Next Year in Havana(42)
There’s something so ironically vicious about that.
Luis stands patiently beside me as I take pictures of the landscape. I’ve blocked out the other tourists, but he seems faintly amused by the conversations around us; his English is quite good given his ability to understand the British family arguing over whether they’re going to return to their hotel or continue sightseeing.
Once I’ve finished snapping photos, we leave the church and meander through the streets, drifting from one landmark to the next. I stop occasionally to take more pictures, filling the pad with additional observations. Some journalists use electronics, but there’s something about the rhythm of putting pen to paper that I can’t resist. It adds to the spirit of my surroundings—I imagine Hemingway scribbling in old notebooks, the ink staining his fingers as he sips a mojito in the late Havana sun.
Havana lends itself to the romantic and idyllic even as the evidence to the contrary is everywhere I look. Perhaps that’s the double-edged sword to being Cuban—we are both pragmatic realists and consummate dreamers.
We walk on, the sun growing brighter, the heat increasing. My dress sticks to my skin, the air pregnant with humidity; it’s like being back in Florida again.
There are other landmarks to explore; the father of Cuban independence, José Martí, is everywhere—on statues and streets. We all claim him as ours, revolutionaries and exiles alike.
“Are you getting hungry for lunch?” Luis asks as we walk down the street.
“Yeah, I am.”
We walk a bit farther and leave Old Havana behind, the scenery changing to more run-down buildings, less antique charm. Dogs roam the sidewalk, others lounging in the available shade. The pedestrians on the sidewalks shift from European tourists to locals. I stand out here, my clothes setting me apart from those on the street, the unmistakable sense that I belong more with the tourists than I do in this Cuban neighborhood, a visitor in the country that should feel like home.
We buy tamales from a stand in Vedado. The cornmeal is warm and moist, perfect paired with the sweet soda I buy from the vendor as well.
I stumble on a crack in the sidewalk, and Luis is there at once, his hold on me steady and reassuring. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the same two men from earlier at the church and the Hotel Nacional, except now that they’re removed from the tourist spaces it’s clear that they, like Luis, belong to this part of the city.
“Are you okay?” His hand wraps around my arm, his breath along my skin.
I nod, pulling away, shutting down the urge to lean into him, to relax my body against his. That’s the thing about desire—it creeps up on you at the most inconvenient times, too often with the most inconvenient people.
We continue walking, and this time I pay more attention to my surroundings. The vendors in this part of the city aren’t selling touristy items, but basic things Cubans can use in their everyday lives—fruits and vegetables, shoes, books. A few doors down, a queue of Cubans line up outside a building that looks similar to a convenience store, dogs hanging around here, too.
“They’re getting their food rations,” Luis answers when I ask about the line. “On average, your ration book entitles you to rice, sugar, cooking oil, eggs, pasta, and coffee every month. Protein—typically chicken—every ten days. A bread roll every day. Every few months you get salt. Young children and pregnant women receive milk.
“It’s never enough,” he adds, his voice low once again. “They run out all the time—milk? Forget it. You have to go all over town, standing in lines to get all your rations. It’s a job in and of itself. Literally.”
I am filled with the deepest amount of shame as I think of all the food I’ve taken for granted throughout my life, the Michelin-starred restaurants where I’ve dined.
“Some of the wealthier families hire someone to get their rations for them,” Luis explains. “And you used to not be able to buy certain items unless you had the tourists’ currency.”
“The Cuban convertible peso.”
He nods. “See why the paladares and businesses like the casas particulares where people transform their homes into hotels are so important? Things are slowly changing, and previously banned items are now available to Cubans who pay in regular pesos, but they’re so expensive hardly anyone can afford them. While our guests in the paladar dine on ropa vieja, many Cubans have never even tasted beef. Supply is an issue considering we import the vast majority of our food.”
“So where do people go to get the food they need when the government stores aren’t enough?”
“The black market.”
“What’s the penalty if you’re caught?”
“It depends on the scale of involvement in the black market, but it’s not unheard of for people to be sentenced to more than fifteen years in prison. You can serve a greater sentence for killing a cow than a person in Cuba.”
“Jesus.”
“—hasn’t been to Cuba in a very long time,” Luis replies.
Silence falls between us.
I’m at a loss for words. The life he describes is a far cry from mine, and I feel awkward around him, as though the things I could contribute to the conversation are frivolous and shallow in comparison. I spent so much time listening to my family’s stories about the revolution, and yet, I failed to consider how bad things were for those who remained. My family focused on the revolution and its effect on them, but less attention was paid to the current state of things.