Kenny held up his baggage receipt from their check-in at the Miami airport in one hand and pointed to it with the other. She appeared frozen and stared at him with wide eyes. He took charge, “Give me yours.”
“It’s all well and good that we have receipts, but everyone has been warning us about theft. Anyone could pick up our bags right now and walk out of here.”
“Georgia, please watch all of our carry-on stuff.” She stood perfectly still with her purse hanging on her shoulder and one of her hands on the long handles of each of their small valises.
She said to no one in particular, “I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for our suitcases. What are all these piles of packages? Why are people bringing them all in? You don’t need many clothes in this weather. I debated whether or not I could get away with my carry-on alone. You’d have to dig your way down into the piles to find out . . .” She realized she was talking into thin air and Kenny was gone. Georgia’s heart began to pound.
But within seconds, he reappeared before her with her large green suitcase in his left hand and his black one in his right. The commotion around them felt stifling. Kenny signaled with his head toward the swinging double steel doors that must have been twelve feet tall. He said, “Let’s get out of here. There’s supposed to be a driver waiting outside with our name on a sign.” Men in uniform, and at attention, flanked the exit on either side. The crowd behind them seemed in a hurry. They jostled them as they pushed toward the door. Georgia ran on her tiptoes as she rolled the smaller cases next to Kenny, who handled the larger pieces. Together they burst out into the blinding sunlight.
Thirty-Eight
“Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with.”
—Mark Twain
Kenny and Georgia stood in the morning heat of the Caribbean sun and squinted into hundreds of inquisitive faces. A U-shaped steel fence about waist high held the crowd back and funneled the arriving passengers out through a single gate to the sidewalk. From a short distance music began to play; it was a man’s voice accompanied by a single guitar. He was singing “Guantanamera,” which seemed so perfectly orchestrated that Georgia wondered, Does he do the famous ballad for every arriving flight? The throngs of those waiting for incoming passengers, and now staring at them, looked enthralled.
“Kenny, this must be what it feels like to be a celebrity on the red carpet.”
At least twenty drivers were holding up paper signs lettered with a black marker, but she didn’t see any that had Simmons on it. Many others, carrying their luggage out, were coming through the door and into the space where they were rooted with uncertainty. Kenny thought they better move along.
“Let’s go through the gate and out by the curb.”
As they stood on the sidewalk, almost immediately, a battered old car from the fifties with a shattered windshield pulled up. A tall, thin Afro-Cuban man got out to introduce himself and help with the bags. He offered his hand to Kenny first.
“You are Mr. Simmons? I am Angel.” His accent was heavy. He pronounced his first name as Awnhill. Georgia made a mental note to think anthill before addressing him in the future. He told them, “I will try very hard to speak English. I want to learn because it is good for business. If you know any Spanish, we will find a way to meet in the center.”
“Si,” Kenny answered. “Y gracias.”
“You are welcome. Has estado . . . Cuba before?”
“No. It’s our first time,” Georgia answered.
“Hey, Angel, we need to exchange money,” Kenny told him.
“Si. Si. Voy a parar en el banco. Banco. The bank. I will stop.”
They thanked him as a chorus of two: “Gracias.”
The airport wasn’t far from Old Havana, where the streets quickly turned to winding cobblestone lanes punctuated by open plazas. There were more bicycles and cycle taxis than cars. Horse-drawn carts, ready for hire, lined the common outdoor spaces. The majority of the automobiles that they observed were exactly as one might assume—from the fifties and perfectly maintained. Georgia had read that after the Cuban revolution, the government passed legislation that kept people from buying cars, but if a vehicle had been purchased before 1959, it could be passed down through the family. She imagined the ingenuity and talent that had been required to keep them running all these years. What Georgia was not prepared for was the thick exhaust fumes emitted from the autos, as she had forgotten there was a time not long ago when no one gave a thought to air pollution.
