'Havana'.

At a party I was once asked of all the places I'd been too, where would I return tomorrow. Without skipping a beat I replied 'Havana', and watched pleasant surprise cross my conversationalist's face. 'Why?', was the friendly question, to which I responded with a litany of reasons culminating in my firm belief that it is one of the most truly romantic cities on earth. 'More romantic than Paris?!' Now early shock switched to teasing incredulity. 'Yes!', I passionately replied, pushing a chicken's beak off my forehead (it was Halloween), 'but for different reasons'. Then I proceeded to explain why to a partner in ballerina-inspired drag.

My initial reasons for heading to Cuba focused on a desire I'd had since childhood to visit all the places my Grandmother loved in her various travels over her lifetime. I would look with envy at postcards smattered across her fridge and vowed that in adulthood I would visit those faraway places. I had an inkling through undergraduate coursework that Hemingway had spent extensive time in Cuba—at that point I'd only read 'A Clean, Well-lighted Place' but it stuck despite having a theme nearly entirely disconnected from a nineteen-year-old girl's experience. So when the option arose for a between-degrees break, my husband and I picked up a copy of The Sun Also Rises and went.

Havana is sweltering sticky heat. The sun radiates off of pastel-coloured walls in Habana Vieja and directly off of the white-hot cement of the Malecón, a walkway where young couples walk hand-in-hand and then take repose watching the sunset. Each night at El Canoñazo (a canon firing ceremony) Cuban families gather at El Morro and watch the fiery blasts, munching on snacks, laughing, excitedly chatting. Live music wafts like Cohiba smoke from varying bars and cafes, many former Hemingway haunts, late into the night in a city that doesn't sleep. And these are just atmospheric points.

Only in Havana would the touristy Plaza Vieja see a sudden downpour cause travellers to duck for cover in surrounding cafes while local boys picked up a game of soccer and splashed in the fountain. Local police watched disinterested; the rest of us got café con leches and vicariously absorbed the fun.

Lit flame, El Canoñazo — Lit flame, El Canoñazo

Only in Havana would you find yourself lost, have an off-duty tour guide hear you speaking English, take pity on you, walk you to the Buena Vista Social Club's favourite jam spot, and proceed to share a pitcher of mojitos with you, with actual yerba buena. You're introduced to the world-famous band, down Cuba Libres together. Later, you confirm his story via successful internet searching that he was, in fact, a former Montreal Expo who married the Canadian girl that popped out of the cake, got divorced, and returned to Cuba to live with his politically higher-up parents.

Only in Havana would you giggle with your Coco-taxi driver about being respectively drenched following an afternoon visit to the Hemingway Museum, where you saw bullfighting posters reminiscent of his time in Pamplona (scenes in the book you're currently devouring - The Sun Also Rises) and the emptied pool Ava Gartner swam naked in. Hemingway vowed to never have it drained—a sad irony.

Parked vintage cars, Coco taxi front left

Once I'd relayed the above, in addition to mentioning having relished the best cigars on earth (personal favourite: Monte Cristo, No. 4), my friend was persuaded. He speedily bought a ticket to Havana and has since reported he was not disappointed. I have since continued to follow Hemingway's travelling track record, much like my Grandmother's, and am not yet dissuaded. If you get the chance, pick up a book and go.

Internal courtyard, Palacio Cantero (Museo Historico Municipal)

It's amazing to how a photo can take you back to a particular time, a place. (Some would argue this there entire purpose, though I disagree.) When I snapped the above picture I was lying on the bed of our all pink and mint green room at a casa particular in Trinidad. We'd spent the morning and early afternoon touring the beautiful colonial city—a remnant of the sugar trade with cobblestone streets and peppy yellow and white painted Spanish buildings—and were ready to head out again after a quick bag drop-off. I sleepily listened as my husband chatted about dinner arrangements with our host. It struck me that the light coming through the acrid pink curtains was perfect, and that it would make a great black and white. So I clicked.

Later, we waxed philosophic with our gracious host on the virtues of Che Guevara over a dinner of pork and bean soup followed by local lobster: a splurge meal at our cook/host's urging before heading out for an evening of salsa (watching as opposed to dancing). He presented my husband with a Che T-shirt after discovering we were fans—a gift we did not take lightly as quality clothing was notoriously hard to come by in Cuba at the time. We received an emotional and heartfelt thanks for our tourism: he noted that Canadians had not abandoned Cuba during the embargo. It was one of those meals that you try to recreate it was so good; but we can never seem to get the beans just right. Then, we meandered through a not-so sleepy city at dusk, and closed the night watching Latinos from all over the Latin world swirl and twist their hips in a competition held on the cobblestones under the stars.

Through the same window on the next morning as we got up to depart, we heard the staticky voice of Fidel Castro in a rarely televised speech. Several older women (nearing the same age as Fidel himself) lovingly chortled that he looked near dead through their open windows across the street from one another, hair in colourful bandanas, large gold earrings jangling. They still clearly had affection for the man.

All of this still comes back to me from that rather quiet afternoon picture.

Trinidad, Cuba - View From a Window

Photo Essay of the Month

Featured Posts