Bonnie and I went to Cuba in December of 2003. This is an entry I found in my journal while looking for Cuba material from that trip, for a painting I recently finished.
After our morning of breakfast in the hotel, a walk to the wonderful art museum, and then lunch with the group at a Paladar (restaurant in a private home) called La Guardina (on the top floor of a building that was once a palace, but now pretty much a ruin with parts of the roof and many walls missing, the site of the movie “Strawberries and Chocolate” and very quaint, interesting, best lunch so far – grouper with the inevitable but wonderful in this case – rice and beans.) Bonnie was determined to check out a street we had passed on the way to lunch (on the bus with the group) where the African Cubans hang out on Sundays and play music, dance, etc. I was unsure we would be able to find this place, or that we even had any idea where it was. Passing stray dogs (which I guess aren’t really stray in Cuba since everyone loves them and takes care of them; it was crazy how many of these dogs were wearing little shirts and scarves) and curious people on deserted side streets lined with crumbling buildings, finally we climbed in to one of the bicycle taxis and described the place to the driver who only had to ask for directions twice before dropping us there. Yay. The entrance was a large stone and shell archway opening to a central outside patio-like area surrounded by doorways into shops, I guess, hard to tell it with all the bodies blocking the view . It was so crowded you could hardly move. Thunderous teeth-rattling fabulous music. Everyone is talking singing drinking dancing smoking shouting laughing Rastafarians headphones (why wear headphones at what is clearly a concert?) dreadlocks headdresses braids African cloth – and then there are two middle-aged white women looking about as American middle class and white bread as you can get – pushing their way through the thick crowd toward the music. People stared at us, looking about as out of place as you can get, but we didn’t care. I was smiling at how once again Bonnie has charged ahead fearlessly into unknown territory dragging me behind – reluctant at first, but finally happy for the adventure. We found a little shop and managed to squeeze through the crowded entry to get inside, where someone immediately tried to sell us CDs of local music, which we of course bought. (Just played one recently, it’s really good). There was art on the walls and a huge hole in the floor filled with water. I was waiting for someone to fall in the hole and disappear. There was a tiny crowded area in the back where a fortune teller was set up. She was a huge black woman wearing a turban, full brightly colored skirts, the skirts were stuffed in the back to make it look like her ass was even huger than it was. Huh? Of course we had our fortunes told. Would have done it even if it weren’t just $2 (plus another $2 to have you picture taken with the fortune teller). As Bonnie had her fortune told my eyes moved around the odd little room. Paintings, CDs, little painted statues, brightly colored posters, bowls of little kitschy things, lots of stuff everywhere – and of course the dreaded hole of water. There was a large cast iron bathtub painted red hanging directly over the chair you sit in (where Bonnie was now sitting) to have your fortune told. When Bonnie got out of the chair it collapsed to the floor, I had to put it together again in order to sit in it for my fortune. No one paid any attention, I guess it happens all the time. (Makes one wonder how well the huge bathtub is attached to the ceiling, maybe when the bathtub falls they just roll the poor dead tourist-body over to the handy water filled hole in the floor – plop – all evidence gone.) While she told my fortune she pounded the table (I was waiting for it too to collapse) so it of course was very believable. She told me I am going to be very rich, but sad and happy things will happen. I should not give my money to my husband but to the priest. (Funny how she assumes I even know a priest?). Bonnie, too, is going to have a lot of money, we were happy to hear. What a cool place. We took a taxi back to our hotel and met again at 4:30 to go to the opera – Madame Butterfly, which was really wonderful except for the small detail of no orchestra. Someone said they “lost it.” (?) So the music was provided by a single piano player. This says so much about Cubans. Making do. Wonderfully talented people performing an entire opera to a single piano. I was exhausted after this but Bonnie (where DOES she get all this energy) insisted we go to the Hotel Nacional – a few of our group had gotten tickets to see the Buena Vista Social Club, or at least parts of it – maybe one person was actually with the Buena Vista Social Club? Who knows. Despite the fact that I love this music, I said I didn’t think we could get tickets. (A minor detail that would not stop Bonnie) she said “Let’s just take a taxi over there and if we can’t get tickets we’ll just come back.” Dreams of my pillow fading I managed to squeeze out, in a weak voice “Sure” and off we went. Thanks again Bonnie for kicking me in my lazy butt – it was fabulous (except the lighting, why was the room so lit up). Bonnie even had energy left to dance. I just sat at the table lost in the fabulous music. What a place.
