My alarm sounds and I roll out of bed with squinty eyes and stumble into the dining room.

People say Cuba is stuck in a time warp and the house I am staying in reflects that. In ways it reminds me of my grandparents house when I was a child. There are plastic flower bouquets placed about and little porcelain figurines gracing the shelves. A small fake tree adorned with sparkly ornaments and topped off with a red metallic star sits in hallway extending Christmas into January.

A place setting is already laid out for me at the end of the long dining room table. Breakfast ($5CUC = U.S. $5) is served by Solis, the maid who is sweet and shy… too shy for a photo.

The fruit plate is filled with papaya, pineapple, guava and banana. The rest consists of two eggs sunny side up with a side of tomatoes, lettuce and bread. There is a bottle of flat water and a carafe of strong coffee that brings me to life.

Breakfast

Solis, the sweet and shy maid

I am anxious to get outside so I finish breakfast quickly and call my new friend Jorge, the neighbor that my hosts connected me with. He is over in 10 minutes and we set off on foot down Paseo, one of the main streets in Havana.

Jorge showed me many popular sights like the Cathedral of San Cristobal, and El Floridita, (one of Hemmingway’s old haunts), and we scouted some parks in which to hold the Hearts of the World workshop.

Cathedral de San Cristobal

El Floridita, where Hemmingway used to sit and write

After a long day of walking we parted ways and I went to do some work at a local hotel. Internet is very scarce in Cuba. I have only found it in the business centers at fancy hotels and even then it’s a score to actually get an wifi card.

After working for a few hours at Hotel Parque Central I walk outside and take a seat on the steps. The sky darkens and my stomach growls as I peel through the pages of a tour book reading “Where to Dine.” As I question which of the noted restaurants are near by a tall young guy as black as midnight and a short, brown, curly haired girl walk past me and he says something to me which goes in one ear and out the other.

Despite my efforts to blend in as a local I am an obvious tourist. In Old Havana I find myself the subject of many sales pitches. “Come to try the best mojito in Havana!” “Cigar? Cuban cigar?” “Where are you from?” “Where are you going?” “Taxi?”

I let these solicitations roll over me like the waves roll over the rocks along the Malecón. But this guy persists and though I am lost in dreams of lobster and live music, I finally hear his words. “Nice book you are reading… a Cuban book.” I look up. “It’s just a silly tour book,” I respond, and toss it aside with a brighter idea. “Where would you eat dinner?” I ask him. Both of them join me on the stair. He tells me of a place nearby where all the locals eat that is cheap and very good. They take me. We turn off the main drag and into the weakly lit labyrinth of cobbled streets nestled between grand, crumbling buildings. We pass by parked bicycle taxis and many doors open to the street that reveal a myriad of different interior worlds; tiny bars, woodshops, little stores selling religious objects for Santería. We pass an art gallery where couples are learning to Tango.

Along the walk we talk about Cuban culture of which I have a million questions. Paolo tells me about the Special Period when Cuba lost support from U.S.S.R and how the people had to get very creative in order to survive. People got very skinny and there are many stories of this special time. Stories of people frying up cats, rats, and kitchen rags to eat. They say the stories are true and I don’t question it. He asks me about New York and I try to answer everything in Spanish. I tell them stories about secret parties on top of bridges and street art missions with The Free Art Society. Finally, down a dark street, we arrive at the glowing open door of our destination. We step inside to the tiny room with white stucco walls, kitchy décor and red and white checkered table cloths.

I ask if they want to join me. Their eyes beam and they sit happily.

We order langosta con salsa (lobster in a tasty sauce), red wine for me and mojitos for them. The conversation is engaging and we talk long after the last of the food is gone. The owner of the restaurant brings out the bill and places it in front of me. $75. I pause. No one reaches for anything. Time stops. Everyone waits for me. The restaurant owner looms over the table and my mind races. Confused and on the spot I fumble for my wallet, trying to wrap my head around the situation. These guys make such little money and I come to understand that my invitation must have implied that I would pay. A lump forms in my throat. “So naïve,” I think, kicking myself.

Compared to them I am rich, however I have little more money in Cuba than for meals and lodging. $75 was nearly by budget for the next two days. I fumble for cash and pay. Live and learn.

And I learn later that for them to pay for their portion of that meal under Paolo’s wage as a mechanic would be his salary for two and a half months. This is the same salary for a doctor by the way. I learn that in order to survive doctors or mechanics like Paolo need to take up second jobs at coffee shops, where they can earn more as a busboy in one day making CUCs (tourist currency 1CUC = approx $ U.S.D) than they could earn in a month making CUPs (local currency), working 240 hours. Because of this many young Cubans are deciding not to go to college. Why study for 6 years to be a doctor to make in a month what a parking guard with no education can make in one day?

They invite me to their place for a house brewed coffee and Paolo gets one of his friends with a bicycle taxi to take us. The three of us squeeze into the two-seater bench and the driver wheels off wildly down the street as he sings to himself in Spanish. Not a tourist in sight he weaves around cars, dogs, people and other pedi cabs. Gripping the side rails and trying to balance, we laugh and enjoy the crazy ride. “You are in Cuba now!” my new friend shouts. His girlfriend, Stephani, giggles and my smile is so big it hurts me. This is the Cuba I came to see. The Cuba of hustlers and kissing couples and people dancing salsa in the streets far away from the glossy steps of the Parque Central Hotel. Far from the Cubans dressed in old-fashioned garb along the  Malecón, smoking Cuban cigars, putting on a spectacle for tourists.

We arrive at our destination, the taxi driver is tossed a coin and we scale the many flights of stairs to their apartment. The place is sparsely furnished and they offer me the corner of the bed to sit. A friend was home watching their baby who stands up on wobbly legs and starts to dance. “Baile me, baile me!” (“Dance with me, dance with me!”) The mother says sweetly and dances with her little girl. Paolo pulls me up by the hand. “Know salsa?” He smiles, flashing his white teeth. I shake my head no. He starts to teach me the steps and proclaims loudly, “you cannot leave this house until you are dancing salsa!” I take off my sandals and we practice and practice and soon I’ve got it! At least the feet. And though my steps get tangled and turned around every so often, it’s much easier than I’ve always thought it to be.

We drink home-brewed Cuban coffee which tastes unique and delicious. Stephani paints my toes a firey orange while the rest watch a spicy Argentinean soap opera on the tiny television. After a few hours we say goodbye and Paolo, knowing I have no money left after the dinner puts me in a vintage Chevy taxicab and takes me home.

Tired and happy I crawl into my bed. Staring at the ceiling, I cannot fall asleep, and like every night here in Cuba I lay awake thinking about the things I want to do and the complexities of this place and it’s intricate culture.

My next activity will be a Hearts of the World workshop in a local public park.  Every workshop in every place is so different and I am curious to see what the hearts of Cuba look like.

 

The tired baby sleeps