It has always been a dream of my partner's to visit Cuba. God knows why, because it had always seemed to me that the biggest thing to do in Cuba was watch Cubans standing around being Cuban. Whoo.
Let me reiterate: Whoo.
Anyway, when the opportunity arose to live the aforementioned (tee hee, I said "aforementioned") dream, we had no choice but to jump on it. We jumped on a ship, in fact. We rode said ship from Miami to Nassau, and then from Nassau to Havana. We've been to Nassau enough times to not get much of a thrill from it anymore, but it so happened that we arrived in Nassau on Bahamian Labour Day. That was an interesting insight into The Bahamas, primarily because the Bahamians celebrate Labour Day with a four-hour-long parade. At least, that was how long we stood and watched it -- for all I know it could still be going on. And, featured in the parade were what I estimated to be every tuba in The Bahamas. You might not think of The Bahamas when you think of tuba-lovin' nations, but you would be wrong not to. It turns out that Bahamians love
nothing more than some rockin' tuba tunes.
Behold:
(But before you behold, let me apologize for the shitty cellphone camera pics. We had wanted to pack light...)
(Also note that if you must watch a parade in Nassau, try to watch it from the balcony of the Greek Islands Restaurant on Bay Street. Try the Greek frappe -- it's delicious, a wonderful blend of bitter and sweet.)
And of course, musical accompaniment:
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This driver appears to be underage...
You thought I had forgotten the tubas...
But of course, man cannot live on tuba alone. After Nassau we made our way to Havana.
By now you are asking yourself, what is Havana like? Havana, I can answer authoritatively as someone who spent nearly an entire day there and am therefore an expert, is what you would get if San Juan and Detroit had an ugly baby.
On a more serious note, Havana is filthy. Rainbow slicks shimmer on the water, and whenever you walk by the water you see floating drifts of trash long since dyed black by all that oil. You will also see people fishing and pulling their catches up through the garbage.
Now, obviously the best way to get to know a culture up close and personal is to careen through it, sometimes driving up onto the sidewalks if necessary, on a tour bus. You will be relieved to know that in the event of an emergency you merely need to break the glass. The sticker on the window will remind you several times over the course of the next great many pictures.
The American embassy:
Plaza de la Revolucion:
As both a cemetery buff and an admirer of classical sculpture, I have to admit that the Columbus Necropolis made my knickers more than a little sticky:
The University of Havana:
The view from Christ of Havana Park:
Christ of Havana. It bugs the hell out of me that you can see up His nose like that.
The view from Morro Castle:
They're renovating the train station.
The bus dropped us off at this little market because we -- and everybody else -- had been thwarted from shopping at the Almacenes San Jose, the main art and craft market. Why? Because someone had been thoughtless enough, without even
considering that American tourists might want to purchase coffee and trinkets, to murder someone else at the Almacenes San Jose. The criminalistics vans had been lined up outside the main market as we passed by. The gates had been closed and a large clot of very agitated shopkeepers and stall holders had been clustered around the vans.
Another note about the filth of Havana. The entire city smelled like shit although, I know from my experiences in New York, London, Paris, Tokyo, and Miami Beach, that all the best cities tend to here and there. In Havana though, you walked through a constant fug of poopstank. You also walked across runnels and pools, some of them fizzing and some of them not, of milky fluids, none of which one would wish to inspect too closely, oozing through the streets.
When there were streets to walk through, mind you.
It was in this park that we made the acquaintance of an absolutely lovely young Cuban lady who, after it was established that we were not interested in renting
any of her bodily orifices, led us to a restaurant that served the most delightful fried chicken you could ever hope to find.
Havana seemed more a city of stray dogs, whereas San Juan is a city of stray cats. When you did find a stray cat, like this one sporting a raw red socket where its right eye should be, it was much the worse for the wear.
Marvelous fried chicken. Although, for an idea of how differently things are done in one country versus another, in Cuba it's perfectly fine for your restaurant's bathroom to vent into the kitchen.
When it comes to street art, Havana brings it.
Kids were running around this fountain in Plaza de San Francisco, playing.
Meanwhile, back on the ship the light had changed.
Christ of Havana is less distracting when you can't see up His gigantic marble nostrils.
That building with the sphere atop it is the Cuban weather service building. The sphere holds the radar apparatus.
Goodbye, Havana.
Now, you may ask would I return to Cuba? Abso-fucking-lutely. It takes more than vast tracts of ruins, oil spills, foothills of litter, shit and mystery fluids coursing through the streets to turn me off to a town. Why, I'd love to go back and see the Museum of Chocolate. Shop at the art market whenever someone hasn't just been killed in it. See the Capitolio with the scaffolding off. Walk the Prado and count the bronze lion statues. Yes, I'd delight in going back to Havana -- even though my heart will always belong to San Juan.
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