Angel was proud of his city. He pointed out, “Renovated streets. Renovated buildings.” He turned around as best he could to gesture to Kenny, “You stay on this . . . these . . . streets. The renovated.” Angel stopped to show how the end of the improved areas were marked with a barrier of cast iron cannons embedded upright into the ground.
Kenny and Georgia already knew that restoration of a few cobblestone thoroughfares and historic buildings had begun over twenty years ago. They developed into important areas for the country’s tourism, as they highlighted perhaps the finest display of Spanish colonial buildings anywhere in the Americas.
Obispo Boulevard, in particular, was often a portal through which foreign visitors experienced Old Havana. Tourists queued up to exchange currency and stood around in small groups enjoying the rhythms of rumba and Cuban jazz. Locals dressed in brightly colored traditional clothing provided photo opportunities for a price. They were not shy about chasing away anyone with a camera who did not pay them. It seemed that every other shop on the street sold T-shirts with pictures of Ché Guevara on them.
After nightfall, the kind of goods and services that were available on this avenue changed. Black market cigars, rum, and cell phones were sold openly. The bar that once counted Ernest Hemingway as a regular was jammed with patrons who ordered daiquiris and danced wildly to Cuban beats. Sex workers of every ilk congregated along some of the sidewalks and leaned against stucco walls in provocative poses. Georgia and Kenny would soon discover that one area was particularly disturbing, as it included obviously underage boys and girls.
But it was still a pristine morning when Angel wound his way around the sharp corners of the ancient streets. He did his best to have patience and avoided colliding with the many pedestrians making their way to work, shop, or back to their homes. Some of the structures they passed looked well-tended, even romantic, but just as many had crumbling front walls. From curbside, you could see through large holes into ominous-looking interiors. Viewed from Angel’s car windows, the scene was riotous. Bright colors, sounds, and faces were layered into nothing short of pandemonium when he finally pulled in to park in a narrow alley. Angel rolled to a stop in front of the Telefónica where they would be staying, but both Kenny and Georgia hesitated to leave the relative serenity of the backseat.
Kenny climbed out and gave a helping hand to Georgia, just as a handsome young Cuban man, black-haired with dark flashing eyes, came out to meet them at the stoop of the open front door. He spoke almost fluent English, which was a comfort to the couple, as neither of them had realized how disorienting culture shock could be. He shook their hands and introduced himself. “I am Alejandro. Welcome to the Telefónica.” He and Angel insisted on carrying the couple’s suitcases inside. Before he picked two up, Alejandro waved them into the narrow front room.
There was a couch along one wall and two padded stools against the one opposite it. About fifteen feet straight ahead of that was the check-in desk that also served as the center for office work. Although it was quite small, it contained a telephone, computer, printer, and moneybox.
“Your room is right here on the first floor. You are lucky, as it is the biggest one we have here. We will carry your bags right in. Here it is, a nice room. And this is your bathroom. You can use the toilet and sink, but not the shower. The water isn’t working. I will show you the shower down the hall.” The room was tiny, although it contained a queen-sized bed. There was no closet or dresser.
Georgia had two pieces of luggage and so did Kenny. The only way to lay them open would be to put them on top of the bed.
Alejandro advised them, “I recommend you go out exploring immediately. Head in any direction and you find interesting things to see. Have some lunch at the Paladar Los Mercaderes. Come.” He stepped out onto the sidewalk into Havana’s perpetual golden light and motioned to his left. “It’s just there around the corner. On the second floor. It is the best restaurant around here. Tell David I sent you. They have their own fishing boat and a farm and ranch outside of the city. Everything that they serve is fresh. What do you call this in the US? I know that you have a name for it but I can’t remember.”
Georgia took a guess, “Farm to table?”
Alejandro snapped his fingers. “That’s it,” he laughed, his perfect white teeth blazing against his brown skin, “but also boat to table—yes?”
She said, “And, ranch to table. Sounds like quite the enterprise.”
“Thanks for your advice, Alejandro. I think stretching our legs and taking in the sights is a great idea. Georgia, can you walk very far in those shoes? Do you want to change?”
