My friend Bryan Lepree had a request that my Mom and I'm sure many others have too: some insight into 'ordinary' Cubans' thoughts and feelings. I wrote this a week ago and am finally able to post it:
Last Saturday night in Havana I decided to explore the city on my own, to try to gain an authentic Havana nightlife experience. I got a lot (and lost a little) more than I bargained for.
I ended up meeting a young Cuban man named William, probably in his late 20’s, who saw me strolling down a grand avenue called the Prado leading from my hotel to Havana’s oceanfront walkway, the Malecon. He approached and tried to guess where I was from (so far, from a few Cubans I’ve met on the streets, I’ve gotten Italian and Argentinean – go figure). When I told him I was American, he grew an enormous smile and said in his best English, ‘It’s Saturday night – you must come join me and my friends for a drink!”
We crossed the street and went to a gated outdoor patio bar. A guard let us in, and only Cubans were inside, so I was glad to have found a place not designed for tourists. William led me to a table where two of his friends – Guillermo and Luisa – were sittying. When I asked, “Aren’t Guillermo and William the same name?” William said, “Yes , but I’m William and this is Guillermo.” They had been friends since elementary school and first met when their moms got in a fist fight.
I ordered Cuba Libres and Cuban Bucanero beers (5.6% alcohol) for us. It’s considered polite for visiting Americans and other foreign tourists to pay for their Cuban guests, since we have so much more disposable income than they do. As the liquor started taking effect, my Spanish began flowing more smoothly (typical for me), and we engaged in some fascinating conversation.
So what opinions did my three new Cuban friends share with me? Before I tell you, understand that many Cubans I’ve spoken to, generally from older generations and those I’ve met in smaller towns and in the countryside, do not have the same opinions as these youngsters.
While Luisa remained very quiet during the conversation, she nodded in agreement when Guillermo and William expressed a strong desire, even desperation, for change. “We’ve been waiting for 47 years,” said William. “Change has to come.” He predicted it would start happening in a big way within two or three months, which is code language around here for ‘when Fidel Castro dies.’
I learned that Luisa and Guillermo were students training to be cigar makers. Both guys have fathers living in the United States, in New Jersey and New York, underscoring the fact that the vast majority Cuban families have close relatives living in the U.S.
I asked their opinions of Fidel. William’s view was that the Cuban people show tremendous respect for him now because they have been taught nothing else. But after Fidel is gone, it will be a different story, when he thinks many Cubans will be more comfortable expressing negative opinions of him and dismantling at least part of the current system. I noticed right away that whenever the talk turned to Fidel, and either Guillermo or William said his name, they would hunch over the table to be closer to me, look quickly around, and lower their voices a few decibels.
I asked them what, if anything, they admired about the current system. They said only two things: the education system (which is free for all Cubans through college) and the medical system (also universal and free). “But that’s two things,” said William, “Two percent of the system; the other 98 percent –” he finished the sentence with a dismissive swipe of his hand across the table.
After talking politics for a while, the conversation turned to equally important things in Cuba: baseball and salsa. A young waiter at the hotel overheard us talking about baseball. When I asked him who his favorite Cuban baseball team was, he said none of them. I asked why, and he said, “Because I like the New York Yankees.” Then William asked if I knew how to dance Cuban salsa. I sheepishly told him no because it’s not in my blood, and he said “No problem – Luisa will teach you.” So we left and made our way to a “Casa de la Musica” for some salsa.
As we walked along a stretch of the Malecon to get there, William approached some other friends, a couple, enjoying some Cuban rum. As I smelled the salty Caribbean spray and watched the waves crashing below, a plastic cup with a shot of rum in it was thrust before my face, with the exhortation to drink. Straight rum’s not my thing, but I’ve read and heard over and over again that having some rum on the Malecon with friends is a weekend ritual for young Habeneros (the people of Havana). So I took a swig . . . and felt a little more Cuban for it.
Apparently the ‘Casa de la Musica’ was a little beyond walking distance, so William whistled at a stranger’s passing car (a diminutive Eastern European Lada) and beckoned us to crawl inside when it stopped. A father and young son occupied the front two seats, and there were four of us. No matter, three of us climbed into the back seat and Guillermo took the front passenger seat, hoisting the kid onto his lap. A few minutes later we were let off at our destination and paid the stranger a Cuban Convertible Peso (about $1) for his trouble – far cheaper than regular cab fare and a common way for Habaneros to get around their city.
