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Arriving in Havana, Cuba

June 21, 2015 • By Kelly Glynn

In 2004, I lived life a bit more in the moment than I do today. A risk taker and not as restricted by burdens of job and family, I yearned to live like Hemingway on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean writing the days away. I convinced my boyfriend (and myself) at the time that the allure of Cuba was too great to refuse. With only a Frommer’s guidebook (too afraid to search on the Internet), bright hues of red, yellow and green pulled me into the pages of what I imagined to be Trinidad. I immediately rang up a Canadian travel agency and booked the seven-day adventure with only one pause for concern, “Is this trip refundable?”

A few months later as our departure date loomed, President George W. Bush announced further sanctions against the Castro regime and along with that enormous fines and possible convictions for any Americans disobeying the travel ban. I may like to live on the edge but I do try to abide by most rules so I cancelled the trip. Sometimes things are not meant to be – the boyfriend and I broke up and another 11 years passed by before I set foot on Cuban soil.

It was worth the wait.

I traveled from Mexico City to Havana on a sunny day in late January. A family friend had arranged for me to stay with her cousin near the University about a 20-minute walk from Old Havana.

When I first arrived at my casa particular (room for rent), I thought I stumbled into a community center. Friends and neighbors peeked in the door of the living room, while others sat on chairs and couches and chatted with my host mother. I introduced myself to everyone and I understood they were cousins, or second moms and aunts and definitely very involved in each other’s lives even if not related.

I quickly discovered no one speaks English and after being up for many hours my concentration waned and I only noticed mouths moving presumably asking me about the United States and New York. Thankfully, Hans from Munich (not his real name) enters the house and grants me a Spanish language reprieve. He greets me, we make introductions and I learn (from him) that he is a famous Munich DJ to the soccer players and that he found Jesus four years ago. “I used to do a lot of drugs and sleep with lots of women and party. Now the “chief” guides my life.” Ok then I mean I don’t know why but I really want to hear more about him and I press the conversation. He was visiting Cuba a few years ago with a fellow German friend and spotted his now fiancé being solicited for sex. (The Cuban government has been cracking down on tourist sex /prostitution). When she refused, he was intrigued so he asked her for coffee. Apparently it’s that easy to find love in Cuba.

My host family lives in a converted house with three rooms on the main floor consisting of a living room, kitchen and a side room; a second floor with a bedroom and bath rented out to guests – my temporary gigs; a third floor with a room for the computer, and a divided area for the two children and parents to sleep; and a separated open roof floor with a kitchen and spare room. Currently, the roof is home to Hans.

When Communism fell in Russia in 1991, Cuba went into a state of deep decline knows as the “Special Period” to Cubans. Russia had been the country’s lifeline for food and supplies and now the Cuban people suffered from a shortage of water and electricity and basic everyday needs. During this time, Fidel Castro opened up Cuba to tourism appealing to Canadians and Europeans and their pocketbooks. Many families like mine sold rooms in their homes to tourists as a means for income.

I paid $45 a night for my room and it included breakfast, dinner and guava smoothies throughout the day and the most hospitable, generous, welcoming people I have ever met. Keeping in mind Cubans have limited money and supplies, stores etc., I found my meager accommodations to be clean and my shower functioning with a trickle of water, which is more than I can say for the tourists who paid for 4-5star hotels. Killing hundreds of mosquitoes a day while trying to shower was just part of the experience. My family even bought me eggs with their rations after I mentioned that’s what I eat for breakfast. A humbling experience for me on day one when I learned every Cuban household maintains a Libreta (ration book) entitling the family to a monthly supply of basic goods like fruit and meat provided at a small cost.

With a population of about 11 million, the Republic of Cuba is one of the world’s last remaining state-capitalist countries following the Marxist-Leninist approach /Communism. It’s an archipelago of islands located in the northern Caribbean Sea where the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean meet. Cuba is only about 90 miles off the coast of Florida but far enough to make it a metaphor for forbidden fruit to most Americans. Approximately 3 million tourists visited Cuba in 2014 up from 600,000 in 1991.