After she put on her sneakers, they headed east less than a block and were drawn into the wide-open triple doors of the Hotel Rachel. Georgia was really thinking aloud when she asked him, “Many of the entryways here are so tall! Why do you think that is?”
Kenny took her arm as they stepped into the lobby. “Probably to let the cross breezes flow through. They sure didn’t have air-conditioning when this was built. On a day like today, you don’t need any. In the shade, there’s almost a chill in the air.”
A well-dressed young man in a suit stepped forward to greet them. “Buenos dias.”
Kenny replied, “Buenos dias. ¿Habla usted Inglés.”
“Un pequeño, señor. How may I be of service?” Georgia and Kenny learned quickly that many Cubans were highly educated and had studied at least some English in school. But they found that most were modest about their accomplishments and always said that they spoke a little, when, in fact, they were quite good at it.
Georgia whispered to Kenny, “Is it just me or are Cubans the most beautiful people in the world?”
He patted her arm to show her that he was in agreement, but his eyes remained focused on the concierge who stood before them. Kenny worked hard to put a sentence together in Spanish to converse with the young man. “Tenemos curiosidad acerca de este hermoso edificio. It’s just gorgeous. Really.”
“Gracias. We are very proud of the hotel and its history. You will see that the fixtures and furnishing are a mix of cultures. Are you Jewish?”
Kenny blinked. “Why do you ask?” he said but felt compelled to answer the question. “I was raised Presbyterian.”
“No matter. I will take you on a little tour. This is the Hotel Rachel, which is Hebrew for innocent. It was built by our people, and today many of the employees still worship together at the oldest Sephardic synagogue in Cuba. This section of La Habana Vieja was once the Jewish neighborhood of Havana. Are you surprised by this?”
Georgia sputtered a little, as she actually was surprised that there was a large Jewish presence in the country. “May I ask? . . . but I don’t want to offend you.”
“No, no. You will not offend me. I am very interested.”
“Well, I was born in 1955, and I went to a Catholic school in the United States. We were taught that, while the constitution and government Castro established in 1959 allowed for freedom of religion in writing, it did not in practice. The nuns said they closed churches and took over properties, including schools, and pretty much forced the faithful Catholics underground.”
“There is no anti-Semitism in Cuba.”
“I see. I suppose that I assumed there would be.”
He gave her a stiff and formal bow and said, “If you will come this way.” Their guide held open the door to an antique brass cage-style elevator. “Please be careful as you step into the lift.”
As they rode up to the second story, Georgia officially introduced them, “This is Kenny Simmons and I am Georgia Best.”
He nodded an acknowledgment, but did not extend his hand. “My name is Modesto.”
“Thank you for showing us around, Modesto.”
“Please be cautious as you get out.” All the guest rooms were built around a long, thin oval balcony that overlooked the lobby. The space also soared above them to a stained glass domed ceiling that was breathtaking.
Modesto sounded practiced, so they assumed that he was used to giving this tour. “The hotel dates back to 1905 when it was a textile import firm and warehouse. As you can see, the façade is baroque, but the interior is art nouveau inspired. Yet, please notice how many details evoke the Hebrew culture. It seduces the beholder with its beauty and sensuousness—no?” He stared into Georgia’s eyes awaiting a response.
She was a bit confounded. Sensuous? His face was chiseled, and he gave off an air of knowing full well how attractive he was. She didn’t want him to think that she was taken in by his attention. It would annoy her if he got some satisfaction, thinking she was smitten in any way. So she answered him carefully in a measured tone, “It certainly is pretty.”
Kenny seemed to read her mind when he added in a particularly manly, booming voice, “Very impressive. Yes, very impressive indeed.”
Indeed? Georgia thought. They would be laughing about that comment for days.
Modesto led them back to the elevator and took the couple up to the rooftop where the stained glass dome was surrounded by a covered patio with tables and chairs. The entire seating area, all one hundred and eighty degrees, had a splendid view of Old Havana. Georgia had to admit to herself that the sight thrilled her, “Is this open to the public, Modesto? Can we come up here later for a drink?”