Ok, here’s where the fun started. It turned out the ‘Casa de la Musica’ had a 10-peso cover charge per person. As mentioned, I was paying for drinks for my friends the whole night, so I reached into my pocket to find only six pesos remaining. By this time, it was getting late and sort of felt I should head back to the hotel and bid my new friends goodnight. William, who had not sobered up as much as the rest of us by now, urged me to go back to my hotel room and get some more money so we all could get in. I agreed to let them take me back to my hotel, because I didn’t really know the way, but said ‘Vamos a ver’ (We’ll see”), knowing by now that I would be going to bed once I got there.
As we walked to my hotel, the scariest episode yet to happen to me in Cuba took place. Two armed Havana police officers approached us and exchanged words with my three new friends. The Spanish was too fast for me to understand, as is most Spanish spoke casually between Cubans. Luisa and Guillermo offered the cops a cigarette. So I thought, ok, no biggie, they just want a smoke. But they immediately brushed the cigarettes aside and led Guillermo and William to the other side of the street, while Luisa and I waited. The police asked for and were shown my friends’ ID cards. After about five minutes of conversation back and forth, William returned and asked me for 10 pesos. I asked what for and he said for the police to leave us alone. I hardly ever bargain, but for some crazy reason I felt like doing so now. “How about three pesos?” I said. William said “Give me eight, OK?” I said I’d give him five and nothing more. He took my five and gave it to the police and we were allowed to continue on our way.
When we neared the hotel, my three companions stopped a block away (ordinary Cubans are not allowed to enter hotels with foreign guests). William asked if I’d come back with money for all of us to go dancing. Noncommittal in my answer, I waved goodbye and rounded the block to the safety of my hotel’s lobby, with no intention of going back out into the Havana night. I was a bit shaken and a little suspicious about what had just happened with the police, and I felt I might continue to either be shaken down, or make my friends a target of the police (depending on your take of the situation), if I hung out with them later into the night.
I felt lucky to have met and shared drinks and some honest conversation with three young Cubans. I also felt a little confused and sad about how the night had just ended.
I crawled into bed and fell asleep, safe and sound, as my mind swirled with everything I had just experienced of Cuban culture during the course of this memorable Havana night.
I ended up meeting a young Cuban man named William, probably in his late 20’s, who saw me strolling down a grand avenue called the Prado leading from my hotel to Havana’s oceanfront walkway, the Malecon. He approached and tried to guess where I was from (so far, from a few Cubans I’ve met on the streets, I’ve gotten Italian and Argentinean – go figure). When I told him I was American, he grew an enormous smile and said in his best English, ‘It’s Saturday night – you must come join me and my friends for a drink!”
We crossed the street and went to a gated outdoor patio bar. A guard let us in, and only Cubans were inside, so I was glad to have found a place not designed for tourists. William led me to a table where two of his friends – Guillermo and Luisa – were sittying. When I asked, “Aren’t Guillermo and William the same name?” William said, “Yes , but I’m William and this is Guillermo.” They had been friends since elementary school and first met when their moms got in a fist fight.
I ordered Cuba Libres and Cuban Bucanero beers (5.6% alcohol) for us. It’s considered polite for visiting Americans and other foreign tourists to pay for their Cuban guests, since we have so much more disposable income than they do. As the liquor started taking effect, my Spanish began flowing more smoothly (typical for me), and we engaged in some fascinating conversation.
So what opinions did my three new Cuban friends share with me? Before I tell you, understand that many Cubans I’ve spoken to, generally from older generations and those I’ve met in smaller towns and in the countryside, do not have the same opinions as these youngsters.
While Luisa remained very quiet during the conversation, she nodded in agreement when Guillermo and William expressed a strong desire, even desperation, for change. “We’ve been waiting for 47 years,” said William. “Change has to come.” He predicted it would start happening in a big way within two or three months, which is code language around here for ‘when Fidel Castro dies.’
I learned that Luisa and Guillermo were students training to be cigar makers. Both guys have fathers living in the United States, in New Jersey and New York, underscoring the fact that the vast majority Cuban families have close relatives living in the U.S.
