I grew up in Florida and remember the Cuban Missile Crisis. At school, we had backpacks stocked with emergency rations. The official evacuation plan was for each class to follow our teacher single file to the nearby train track. There, although there was no platform, we were to board the train, travel forty miles to St. Augustine, and then take refuge in the Old Fort. The Old Fort, Castillo De San Marcos, built in the 1500’s by Spanish conquistadors, was the school’s official Civil Defense Plan in case of nuclear attack. The grownups incessantly discussed the threat. At school, we learned Spanish from Senora Diaz, who had fled Cuba the day Batista fell. In her classroom, Spanish was the only language. She taught by telling fairy tales and elaborate stories of life in Cuba, vigorously miming the action as she spoke. By age eleven, my mastery of Spanish was near fluent and my fascination with Cuba was complete.
Until recently the idea of traveling to Cuba remained a forgotten childhood fantasy. Until I met my husband, an Englishman, I had never known anyone who had visited Cuba. He was vaguely aware that Americans were prohibited to travel there. He described the old world architecture in Havana, saying it felt like time travel, the vintage cars on the roads. Besides his description and a British guidebook, I didn’t have a vision of Cuba. I dreamed of going there before it opened to Americans, before there were fast food franchises, before American influence took over. We researched our Cuban expedition, finding zero flights from the US to Cuba; plenty from Europe, Canada and Mexico. We found websites hosted by independent tour operators containing practical information for planning a trip to Cuba, hotel rates and ratings, and technical advice for Americans. After corresponding with Madison, a tour operator, we chose dates and a hotel, the Conde Villanueva, in Old Havana. The scant reviews and few photos provided a glimpse, but not a clear picture.
The legalities of Americans traveling to Cuba are convoluted. We are not forbidden to go, but we are forbidden to spend money there. We may go, but only for limited purposes, humanitarianism among them. We paid for our flight and hotel in advance, sending a cashier’s check to a P.O. box in Texas paid to the tour operator. My worries about sending money to an unknown person in another state vanished when we promptly received a confirmation. To ensure that our trip was humanitarian we bought children’s art supplies for Red Cross donation.
On one website we found a page devoted to the legalities of Americans traveling to Cuba. Listed there were the names and numbers of attorneys offering their services to Americans experiencing border trouble after visiting Cuba. I printed the list and kept it on me. On the day of our long awaited flight, we dutifully arrived at the Cancun Airport three hours ahead of scheduled flight time. Madison had given us specific instructions. We checked in with Raul, showed him our papers and passports. He checked us in for our Cuba bound flight. Undaunted by Cubana Airlines two hour flight delay, we waited. All my life, I had heard that Americans may not travel to Cuba. In the Cuban Customs line, I silently practiced the words in Spanish, please do not stamp my passport. In many countries people traveling together approach the customs counter together, entering Cuba you must approach alone. As each person clears, the customs officer presses a hidden button unlocking the door.
Behind the customs counter sat a stern young woman wearing a starched blue and white uniform. I handed over my passport, she inspected it carefully, carefully comparing the photo to my face. In unaccented English, she asked where I was going. Havana, The Conde Villanueva, I said. She asked the length of my trip. Four days, please do not stamp my passport, I said. She asked the purpose of my trip. I am a tourist, I said. With a decisive clunk, the serious young officer with the perfect English, stamped a temporary travel visa, and inserted it inside my passport. Handing my papers back to me, she said, enjoy Cuba, and flashed a radiant smile. The magic click of the unlocking door signaled my permission to pass. My husband waited on the other side.
We collected our luggage, located our driver, and boarded the bus to the hotel. For forty-five minutes the bus wound through congested streets, finally stopping at an open plaza. The driver hailed a man walking by, asking how to find the Conde Villanueva. The man offered to show the way. Our new guide, the driver, my husband and I, marched for a quarter mile or more through the narrow streets of Havana in search of our hotel. When we arrived at the Conde Villanueve, I thought we had made a huge mistake.
