I get
to bed around 2:00 with a belly full of rum, beer, and even a little ham, and
don’t set an alarm, but I wake up at 7:30, sin
recaso (pues, quizas un poco…), to the most beautiful day I’ve seen yet on la isla. The rain and clouds are gone,
the air is cool, the waves are high, and it’s my last full day in Havana.
Emboldened
by the benefit of Ricardo’s street smarts yesterday, I take the bus to El
Centro—vale, it’s the same route we
took yesterday, so only so much bravery required—and walk up Prado. I don’t have any illusions that anyone will mistake
me for a nacional, but I’m tired of
sticking out as tourist all the same—getting especially sick of psst, psst, chino! (aside: Honestly,
what kind of idiotic behavior is that? Never mind that I’m not even Chinese—but
what possesses a person, seeing someone walk down the street, to call out his
ethnicity? like a two-year-old pointing to a duck and proudly exclaiming duck?) I fantasize about responding to
the next Ni hao I hear, ¡Ah! ¿Hablas chino? —Eh, no. —Ah, pues, ni
yo tampoco…—But I’m not in the mood for whatever games can be avoided
today, so I’m keeping my head down and my mouth shut and, for the most part,
with a mixture of regret and relief, my camera in my pocket. (And I’m
definitely not taking out my map while standing on a busy esquina again.)
Everything
on my last day in La Habana somehow falls perfectly into place.
First
on my list this morning is El Museo de la Revolución. I lose sense of where I
am along Prado and decide to turn right, hoping to recognize a familiar point
of reference—and happen right upon the Museo. It’s a strange place, and in
certain ways, emblematic of the Cuban enigma. The entrance fee is $8.00—that’s
CUC$8.00 for extranjeros and 8 pesos
for nacionales. As for the museum—well,
me interesa cuanto no me interesa. As
museums go, it’s nothing special. It’s dedicated to the Revolution, but doesn’t
narrate what actually happened; it has a variety of uninteresting items (the
most interesting are things like a makeshift radio transistor used by
Che; a rung below that, various effects used and worn by Fidel and other
rebels; and then, totally banal things that exist simply as relics of Cuba in
the late ‘50s–early ‘60s), complemented by a variety of photos from the years
surrounding the Revolution, but not particularly exciting ones, and poorly
reproduced at that; what placards do exist are terribly translated, if at all.
But beyond objectively poor museum quality, the collection is a transparently
propagandistic shrine to Fidel. I guess that’s interesting in itself—but
really, I’m over it pretty quickly. (And I feel a weird twinge of discomfort
walking through the museum as an American, especially when I get to the Bay of
Pigs room.)
After
the Museo de la Revolución, I walk Empedrado to La Plaza de la Catedral de San
Cristóbal de la Habana—at last, after various foiled attempts to cross it off
my checklist. The cathedral, built in the late eighteenth century, is quite
beautiful, and curiously asymmetrical. Its neighboring buildings are equally
enchanting. Surrounded by Baroque architecture (this is one of the less
schizophrenic squares, architecturally, of Habana Vieja), you feel utterly transported to another
world.
 |
| Catedral de San Cristóbal de la Habana |
But
just around the corner is the Taller Experimental de Gráfica. Talk about
another world. Rubbing shoulders with Habana Vieja’s eighteenth-century time
machine is “Havana’s most cutting-edge art workshop” (Lonely Planet), where I’m treated to seeing a number of Cuban
artists at work. First the Museo de Bellas Artes, then the Taller de Serigrafía
René Portocarrero yesterday, and now this place—to this observer, the Cuban
modern art scene is straight killing it. The work on display is so varied, and
so dynamic. I’m particularly drawn to one of the artists in the shop, Pedro L.
Redonet Rojas, and after much anguished indecision, finally settle on a
monotype he’s called Ventana al futuro.
 |
| Taller Experimental de Gráfica |
 |
| Pedro L. Redonet Rojas with his Ventana al futuro (upside-down) |
I cut
back west on Obispo and, with a couple of hours to kill before the concert and
my feet barking, I take a seat in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel. After a while,
though, I start to regret how I spent my time at La Plaza de la Catedral. It
had been on my to-see list, nagging at me all week, that once I finally got
there, I just started snapping the obligatory photos right away, like those
folks I see who, to my eternal consternation, walk through the MoMA just taking
pictures, seemingly not even looking at the art at all. So, thinking shame on me, I head back, determined to
just take it in.