I asked their opinions of Fidel. William’s view was that the Cuban people show tremendous respect for him now because they have been taught nothing else. But after Fidel is gone, it will be a different story, when he thinks many Cubans will be more comfortable expressing negative opinions of him and dismantling at least part of the current system. I noticed right away that whenever the talk turned to Fidel, and either Guillermo or William said his name, they would hunch over the table to be closer to me, look quickly around, and lower their voices a few decibels.
I asked them what, if anything, they admired about the current system. They said only two things: the education system (which is free for all Cubans through college) and the medical system (also universal and free). “But that’s two things,” said William, “Two percent of the system; the other 98 percent –” he finished the sentence with a dismissive swipe of his hand across the table.
After talking politics for a while, the conversation turned to equally important things in Cuba: baseball and salsa. A young waiter at the hotel overheard us talking about baseball. When I asked him who his favorite Cuban baseball team was, he said none of them. I asked why, and he said, “Because I like the New York Yankees.” Then William asked if I knew how to dance Cuban salsa. I sheepishly told him no because it’s not in my blood, and he said “No problem – Luisa will teach you.” So we left and made our way to a “Casa de la Musica” for some salsa.
As we walked along a stretch of the Malecon to get there, William approached some other friends, a couple, enjoying some Cuban rum. As I smelled the salty Caribbean spray and watched the waves crashing below, a plastic cup with a shot of rum in it was thrust before my face, with the exhortation to drink. Straight rum’s not my thing, but I’ve read and heard over and over again that having some rum on the Malecon with friends is a weekend ritual for young Habeneros (the people of Havana). So I took a swig . . . and felt a little more Cuban for it.
Apparently the ‘Casa de la Musica’ was a little beyond walking distance, so William whistled at a stranger’s passing car (a diminutive Eastern European Lada) and beckoned us to crawl inside when it stopped. A father and young son occupied the front two seats, and there were four of us. No matter, three of us climbed into the back seat and Guillermo took the front passenger seat, hoisting the kid onto his lap. A few minutes later we were let off at our destination and paid the stranger a Cuban Convertible Peso (about $1) for his trouble – far cheaper than regular cab fare and a common way for Habaneros to get around their city.
Ok, here’s where the fun started. It turned out the ‘Casa de la Musica’ had a 10-peso cover charge per person. As mentioned, I was paying for drinks for my friends the whole night, so I reached into my pocket to find only six pesos remaining. By this time, it was getting late and sort of felt I should head back to the hotel and bid my new friends goodnight. William, who had not sobered up as much as the rest of us by now, urged me to go back to my hotel room and get some more money so we all could get in. I agreed to let them take me back to my hotel, because I didn’t really know the way, but said ‘Vamos a ver’ (We’ll see”), knowing by now that I would be going to bed once I got there.
As we walked to my hotel, the scariest episode yet to happen to me in Cuba took place. Two armed Havana police officers approached us and exchanged words with my three new friends. The Spanish was too fast for me to understand, as is most Spanish spoke casually between Cubans. Luisa and Guillermo offered the cops a cigarette. So I thought, ok, no biggie, they just want a smoke. But they immediately brushed the cigarettes aside and led Guillermo and William to the other side of the street, while Luisa and I waited. The police asked for and were shown my friends’ ID cards. After about five minutes of conversation back and forth, William returned and asked me for 10 pesos. I asked what for and he said for the police to leave us alone. I hardly ever bargain, but for some crazy reason I felt like doing so now. “How about three pesos?” I said. William said “Give me eight, OK?” I said I’d give him five and nothing more. He took my five and gave it to the police and we were allowed to continue on our way.
When we neared the hotel, my three companions stopped a block away (ordinary Cubans are not allowed to enter hotels with foreign guests). William asked if I’d come back with money for all of us to go dancing. Noncommittal in my answer, I waved goodbye and rounded the block to the safety of my hotel’s lobby, with no intention of going back out into the Havana night. I was a bit shaken and a little suspicious about what had just happened with the police, and I felt I might continue to either be shaken down, or make my friends a target of the police (depending on your take of the situation), if I hung out with them later into the night.
I felt lucky to have met and shared drinks and some honest conversation with three young Cubans. I also felt a little confused and sad about how the night had just ended.
I crawled into bed and fell asleep, safe and sound, as my mind swirled with everything I had just experienced of Cuban culture during the course of this memorable Havana night.