The Conde Villanueva at night is a forbidding faceless building with latched shutters, and huge bolted doors. Our driver pounded on the heavy wooden door. A man in uniform responded, allowing us entry only after we proved our identities. After check-in the doorman led us through the dimly lit lobby, and up the wide dark stairway to our suite. At the sight of the room, I dropped my bags, and sank into the soft armchair. The room seemed especially large, because of the soaring ceilings and magnificent doors. It had all of the necessary personal comforts and desired luxuries, queen size bed, en suite bath, TV, and telephone. Thankfully, the air conditioner provided heavenly relief from the humid night. Having traveled all day and hungry, I called the front desk to find out whether the restaurant was still open. The desk clerk said it was not. Disappointed, we resigned ourselves to going without until morning. Moments later the clerk called to say that there was a restaurant opening for the evening and he had reserved us a table. Nearly 11:00 p.m. struck me as an odd hour for a restaurant to open; hunger prevailed, and off we went.
Greeting us in the lobby, the doorman introduced himself as Henry. Henry said he would show us to the restaurant, then walk us back. With a chuckle he added, that he would be our bodyguard. Off once again through the dark narrow streets of Havana, this time in search of food. Alone on the streets, most of the buildings closed up tight like our hotel. The massive contiguous buildings, stand adjacent to the sidewalk, providing welcome shade by day and deep shadows by night. We must have walked a mile before Henry stopped at one of the doorways. Henry knocked for entry, an ancient woman welcomed us. We ascended the staircase immediately ahead, which opened to a loft. We found a half dozen tables set formally with linens, and silver; a polished wooden bar, fully stocked with every kind of liquor, ran an entire wall. The waiter seated us immediately, presenting thick menus offering a wide selection of Cuban specialties. We fully enjoyed this long awaited meal, and soon realized that we were the only patrons there. Henry returned during our meal, patiently sipping cappuccino, while we finished.
Exhausted and satisfied we plodded back through the silent streets. After turning yet another corner, the three of us instantly alerted at the specter in our path. A group of men stood, nearly shoulder to shoulder, mutely facing us; their menacing line spanning the narrow street. There was no way to pass, but to slip between them. Our eyes straight forward, me holding my breath. We passed, without incident.
The next morning, in full daylight, we saw the hotel for the first time. It transformed overnight, from ominous to enchanting. The imposing two story building has nine suites, wide covered walkways downstairs, wide terraces above. The terraces overlook and encircle an atrium and courtyard. The atrium is lush with palms, banana trees, and jungle flowers, growing so close, it is impossible to see the building on the other side. We strolled downstairs to breakfast on the atrium patio. A flamboyantly plumed resident peacock emerged from the atrium foliage, then lurked near the tables snatching morsels from plates of the unwary.
We got out of the trap to explore The Museum of the Revolution which is housed in the palace of former dictator, Fulgencio Batista. The excessively ornate architecture contrasts sharply with displays of Fidel’s drab ideology. Batista, a ruler of the elite, and Castro, a ruler of the people, could not be more disparate. Despite the United States’ disapproval, and disagreement with Castro’s dictatorship, few deny that Fidel brought relative prosperity to Cuba’s people. In the palace rooms, beneath the gilded ceilings, modest showcases display revolutionary artifacts tracing the fall of Batista and the rise of Castro. By the grand stairway, bullet holes in the plaster commemorate Castro’s first coup attempt. When Castro seized power, Batista fled, and lived out his years in Florida. The museum’s glass showcases display photos of Fidel dressed in characteristic military garb alongside photos of Che Guevara wearing his signature beret with the single star.
Castro allied Cuba with the Soviets, who subsidized Cuba’s economy, supplying technology and goods. To the Soviets, Cuba was a strategic military location. To the US, Cuba’s allegiance with a sworn enemy was an outrage. The Soviet Union and the United States were entrenched in the Cold War and the ever escalating race to destruction. Myth and fact are tightly tangled -- claims of covert CIA actions against Cuba are alternately farfetched and plausible. Placards state that the CIA attempted to assassinate Castro; and hired U.S. gangsters to assassinate Castro; and poisoned Cuba’s crops; and murdered Cuba’s pigs; and prevented Cuba’s athletes from playing in Puerto Rico’s Olympics. Placards also state that the U.S. attempted to persuade other countries to unite in a unified trade embargo against Cuba. My satisfaction quenched my curiosity. Seen with my own eyes, a neighbor nation, less sinister than rumored, more alien than imagined. Cuba is in no danger of being overcome by American culture; a culture so rich will stand, long after we are allowed to freely visit.
