Havana was closed-up huge houses with massive verandahs covered in deserted bougainvillea vines, red and green glories of life pouring over the sick and sad dwellings that lined too many quiet streets.
Havana was old bus rides and proud museums of war and communism.
Havana was throngs of Cubans waiting for buses on wide plazas of heat and unsheltered sun.
Havana had few tourists back in 1981, so we were too obvious in our northern clothes and English words and pale skin.
There were too many streets with rotten doors behind which families lived.
There were taxis made of ancient and beautiful American cars, preserved and cherished because they were all they had. No one supplied them with imports any longer.
We took one of those great cabs out to the countryside to see Ernest Hemingway's Cuban home, sitting all by itself in rolls of greenery and beauty.
The car was uncomfortable in its old age, but it brought back sweet memories of youth and teenaged boys' cars and brothers who loved their wheels as much as anything.
The cab driver was a happy handsome man with dark sweeping hair and a better than an Elvis aura about him. He spoke a little English and when I praised his car, he absolutely glowed. He grinned and patted the old dashboard. It was his car.
We paid him well because he took us on a delightful tour, showing us the beauty of Cuba, the serenity outside the city, and he made it obvious that he loved his country.
I saw dark red berry-beans growing in trees near our hotel, and when they fell from the branches, they were so hard that they stayed intact and unmarred, and I thought how much I'd like a necklace made from those things of Cuba.
In a little shop inside a hotel on the waterfront, I found my wish and I bought it, laid it around my neck, and refused to take it off.
Havana was old bus rides and proud museums of war and communism.
Havana was throngs of Cubans waiting for buses on wide plazas of heat and unsheltered sun.
Havana had few tourists back in 1981, so we were too obvious in our northern clothes and English words and pale skin.
There were too many streets with rotten doors behind which families lived.
There were taxis made of ancient and beautiful American cars, preserved and cherished because they were all they had. No one supplied them with imports any longer.
We took one of those great cabs out to the countryside to see Ernest Hemingway's Cuban home, sitting all by itself in rolls of greenery and beauty.
The car was uncomfortable in its old age, but it brought back sweet memories of youth and teenaged boys' cars and brothers who loved their wheels as much as anything.
The cab driver was a happy handsome man with dark sweeping hair and a better than an Elvis aura about him. He spoke a little English and when I praised his car, he absolutely glowed. He grinned and patted the old dashboard. It was his car.
We paid him well because he took us on a delightful tour, showing us the beauty of Cuba, the serenity outside the city, and he made it obvious that he loved his country.
I saw dark red berry-beans growing in trees near our hotel, and when they fell from the branches, they were so hard that they stayed intact and unmarred, and I thought how much I'd like a necklace made from those things of Cuba.
In a little shop inside a hotel on the waterfront, I found my wish and I bought it, laid it around my neck, and refused to take it off.
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