sanitation, but its cocktails were abundant and cheap, and, by the end of the decade, ‘Sloppy Joe’s,’ as punters had humorously taken to calling the burgeoning establishment, had become something of a nexus for a thirsty contingent of Americans who frequented Havana during the prohibition era. The bar’s reputation continued to grow in the 1930s and 1940s when the US Mafia moved in, bringing prostitution and gambling to the Caribbean capital. To satisfy their around-the-clock appetites, Joe added some culinary snacks, inventing a soggy sandwich filled with Cuban ropa vieja (shredded beef), known appropriately as the ‘Sloppy Joe.’ Celebrities and celebrity sycophants kept pouring in, 90% of them non-Cuban, and in 1937 a copycat bar opened up in Key West, Florida. Hemingway often stopped at Sloppy Joe’s on his way between the Floridita and the Bodeguita del Medio, and he probably crossed paths at some time or other with Frank Sinatra and Graham Greene, both of whom were clients. The bar even featured in the 1959 film version of Greene’s book, Our Man in Havana” (Lonely Planet: Cuba).