Carribean, Destinations, North America

Strumming along in Old Havana

June 17, 2015 • By Kelly Glynn

It’s Sunday morning in Havana. The sky is overcast but the sun’s rays dart through breaks in the clouds. The streets are quiet and overnight rain has left its mark on the pavement. I’m happy to wander the empty streets and absorb the quiet. My favorite part about walking when I travel is taking different paths to my desired destination. Today, I leave my guesthouse and turn left and without a map I am certain to get lost and discover new sights.

People are beginning to stir —the churches are calling and the narrow alleys fill with locals moving from place to place. I notice some activity and music coming from what resembles a junkyard. I am mistaken. It’s an artist quarter. I’m quickly ushered into a fenced in area where a man directs my attention to several household items converted into works of art by a famous Cuban African artist. My escort moves me through the complex only to leave me in a gallery where I learn the artists’ widow is serving mojitos in the front bar should I wish to partake. I pass on the hospitable gestures and a bit of hustling and dart out of the gallery right into an alley.

My sense of direction on the ground leads me to believe this street will take me to the center of Old Havana. I gaze at the deteriorating balconies and the design of a city once booming with wealth. It’s been fifty years since most Cubans enjoyed abundance and choice. Their lives are simple, yet they seem to appreciate the bits and pieces glued together that the rest of the world takes for granted.

Artist Gallery in Havana

As I stroll down the alley, an older gentleman fixing what may be a motorcycle tire catches my eye. He is perched on a step outside a door left ajar wearing an “Arizona” baseball cap; a cat gracefully moves between his doorway and the street.

He is disheveled wearing a navy shirt half ducked into his pants, trousers spotted from dirt and the soles of his shoes aged from use. I guess he is poor or possibly homeless but in Havana guessing is better left to the locals. I smile and say, “Buenos días.” He responds in Spanish with an equally meaningful greeting and I tell him I like his hat. He asks if I am American and I respond proudly “sí.” His face lights up and his smile exposes an inviting moment I have witnessed many times during my visit to Cuba. We chat for a few minutes and my new friend puts down his latest project and fully engages in conversation with me. We shake hands and make introductions. He is Tomás and I am Kelly. My name will render him tongue tied for the rest of our time together.

Tomás and I talk about where I am from and what I enjoy most about Cuba (the culture and the music). As if on cue, he excuses himself for 30 seconds, steps into what I now understand to be his home and returns to the porch holding a guitar. Bursting with pride, he asks, “Do you like Glenn Miller?” I nod and he begins to strum the strings to a song I can’t quite make out and then he exclaims, “Nat King Cole” and I’m treated to a jazz performance on the street. People passing by in cars and on bicycles yell, “el cantante, el cantante!” Indeed, he is the singer.

Tomas the professor

I am star struck, yet embarrassed that I am the object of his attention.

Tomás sits again and I stand captivated by his talent and his enthusiasm to bring music to the streets of Havana. I clap and smile and ask to take his photo. My guitarist poses grinning from ear to ear turning his face in one direction and then the other as I snap. I try to explain selfie in Spanish and he signals he understands. We pose together. His smile permanently affixed to his face. Tomás places the guitar along his waist and motions for me to wait. He disappears but comes back handing me a business card. I glance at it quickly. Tomás is a guitar teacher. My friend wishes for me to send him a photo by mail and I realize cameras and photos are expensive and a rarity in Cuba. He is as captivated by the moment as I am.

La Guitarra

At 73, Tomas shares with me stories of life in Cuba from the past to the present and I even receive an overview of the U.S. and Spanish involvement in Cuba. Softly touching my hand to make sure I understand, Tomás describes his love for New York and the United States. Having never stepped on American soil I am impressed how he describes in detail places in New York he has never seen. Through the depths of his vibrant hazel colored eyes, I observe a glimmer of hope as he talks about our two countries. He whispers about progress but in the same breadth expresses trepidation. For Tomás, change cannot come soon enough.

Time passes. The streets of Old Havana call to me. Tomás does not want me to leave. We embrace and he gives me a kiss. I walk down the alley waving good-bye and promise to send him the photo and visit again soon.

Tomas learns the Selfie