My
last morning in Havana is even more beautiful than yesterday. I’m awake just as
the sun is rising, but lay drowsily in bed for about another hour. What an
exceptionally fascinating, fulfilling week I’ve had in La Habana. To call it
life-changing is no exaggeration. And there’s so much of Havana that I’ve
missed, let alone the rest of la isla; I
could happily spend another day, week, month probing the misterio profundo that is Cuba—but I’ll be even happier to be home.
Unless I’m absolutely comatose upon arrival in Brooklyn, I’ve already warned
Karen via email that I’ll be craving a late-night sandwich and beer at Putnam’s.
Jorge
is picking me up at 11:15 to take me to the airport. I’ve still got a few
precious hours in Vedado. I spend a few moments quietly taking in the Malecón
from Emilio’s patio—que tranquilo es el
domingo por la mañana en La Habana—then share a coffee with my gracious dueño. I walk to the Hotel Nacional for
some last-minute gift-shopping, but their tienda—no
surprise here, I suppose, considering the hotel’s clientele—is nothing but
woeful kitsch. But I find what I’m looking for at the outdoor mercado on Avenida 23, two blocks from
Sofia and La Zorra y El Cuervo: beautiful, handcrafted necklaces for Karen and
my mom, made from coco and palma real.
It
feels like a continuation of my previous charmed twenty-four hours: looking for
some last-minute gifts on a quiet Sunday morning, and I find exactly the mercado—abierto—that I need. Es perfecto. It occurs to me as I walk
back to Emilio’s, vale, I’m a
well-off American extranjero, and I
suppose, if you have the money, Havana’s a city that can work. If.
When I
return, Emilio shows me un libro
interesantísimo: it’s a special edition compendium of pages from Diario de la Marina, Havana’s premiere
newspaper for many years, published in 1957 (two years before the Revolution)
to commemorate the paper’s 125th anniversary. Flipping through its
pages is a complete and utter mindfuck. With each day, each hour, I feel like I
learn something new about Cuba’s very complicated story, and each thing I learn
only confuses me more. This incredible volume—una ventana a otro mundo—documents a Cuba unrecognizable today.
Except that it’s entirely in Spanish, it could just as well be a collection of
newspaper articles from Mad Men-era
America: articles about the swelling conflict between the United States and the
Soviet Union (but without taking sides), but also stories about sports, high
society, civic improvements, cultural affairs; ads for household products and
kitchen delicacies, large private enterprises (both Cuban and American); an ad
for a modern high-rise apartment building going up in Vedado, for which you can
reserve your unit now for $2000. The most astonishing page is a full-size ad (the ads are even more interesting than the articles),
celebrating the completion of the Havana Hilton—“contribuyendo a la independencia financiera de La Habana”—the same
building that Fidel commandeered in 1959, turned into the Revolution’s
temporary headquarters, and renamed the Habana Libre.
I
leave Emilio with unos regalos pequeñísimos—a book of drawings
by a New York City artist, a CD of some of my music, and a thank-you note in
the form of a page of manuscript—but it can’t compare with what he’s given me. Vale, I’m paying him. But he’s simultaneously
hosted other guests during my time here, a Bulgarian couple who don’t speak a
word of Spanish (Tenemos bulgaros, Emilio
said to me on my second morning here), and I don’t think they’ve spent much
time, nor, claro, been so enriched by the stories he has to tell, the ventanas
he’s able to open.
 |
| With Emilio. |
As I
ride to the airport, taking in the outskirts of the city for the second and
last time, I think of how I’ll cherish the insights I’ve gained from my
conversations with Emilio, and others too–the musicians, the callejeros, even the other foreign visitors to the island that I've met–equally to those gained roaming the streets of La
Habana. She has such a surreal story to tell. From books, from conversation,
and now from time spent soaking in this vibrant and gritty city, I feel I know
immensely more, yet understand staggeringly less. Es complicado.
* * *
Almost
everything I’ve recounted in this travelogue is absolutely true. I don't think one comes away from Cuba with an absolute truth.