Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
enough to represent one of the characteristic faces of the city. The diffused light turns all the
buildings a range of pastels. Then as the sun reddens, it becomes rose-colored.
It was 9:30 by the time we got back to our hotel. Normally that would have been past the
six-year-old's bedtime, but my wife had a telephone interview—meant to happen during the
day, it got bumped—so she needed us out of the room for an hour.
Downstairswesatandlistenedtothebanddotheinescapable(inHavana)“HastaSiempre,
Comandante,” with its strange lyrics, “Here lies the clear/the precious transparency/of your
dear presence/Comandante Che Guevara.” Cats were slinking around. The people going by
were of every shade, and many with striking faces. In the most Spanish faces you could see
flashes of the Old World stock that supplied the island with settlers: the equine noses, the
long mouths, at times a Middle Eastern cast, features I knew from my wife's family pictures.
Onthesidewalkayoungbicycle-taxidrivernamedManuelapproachedus,awell-builtkid
in jean shorts and a tank top, about 19. He said he knew an ice cream place that was still
open. We set out through the night. Many of the streets were dark. It was chilly already, and
the six-year-old huddled against my side. It was one of those moments when you know that
you are where you're supposed to be. If your destiny wavered, it has at least momentarily
recovered its track. We ate our chocolate ice cream at an outdoor bar, under a half-moon.
On the way back to the hotel, Manuel asked what I did. When I told him I was a reporter,
he said: “You'd hate it here. There is no freedom of expression here.”
He launched into a tirade against the regime. “It is basically a prison,” he said. “Everyone
is afraid.”
The things he said, which I had heard many times before—that you can go to prison for
nothing, that there's no opportunity, that people are terrified to speak out—are the reason I
can never quite get with my leftie-most friends on Cuba, when they want to make excuses
for the regime. It's simply a fact that nearly every Cuban I've ever come to know beyond a
passing acquaintance, everyone not involved with the party, will turn to you at some point
and say something along the lines of, “It is a prison here.” I just heard it from one of the men
who worked for Erik, back in the hometown. I remarked to him that storefronts on the streets
looked a little bit better, more freshly painted. It was a shallow, small-talky observation.
“No,” he said, turning his head and exhaling smoke.
“You mean things haven't improved?” I said.
“There is no future,” he said. “We are lost.”
The six-year-oldkept asking me what Manuel wassaying. Iwasdoingmybest todescribe
el sistema
. Interesting trying to explain to a child educated in a Quaker Montessori school
what could possibly be wrong with everyone sharing.
We passed the museum with the
Granma
, the leisure boat that in 1956 carried Fidel and
Raul and Che and Camilo Cienfuegos and 78 other Cuban revolutionaries from Mexico to a
beach on the island's southeast coast. The cruiser was all lighted up with aquamarine lights,
