This time last near I was getting ready to meet my mom and sister in Cuba, for our first family vacation, and my mom's first excursion off of mainland North America. Thinking about it today warmed me up, and reminded me that I haven't written about the experience there, with the exception of the blue hotel in Havana. But now in the cold heart of a Canadian January, I'm filled with the urge to write about warmer times.
My first trip to Cuba was done in my favourite fashion: adventurous and challenging at first, followed by relaxing and mellow. I love throwing myself in the middle of a new place, not knowing exactly what will precipitate.
We arrived in the historical city of Havana, in a churlish hotel that belied the warmth of Cuba. Havana in itself was amazing, a city feted in my memory. The myriad of art-forms would make even a philistine an aesthete, lent itself to the colourful reputation of the Caribbean nation. In the evenings the restaurants would bellow live music, and you could peak waiters salsa dancing in the kitchen. The art market was a sea, with a footprint as large as a soccer field, flooded with natural light and dotted with pine apple juice stands. The ballet was classic and mesmerizing, paralleling the colourful architecture in form. As I enumerate the arts that are showcased in Havana, my memories of darker side of the country become mollified.
One afternoon my we were wandering the streets of Havana and happened beside a little restaurant serving seafood. We were sat outside close to the band, featuring a stand-up base. The food was incredible, opposing the culinary woes I'm accustomed to hearing, and the band played on. My mom, who can not help but dance, was dancing away in the alley with the band, and was swept aside by a handsome Cuban waiter who also could not help but dance. Bethany and I were sipping away our sangria and dancing in our chairs, and eventually the entire alley way restaurant was up to join.
One evening we were wandering around looking for food, which was next to impossible as many of the restaurants were closed. We ended up in a jazz bar, the walls lined with portraits of great musicians. My mom, being my mom, again had to get off her chair and salsa, motivating many of the other restaurant-goers to get up in join her. When we left the salsa bar a Haitian-Cuban trombone player joined us, playing trombone with every group of musicians he came across. His friend, a salsa instructor, also joined, and we all went dancing until I made my mom go home because I was exhausted (sorry mom!).
Another morning we got up to explore the famous Hotel National, walking the 2 km along the sea side to get there. It was blistering hot, and I was walking too fast (or my sister was walking too slow- a household argument), and we eventually arrived to an extravagant old-world hotel, with complimentary old-world cars. After exploring the hotel, I suggested that we go see an art gallery, called Factoria Habana, which turned out not to be an art gallery exactly, but a club-art gallery, which was closed when we arrived. Having taken a coco-taxi there, we settled for taking it back and got an unexpected, quick tour of the city, and ended up at the sprawling art market.
We were also hustled one evening by a local, who slyly talked us into buying her dinner (glad to do that), but also giving her milk money for her baby. But, it wasn't much money, and who are we to give with conditions? It was again enlightening to talk to a local in depth about her lack of freedom and opportunity, and how trapped she felt in her current position.
My last memory of Havana was roaming the quiet halls of the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes de la Habana until I got a nagging feeling that I needed to get to the hotel as soon as possible, and so I left to arrive back at the hotel with my mom and sister anxiously waiting with suitcases in hand, as we were about to unexpectedly part for Varadero.
And after all the music, hotel drama, hustling, and getting lost, arriving on the white sand beaches of Varadero was welcome refute. Seeing my mom cry when she saw her first white beach was something that I'll never forget. Eventually I think we all cried. I'll hold that image of my mom in her bright pink t-shirt dress looking onto the ocean forever in my heart.
The day of my birthday my sister and I boarded on a catamaran to a little beach island, where we feasted on lobster and drank Bahama-mamas. The restaurant staff everywhere we ate all day were adorable, bringing me an entire cake for every meal when they heard it was my birthday. I highly recommend of smoking cigars in a fedora on your 30th birthday with the people you love most.
Thanks Cuba, for my memories of you are keeping me warm today.