There's a rhythm that must come from the salsa or another cuban dance that I hear everywhere. It pulses through the veins of Cubanos like an alternate heart beat. It goes like this: taa-taa-taa, ta-ta. Or perhaps more technically in 4/4, a triplet of quarter notes starting on the first beat with two eigth notes on the and of three then four (eighth rest on the and of four). Taa-taa-taa, ta-ta. It's inescapable and infectious.
Today I started out my day with going to, as my host Miguel described, Wifi Park (my work phone had "unlimited" international internet that I used in Israel and briefly in Cuba, but shortly after I arrived Sprint notified me that Id used up my allowance. "Unlimited"? Anyway Im trying to sort that out but I dont want to incur astronomical fees--fees that I might be responsible for). A communications monopoly Etesca controls phones, wifi, etc here, and most folks dont have wifi in their home. Instead, Etesca has wifi hotspots in public areas around the city and internet cafes. I knew that I was in the right place when I found bunches of people sitting on benches, glued to their phones and laptops. I asked a guy who briefly came up for air where to get a wifi code, and he whistled at a lurking salesman. The guy offered me a code and password for an hour of wifi for $3. The card looked official and seemed to work fine. I got my hit of internet. Felt good.
Then I walked to the birthplace of José Martí, who is considered like their George Washington. Althoigh unlike Washington, he died in the independence war, but he most assuredly would have been the first president. Unlike the surrounding buildings (including a sketchy train station) the birthplace home was in beautiful condition. A huge line of student and parents snaked out the front door and I wasnt too interested in waiting forever and then being in small rooms with boisterous kids, so I bid adiós.
Then I walked along the gorgeous Prado boulevard through the center of fancy town toward the northern coast. Lining the streets were buildings that clearly were elegant and expensive... in their day. Many were in decrepit conditions with just shells or facades remaining, but many had been reconstructed or were in the process (much more here than in the poor part of town where I stayed). On top of a functioning building two women received Salsa lessons. Several blocks later a kid sat in the shadows of one of the buildings on the ground floor, and I heard an idle, claap-claap-claap, clap-clap. It was as though he handclapped on autopilot.
The northern end of the Prado abuts the Malecón, an east-west drive along the coast that features a pleasant walkway. I paused to read the history from my guidebook, and a band of two trombones, a trumpet, and percussion played songs for passing--paying--tourists. Of course rhythms were embedded in their songs, but a construction worker across the street and atop a small building joined in with surprisingly tonal bricks. Paawng-paawng-paawng, pong-pong. I loitered, I strolled, I enjoyed the ambiance.
I couldnt find any internet to sip from, so I walked back to my homestay to arrange dinner plans. Along the way I stopped off at the provincial Governor's palace that Id visited the previous day. I needed to use el baño, and in this city short on public toilets, I knew I could use one here. Upon stepping out of the palace, i pulled out my phone, apparently glued to it while looking up directions. My spidey senses tingled and I looked up to find several actors on stilts and drummers who were making their way around the square. I stood in their route and Im not sure if they waited for me to lumber out of the way or if they would have stampeded me to the beat of their bongo drums. Paah-paah-paah, pah-pah!
After making plans for dinner, I walked through more town to get to a ferry that would take me to a peninsula opposite main Havana. At thr ferry station, I accidentally skipped the fee collector (ten cents) in my hurry to catch the departing boat. A short trip across the waterway, and I climbed the stairs to the top of the peninsula. A huge statue of Christ greeted me at the top and offered a great photo op of Havana. While I admired the general splendor, a man approached me, saying, "Oregon State Beavers? I'm an alum." He had spotted my hat and came over with his sister whose son is at OSU. Pretty crazy. Reminds me of when Whitney and I met an Emory student in Westminster Abbey.
I continued walking along the ridge of the hill, passing on my left historical missile and anti-aircraft artifacts of the Soviet era. To my right lay a series of military buildings with young Cuban soldiers performing drills outside. I heard some exercise being counted out. ("...nueve! Díez! Ónce! Dóce!...") Sadly they didn't count to the rhythm.
The fort is situated atop a pensula overlooking Havana. The English had used it to bombard the city in the 1700s, so the Spanish built this impregnable structure to defend. Later, in the 1950s, the generals of the former dictator Batiste were executed here. I sat for quite a while, taking in yhe view of the city, while an obnoxious trumpeter along the Malecón practiced his/her octaves for what seemed like 30 min. Blaat-blaaaaat! Blaat-BLAAAAT! Though I didnt particularly like the noise, I had to admire their stamina.
Much of the fort's amenities were closed for the season or permanently (hard to tell) so I had to get creative about relieving myself. Reminded me of a similar situation on an Irish island (Skellig Michael, where the new Star Wars are filmed) where I may have watered the former dwelling of a monk settlement...
On my return ferry trip, I paid the fee like a respectful visitor.
Along the way back to my homestay, I passed a fire station and heard a bombero inside. While he waited for action, he tapped on a fire truck. Tiing-tiing-tiing, ting-ting.
We had the most amazing meatbals for dinner. Of course it helped that I walked 10.5 miles (27k steps) and climbed 20 floors. I asked for the recipe and wrote the ingredients in Spanish, excited that i for to take this souvenir recipe home. But then i translated the ingredients, and they were just run-of-the-mill meatballs! I must find this Cuban secret ingredient.
I had a nice chat with Miguel and Andrés before heading to early bed for an early rise. Outside a dog barked, despite petitions from neighborhood residents. As I tried falling asleep, I could have almost sworn I heard, "ruuuff-ruuuff-ruuuff, ruff-ruff!"
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