5/31 - So today was cool -- started our first day of class/lecture meeting our host organization, ISRI, and learning about their history. They were formed in the 70s by Raul Roa, going from a normal school (college level) to a post-grad only facility to one who now only accepts those who have completed their master's. It’s essentially a PhD school that creates diplomats, one that is part of the government's foreign ministry and is akin to our Foreign Service department. Its digs are rather revelatory for the amount of money the government has to spend on its ministries -- ISRI is housed in this old four-level building, no a/c (there is in some classrooms, just not throughout), locked bathrooms (because TP is rationed), and a busted/unreliable elevator. Basically it's dirt poor for a ministry of that stature, a fact that is rather telling of the state of things.
Our next lecture is with Raul Dausa, the head of the *********** at the foreign affairs ministry, MinRex, a building that is quite a bit nicer, hosting most of the things missing from the previous ministry. This is the parent group of ISRI in the governmental flow chart and is host to the actual diplomats and ambassadors of the various countries when they visit, thus the more impressive façade. Our lecture is fantastic -- it's on Cuban-US relations and Dr Dausa is extremely open, frank, and surprisingly optimistic about the future of relations between our countries. He was much more pragmatic than I’d anticipated; he wasn't a hardline Fidelist, but rather thought that things while primarily the US's fault, were going to change with or without Fidel’s being in power, a reality he was OK w/.
This was rather refreshing, and after he was done it was time for a late lunch. (He talked for close to two hours and went right through his lunch hour.) I wander around a bit, check out the abandoned and decaying estadio de José Marti, this giant field and set of stands right on the Malecon, overlooking the water, check out the great statue of Calixto Garcia, the Cuban general who fought for independence from Spain, (this has a cool phrase, ostensibly uttered by Garcia -- "morir por la patria es vivir.") and then grab a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches from this little vendedora at her sidewalk shack.
After that it's time for another lecture, this time on the Cuban economy from colonialism to the present. It’s given by this cute old professor at ISRI, Professor Salsamendi (great name, huh?!?), a tiny, tan old man in this lime green guayabera. Great mental picture to take away. This is really quite good as well, but by the time he's done I’m rather mentally drained.
I head back to the hotel, stopping to pick up a senorita (no, I haven't been cheating on V, this is the name of a popular sweet here. It's a series of phyllo-like wafers (like inside that cake we bought from the Asian cafe, but still crispy) with icing/egg white-cream in between and vanilla or chocolate icing on top. They're awesome and can't be that good for me -- I think it's all egg whites and sugar, but no me importa.) and then it's off for a run on the Malecon and a solo dip in the lap pool. (This was another moment when I wished V was around. The pool is in this somewhat secluded enclave on the side of the hotel, the sun was going down, it was totally quiet, and I had this 75-foot pool all to myself. It was beautiful and brutal.)
After this I was pretty wiped, so I had a light dinner (spaghetti con mariscos), went out to buy a brick of water (you're not supposed to drink the tap water, so I’m constantly buying bottles of water during the day. I go through four or five, easy.) And then came back to explore the hotel -- check out the old pictures, traipse thee grounds, etc. A guarapo con ron and brief email later and it's time to turn in.
Sorry if this doesn't make sense, rambles, or is boring, but I’m kind of out of it right now. It’s early (I write these up in the morning) and I’m sitting outside, surrounded by pollos and pheasants walking around, staring out at the water, watching the sun come up and wishing V was here. I miss her lots. Alas…
6/1 - Happy Tuesday, my love! Today, after a breakfast of various meats and fruits (my fave is the difficult to eat, but oh so delicious, guayaba (guava). Its soft, pink flesh is fantastic, but also studded with rock hard pebbles for seeds. Tough to separate one from the other, but worth the effort.) it's off to morning lecture, this one covering the Cuban education system. This is extremely interesting and makes me want to live in Cuba because education is free, all the way up to PhD! You have a job provided to you when you graduate and can take as much school as you want for as long as you want. Plus, if you do so, either because you lose a job or don't like the ones out there, you can continue learning on the government's tab twice over, receiving a daily stipend (small, but still!) in addition to the cost-free education while you learn! Isn’t that great? Cuba just qualified for "most bitchin' nation" status.
After a light lunch and a meet and greet with some of the students at ISRI, it's off to Habana Vieja again. This time, instead of walking down there, I decide to take a coco taxi to save some time and energy. Little did I know if would change my life forever. I am now convinced that these little balls of motive sunshine are the only way to travel and am starting a petition to bring coco taxis to the US. I am almost certain that DC would not be the shitty place it is with coco taxis rolling down the road -- people would be physically unable to stay bitchy, self-important and mean while riding in them, let along driving them. It is impossible to take yourself seriously while in their midst. Honestly, I have not smiled this much since I’ve been here -- it is just joyous to tool around in these things. They’re so ridiculously cute and you know how stupid you must look in them, but that realization does not temper your mood in the slightest.
