My last days in Cuba were filled with adventures and clues to a complex culture that I can only scratch the surface of in the short week I was there. In the last days I hung out with a new Cuban friend whom I met in Habana Vieja (Old Havana). An engineer and salsa teacher who had lived in Havana most of his life, Randy taught me a lot about what it is like to be Cuban. We walked all over Habana Vieja exchanging perspectives and insights about our disparate worlds. I got to be as close to being a local as I could be wearing pale skin and gringa clothes. We went to little restaurants where tourists can’t go unless they are accompanied by a local or can pass for a Cuban themselves. We took the local cabs (There are separate cabs for tourists and locals) and payed in CUPs, the currency of the Cuban people.

A local Cuban taxi. The old cars are the local, communal cabs and the new cars tend to be for tourists.

With a few days left we took to the streets on a new mission. I wanted to to find a vintage car on which to paint a mural. For me there is something special about art that moves and the best piece of transportation I could think of to paint in Cuba was an old Cadillac or Chevy.

 

Looooove these old Cadillacs

We canvassed grids of cobble-stoned streets leaving lengthy notes in Spanish under the windshield wipers of sweet looking old cars with peeling paint. The notes said something to the effect of “free art for you.” We walked and walked until our feet were sore and our legs were tired. Then we grabbed a late lunch at a local place. We ordered Creole chicken and rice with plantains to-go. (80 CUPS = just over three bucks U.S.) We took it to the coast and ate, sitting on the wall that stretches along the Malecón, watching the waves crash over the rocks below.

The waves along the Malecón

I assumed the challenge in finding a classic car to paint would be a matter of money. Most everyone who owns a car is using it daily and usually to make a living. It wasn’t so simple. To my delight the phone rang the next day and a guy who owned a 54 Chevy was curious about the note we left. We met him the next morning and I showed him some examples of what could be painted on his car. He knew right away he couldn’t do it. He said the government would never allow it and he didn’t want to risk getting in trouble. There are so many of these kinds of regulations in Cuba. That is why you don’t see a lot of street art there. Even the little boats in Cuba have strict regulations and need to be painted in a certain fashion. Painting a car was looking very unlikely.

The view of Havana from the José Martí Memorial Tower

I had only days left and there was still so much I wanted to do and see. I wish that I had given myself more time here in this fascinating place full of proud people, rich culture and crazy history. One week for Cuba is not enough. Time was running out fast.

The lighthouse and the Malecón

The next day Randy and I took a walk through the Cemetario de Colon (Christopher Columbus Cemetery) where Ruben Gonzales and Ibrahim Ferrer (of Buena Vista Social Club) are buried, as well as the poet Alejo Carpentier. We talked a lot about time and life and death and how facing your own death is one of the best things you can do for your life. Life is such a precious gift and we have endless possibilities in how we decide to create our own reality. Life is like a blank canvas that we get to paint in whichever way we choose. We can decide to paint it grey or black, leave it mostly white, or we can try to create a masterpiece.

Cemetario de Colon

My last day in Cuba was spent painting a wall along the coast outside of Havana with Randy. Racing the sunlight and time itself, we painted a cosmic hourglass filled with diamonds. In a banner above it we painted the message “El tiempo es valioso y vuela no lo pierdas” (Time is precious and flies, don’t waste it).

Randy helps me fill in the wings and hourglass

Racing time

Water shattered on the jagged rocks below, the wind blew dust and sand around wildly as we painted as fast as possible. Ever other moment we were looking over our shoulders to check on the position of the sun, laughing at the perfection of the moment. We finished the painting just as grey clouds covered the sun and disappeared below the horizon of endless Ocean.

I packed my things. I wistfully said goodbye.

I was driven back to the airport on the same road that I came in on. Same road, different me. I can never forget Cuba. The memories are a part of me now. Cruising down narrow streets on spring-exposed vinyl upholstery in the back of a vintage Cadillac bumping Reggeton, laying on the Malecón with my face to the sky, lunch with strangers turned familiar, Casa Particulares and the kind and generous people who ran them, Hearts of the World at a local playground, getting serenaded by a Mariachi band next to the water at midnight on my birthday, new friends that are sure to be old friends, fountains, cathedrals, castles, crazy-gorgeous architecture and a life expanding cemetery. Now, on the wings of time I am off to Haiti and have taken with me a piece of Cuba and left a behind a piece of my heart.

“El tiempo es valioso y vuela no lo pierdas” (Time is precious and flies, don’t waste it).

Farewell