It is,
indeed, a magnificent place.
Back
in the vicinity and still with plenty of time before the concert, I duck next
into the Centro Wilfredo Lam, just off the Plaza, and what a find. The place
looks like an aristocrat’s home from another time, converted into an arts
center. I walk up the stairs and find an old woman sitting quietly in a chair
overlooking the courtyard. She points me towards a door opposite her, and gets
up to walk me in. We enter into a chic gallery space that looks and feels like
the sleekest room in Chelsea. They’re exhibiting work by Flavio Garciandía, a
Cuban artist now living in Mexico. It’s electric.
 |
| Centro Wilfredo Lam |
To
this observer, the Cuban modern art scene is straight killing it.
Everything
on my last day in La Habana is somehow falling perfectly into place.
As I
leave the Centro Wilfredo Lam, it starts to drizzle very lightly. The Rojas
print I bought is in a plastic sheet, but I’m still nervous about the weather.
I stop into Sloppy Joe’s for a glass of ron
before the concert; the rain really starts coming down as soon as I’m
safely inside, then lets up in time for the afternoon concert. It’s a charmed
day.
The
afternoon program is a short one—two works canceled, I’m not sure why. A couple
of chamber pieces, and then the latest in this week’s parade of excellent Cuban
choirs, all performing entirely from memory.
On the
way to the Basílica for the 6:00 concert, I stop for a pizza (10 pesos), and
take it to La Plaza Vieja: another sight that I feel I glossed over too
quickly, so I’m going to sit and eat and just look. I run into Eduardo Martín,
one of the guitarists I heard on Wednesday night; he invites me to join him for
a coffee before the concert. Once again, it starts pouring once we’re inside,
lets up in time for us to walk to the Basílica, then gets downright biblical
once the concert starts. I’ve managed to stay perfectly dry all day.
The concert
features an outstanding performance by flautist Tommaso Benciolini and pianist
Adriano Ambrosini of a set of, by this festival’s standards, classics: Henze,
Petrassi, Messiaen, Dutilleux, and a Gubaidulina encore, which has maybe never
happened before, anywhere, ever. And then, the best choir of the festival, the
Coro Entrevoces, directed by Digna Guerra. In New York or Minnesota, those
lands of a thousand amateur and semi-professional choruses, this group would
easily be one of the best. They sing the Kyrie from the Poulenc Mass in G
superbly, expressively, and, ahem, from
memory. These singers ain’t fucking around. It’s the last music I hear at
this festival (two more concerts tomorrow, but I’m off), and an eminently
satisfying cadence to my visit.
* * *
Back
to Emilio’s. I can’t decide if I’m hungry for dinner; I have to pack, and the
rain has stopped for now, but looks like it may not yet be done. The thought of
packing and turning in after a long day on the town is very appealing—but I’ve
been denied the view from La Torre all week, and Emilio says es obligatorio.
So I try again, and—everything on my last day in La Habana…—it’s almost empty tonight. Qué lastima that I missed out on the view in the daytime, but it’s quite special at night too. I order a mojito (I prefer the straight ron, but I drain the glass so quickly; and on my last night, having already bade farewell to all of mis nuevos amigos, I’m happy to raise a sugary glass to them), and sip, and savor my last moments in this marvelous, maddening, magical city.
So I try again, and—everything on my last day in La Habana…—it’s almost empty tonight. Qué lastima that I missed out on the view in the daytime, but it’s quite special at night too. I order a mojito (I prefer the straight ron, but I drain the glass so quickly; and on my last night, having already bade farewell to all of mis nuevos amigos, I’m happy to raise a sugary glass to them), and sip, and savor my last moments in this marvelous, maddening, magical city.
When I return to Emilio’s, he invites me to wind the evening down with him on the balcony, overlooking the Malecón. We chat well into the night. I share my impressions of his city. He shares his own. Muy interesante.