Next Year in Havana(39)
“I’m still working on that. I hoped I’d get a feel for the city. I thought something might speak to me.”
I expect amusement in his gaze, but he simply nods as though he understands, as if family means as much to him as it does to me.
“Well, why don’t you let me play tour guide, and if there’s anything you want to see along the way, we can take a detour?” Luis suggests.
He holds his hand out to me, and I know he’s only being polite, but my nerves reappear, the tension in my body returning with a vengeance. I give him my hand, our palms connecting, our fingers threading together, and a new kind of energy—excitement and anticipation—enters my body as he leads me down the cracked steps and onto the sidewalk, into the vintage Buick, and out into Havana.
chapter ten
We leave Miramar and drive to Old Havana, the part of the city that’s most frequently seen in tourist photographs and iconic images. Here the buildings have retained much of their original state, the architecture harkening back to a time when Spanish influence played a defining role in the island’s development, when Cuba was the jewel in Spain’s imperial crown. Many of the buildings are in a state of disrepair, but others have been lovingly, painstakingly restored, and it’s clear why tourists name this as one of the top sights to see in Havana.
“In the eighties, this neighborhood was designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site,” Luis explains. “There’s a movement in place to preserve many of the buildings, but it hasn’t been easy. Most Cubans aren’t necessarily historians by nature.”
It strikes me as surprising, considering exiled Cubans are intrinsic historians. They collect faded photographs, draw maps of Havana neighborhoods from memory, pass down family recipes and traditions as though they’re sacrosanct. So much of our history is oral, a by-product of Castro’s unwillingness to allow families to take anything but their memories with them when they left Cuba.
“Why?” I pull out my notebook and pen from my bag, and a soft chuckle escapes his lips.
“Practicality, I suppose. There’s a luxury in historiography most Cubans lack. They’re too occupied with surviving in the present to spend their time living in the past. Plus, there’s the added difficulty of how much the narrative of the past has been shaped for them and how difficult it is to get honest information out of the regime.
“It’s a real problem because documents that have been around for centuries—marriage records, birth records—are disappearing. We don’t have the resources, or enough national interest, to properly preserve historical documents. Our history disappears a bit more each day, and I fear people won’t realize how much we’ve lost until it’s too late.”
“Are there efforts to restore these documents?”
“There are several programs in place within the academic community, but it’s a massive undertaking. Hell, getting bread in Cuba can be a massive undertaking.”
We pass by a bright yellow scooter as Luis navigates into a parking spot.
I turn my attention away from Luis to my notebook, jotting down my impression of Old Havana, of the ease with which tourists can get around, for the article I’ll eventually write. When all is said and done, my weeklong trip to Havana will be condensed into a two-thousand-word article to be read on flights and in airports by bleary-eyed travelers.
I’m surprised by how busy the streets are, full of tourists and locals alike. The tourists stick out—their shoes new compared to the ones the Cubans wear, cameras in hand, their heads tilted up to take in their surroundings, the beautiful buildings looming around them.
At the moment, most of them are speaking languages other than English, but no doubt that will change as more Americans take advantage of the available visa exceptions and if those exceptions eventually disappear altogether, allowing free American tourist travel.
“Have you noticed more tourists now that travel restrictions with the United States have eased?”
With each question, the tension inside me lessens. I can get through a day with him as long as I focus on the sites before us and not his tanned forearms, the pride in his voice, the sharp intelligence in his words. He’s an impressive man, his competence and confidence undeniably seductive.
Luis Rodriguez belongs to my grandmother’s time rather than mine, and for someone whose life has been steeped in nostalgia, his manner calls to me. He’s a throwback to an era when men were gentlemen, and that alone is a powerful lure.
Married. He’s married, Marisol.
“We used to get a steady stream of tourism from the rest of the world, but now there’s definitely an increase,” he answers. “The demographics are changing, too. There were Americans before, of course, but more of a trickle. And many were Cuban Americans.”
“It’s going to change things when relations open up even more.”
“Yes. It will.” He tilts his head, leaning toward me, his voice lowering. The scent of his soap—clean and strong—fills my nostrils. “Once again, Cuba is on the precipice of another change, and we’re all holding our breaths to see what, if anything, will come of it.”
Luis does a quick, almost reflexive sweep of the street. His voice lowers again, his head bent, close enough to mine that his breath tickles my skin. He doesn’t smell like the expensive cologne I’m used to men wearing. There’s something intimate about the scent of soap and man, layers stripped away between us.