“Of course. It’s what we do.”
“I wasn’t sure what to expect because you have hotel guests. Do you serve wine?”
“Spanish only. Most people drink our world-famous rum—mojitos, and daiquiris.”
Once they were back down in the lobby, Kenny shook Modesto’s hand and thanked him. As a matter of course, he went for his wallet to extract a tip, but Modesto quickly dismissed the gesture. “Sir, there is no tipping in Cuba.”
“Please, I insist. You took time out of your busy day to show us around.”
“And please, I insist, you will insult me. I was happy to take you, and I will see you again this evening for your cocktails.”
“Fair enough. And thanks again,” he said as he returned the wallet to his back pocket.
Kenny and Georgia wandered on hand in hand, moving along the cobblestones with a dense crowd of other, mostly European, tourists and many locals as well. She said, “I’ve read over and over again about the light here. It really is almost mystical. You have to see it to believe it.”
“It’s brilliant,” he agreed, “and, except for the exhaust fumes on the road from the airport, the air seems exceptionally clear.”
“Crystal. Almost like we’re living in an altered state of heightened awareness.”
“I’d say that you were exaggerating, but I’m standing right next to you, and it’s apparent you aren’t. You know, I was a little freaked out when I realized that as Americans we couldn’t use our cell phones or have access to the Internet while we were on this vacation. I thought it would be like falling off the edge of civilization, but the truth is, it makes me focus on you and just being here. Somehow I feel like I stepped into a decompression chamber and left all my worries behind. Even if there’s another problem right now at home—there is nothing that I can do about it anyway. I’ve just surrendered, and it’s pretty wonderful.”
“Timing is everything,” Georgia said. “Six months from now, as our countrymen come swooping in, there will be constant communication between America and Cuba. I want to soak in this moment of history and enjoy the time we have together. What an opportunity! I love my kids, of course, but when have you and I ev
er had the time to be completely selfish?”
He took her arm and pulled her into his embrace. They kissed like teenagers, unaware of anything but their joy in being together. Pedestrians flowed around them smiling at the two older folks, whom many assumed were on their second honeymoon. Georgia pulled away first, but Kenny held onto her shoulder with one hand and stroked her right cheek with the other. He told her, “I understand completely about wanting to have some selfish time. At our age, when you fall in love, you come with baggage. It’s a fact of life that we are both a package deal. But it sure is nice to get away from it all for a few days.”
They walked up San Ignacio Street toward the famous Obispo Boulevard, at which point the tourist traffic and the diversity of languages increased significantly. Georgia poked around the open air shops, but stopped short of buying the cheap trinkets and T-shirts that she saw. On nearly every corner there were women dressed in traditional Cuban costumes of yellow and red. One of them linked arms with Georgia, posed for Kenny and his camera, and boldly stated, “One dollar.” After being enticed into taking two such shots, they decided that two were more than enough.
By the time they strolled around a big rectangle of city blocks in Habana Vieja and headed back toward the restaurant, Paladar Los Mercaderes, that Alejandro had recommended for lunch, they were very happy with the location of the B&B Telefónica. “You know Kenny, we wound up in the prettiest part of this town. Talk about dumb luck.”
“I was lucky to find Jonathan and CubaToDo. He seemed to know what he was talking about but, in the end, I had to put my trust in him. The room is not fancy, but it will do just fine for a week—don’t you think?”
“It’s more than fine.”
The restaurant was on the second story of an old building where they were escorted out to a narrow veranda with just two small tables. The seats had a view of the street on one side and through open-paned glass doors on the other, the main dining room. Inside, the small establishment held about fifteen additional tables. A corner of the room served as a stage for a three-piece Cuban band of acoustic musicians. They faced into the big room through a huge doorjamb. Georgia said, “I hate to use a cliché, but the singer looks like a young Desi Arnaz.”
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