I start my little tour of some key plazas in the Plaza de la Catedral, which has the lovely church along with some wonderful old houses turned into museums, art galleries, and restaurants. (These houses all have glorious inner courtyards replete with lush plants, flowers, and fountains. they are everywhere and they are gorgeous. think Cordoba with a bit more age and decay.) I continue wandering, stopping at Alejo Carpentier's house, Cuba's most famous author, passing scads of little stores selling souvenirs and art (more like closets than full-blown stores. The vendors just stick whatever can fit into the doorway and foyers of their house, often not amounting to much more than the former, spacewise.), go to the Plaza de las Armas with its array of book vendors, the old temple, fort, and museums (I snag Autumn of the Patriarch and No One Writes to the Colonel Anymore in Spanish for $4. Marquez, untranslated, for four bucks? Yeah!), continue to the Plaza de San Francisco Asis with its Greek Orthodox temple (huge) and United Colors of Benetton (I shit you not.), and traipse over to the Plaza Vieja by way of Obispo, one of the main strips of stores.
In Plaza Vieja I spy a handful of glorious art deco buildings, their colors screaming out in blues and yellows and greens, in addition to my first (and much anticipated) game of dominoes. The guys are extremely into it, verbally assaulting each other while taking turns slamming the bones down onto the rickety table. The four of them create the soundtrack to the square, setting the baseline audio of commotion accentuated by the sharp "whack!"'s of the dominoes hitting the table. This is great, and I watch for close to twenty minutes of noisy, vigorous action before moving on.
Next stop is the capitol building, a mammoth structure modeled after our own that looms large next to the attractive Hotel Inglaterra and the national ballet. This building is just gorgeous inside -- huge barrel-arched ceilings, opulent decoration and gilding, as well as a mammoth indoor statue of some armored woman as you walk in. (This last is supposed to be the third largest indoor statue in the world -- sixty some feet tall, 49 tons; the thing is huge!) I ramble around noting various things of interest -- there's a diamond in the center of the floor as you walk in, signifying the start of all of Havana's roads (the mileage and distance from Havana are all calculated from this point), some pretty offices that were in use by officials from the Batista era (and those who preceded him) and a spectacular library washed in dark wood and skying bookcases modeled on the one found in the Vatican, but the best part comes as I pass one of the umpteen guards peppering the interior.
She, either because it's her job, because I’m American (and so...damned...sex-ayyyyyy!), or because she's bored out of her gourd, lets me go into some of the old offices and rooms, taking pictures of me playing with the artifacts while giving me a rundown of what historical items I’m disrespecting by ignoring the customary notions of detachment and distance. I get my picture taken at Batista's main desk, at his note-taking desk, at the top of the floor of parliament, and in one of the delegate's old chairs. It was awesome! She took terrible pictures (apparently the intricacies of directives like "zoom in on my grill" were too confusing for her -- hopefully I can fix them later) and wanted a buck when it was done, but it was well worth it. Soy el presidente!
Tuckered out from the stresses of my office, I retire to the hotel (via more hot coco taxi action!) and a dip in the pool. (Funny aside: as I shower before dinner, my space cadet roommate is singing "Beautiful" by Christina Aguilera at the top of his lungs while futzing away on the guitar, butchering an already tenuously appreciated song. I was laughing the entire time because he was serious, and yet utterly, utterly terrible. Beautiful, indeed...)
For dinner it was a trip back to Habana Vieja, but this time not in a coco. No, this time it was in the back of... (cue symphony and choir) a purple '54 Chevy Bel-Air! Oh man, was this great. A '57 Bel-Air is my dream car, but this one wasn't upsetting me any. We were driving in this giant boat of a car along the Malecon, wind rushing in and the most complete, pronounced rainbow I have ever seen spurting out of the water. It was almost the full arch and was just gorgeous -- the rainbow, the car, the water. Perfecto!
The cab gets lost and drops us off on the other side of town (this plays into the apparent inability and extreme disdain of Cubans to say "no" or "I don't know," both of which appear to be as difficult to admit as someone saying they honestly believe reality TV is good TV or that 96 percent of what appears on the radio today qualifies as music. We ramble through the old town back to the other side, harassed rather vociferously by the endless parade of jineteros (who are relentless in Habana Vieja and are virtually everywhere). They hit you up almost the minute you step foot out of the cab -- "My friend. What do you need, my friend?" Ganja? Cigars? Rum?" and barely take "no" for an answer. You just have to adopt a strategy where you avoid eye contact and don't respond to any calls in your direction. To look or acknowledge them is to open yourself to five minutes (at the bare minimum) of annoyance and puts a drop of blood in the water that the other tiburons seem to smell and swarm to from a mile away. And even this strategy only works 12 percent of the time. I’m starting to understand how Bush & Co. can say their plan to Iraq was a success when there is such a poor success rate -- anything that prevents things from being a total failure in situations like this must seem ok.)
We finally arrive at our quarry, the bar Montserrate, a place boasting a great live band and decor that you can imagine virtually unchanged fifty years ago. Dark wood bar, bottles of hooch stacked to the ceiling, portly bartender, fans whirring slowly overhead, the band standing at the far end of the room belting out a slew of salsa numbers, including stuff from Buena Vista and Benny More. (Highlight of the night was the lead singer, an extremely dark, skinny cat (Chappelle would see this man and scream, "DARKness!") with a mini-Kid and Play eraser cut, a deep blue shirt, white suspenders and pants, and black sunglasses, belting out Como Fue to my professor and I and then chatting with us between sets.) We hang out here for awhile, run next door to rustle up some mediocre grub during their break (bland pollo asado and cerveza Cristal, but paired with a free cigar, which was nice) and then head back to the hotel, this time in a '59 Impala, listening to Bob Marley while smoking our stogies. Quite a spectacular way to end our evening, and I turn in one contented kitten.