José Martí International Airport, Cuba (HAV)
It was a familiar request that Ernesto made as we pulled into the airport, one everyone always makes when they drop me off at the airport. He wanted me to come back to his country. Each time, if I have said “Complete”, I politely decline or make some non-committal answer, not willing to lie but also knowing full well I’d not return, not at least for a very long time. This time it was different. Yesterday, I realized how much I loved this city, how disappointed I was that my program did not allow me to fully explore every nook and cranny of the city, how we could have stayed in the Hotel Nacional or an upmarket hotel by the Capitol for a different experience. I knew I wanted to come back.
Before the borders closed, people would come to Havana for the weekend the same way they might go to Vegas or Miami. Why not? The flight was just as easy. That what I wanted. “As soon it becomes legal for tourism, I’ll be on the next flight back to Havana,” I promised, or some such formulation. This was my first time in Havana. It will not be my last. I’m sure my reader has noticed by now how my writing style is influenced by my favorite writers. I can now add another luminary to that list: Hemingway. Most of what happened after I closed last night is unprintable, but I will do my best to include what I can. We went back to the hotel and relaxed. I lit up my Ardor, my very best pipe, poured myself a diet Cuba Libre, and read a chapter of Hemingway. We then packed and got ready for our big night, dressing ourselves up in our best attire.
Our religious studies program completed, we opted to choose this night, the 500th Anniversary of Havana, to celebrate my friend’s bachelor party. It was going to be epic. We looked like were balling. We did not look like we were on a very tight budget, counting every last peso until we could once again access the American banking system in Miami. Hyman Roth would have been proud. We went straight to Floridita, Hemingway’s favorite restaurant. How many times did the man himself make that walk from the hotel to the restaurant? Hundreds? We got to the restaurant and ordered a couple of daiquiris, Hemingway’s favorite drink.
I polished off my drink, since it was cold, and I was thirsty, getting another one. We noticed people were smoking and drinking all over the restaurant. I noticed no one was eating. “Tiene comida?” No, they didn’t, not tonight. Hmm, what would we do? We opted on going to Hotel Parque Central, which we were told would have a good restaurant. It was right in the heart of old town, by the Capitol. We took a bicycle taxi, and he quoted me a price. When we got there, he asked for double, saying the price was for each of us. In surprisingly good Spanish, I shot him down, saying he never said that and that I would only give him the original price.
There was a huge smoking lounge with music, but we wanted food, and more rum, first. We opted for the steakhouse, which also had fish. It was a very good restaurant, but we were the only people there at that hour. They brought us each out a glass of champagne with the menus. I ordered the steak, very rare, along with the onions and a ham croquette appetizer. My friend got the salmon, along with grilled vegetables and a French onion soup appetizer. I ordered us each a glass of aged rum and a Coke to share. During dinner, I shared all of my stories with my friend, about girls we knew from grade school, about my college experience, basically the dark age in our friendship.
The details are unprintable. Reader, I learned that word from Hemmingway, it’s going to appear in this entry a lot. They brought out his soup, and then I remembered that it is usually made with meat stock, which means it’s not kosher. I remembered this after he took his first bite. He sent it back. My meat was overcooked, medium at best. I sent it back. They then brought me another piece, even bigger, that was quite rare. It tasted oddly cold. I turned it over. The other side was completely raw, not rare, raw, like they only cooked it on one side. I told them to cook the other side for a minute. It was perfect.
I tried my American debit card. No dice. I paid in pesos. I calculated we had enough for one last round or two at Floridita before we went back to the hotel. We lit up our Churchills and walked around the lounge, finding a place to sit, where I made fast friends with someone from Germany, who was in Cuba for 17 days. I told him about my 18-day trip to Germany. I kept wanting to talk to him in Spanish, out of custom, but I realized his English was much better than his Spanish. It was actually a common occurrence this trip that I would have a conversation with a local, me talking in Spanish, him talking in English, including frequently with Ernesto.
We headed out, where we were met by an Italian named Mario, who showed us how to get to Floridita. He wanted us to go to a night club, maybe such as the Casa de la Musica, which my sister had recommended, but it sounded too crowded and expensive. Floridita was closed, it being close to midnight, so he took us to a bar that was borderline nightclub, called Bar Asturia, and I handed him a small banknote as a tip, but he wouldn’t have it. He wanted us to buy him a drink instead. The money I had tipped him was the cover charge for the bar, which included two drinks. I paid the same for me friend and me. This would be it for the night. We’d finish here and go back to the hotel.
Needless to say, that did not happen. We made our way back to the hotel, on foot, with the rest of our cigars, and I finished my stories, my navigation skills not being affected by my inebriation. We went upstairs, and my friend said I needed to stop harping on the past. I said that what’s past is prologue, that it contributes to who I am. Instead, I invited him to share his stories with me. We had some more rum, and he reluctantly shared his stories with me. Obviously, what he said was unprintable, but they were stories we never shared with each other, and it helped us better understand one another.
I then lit up my Avo, and we headed back out, to the river, the Marceon, where we did something that was unprintable but very Official. We relaxed a bit by the Marecon for a bit, though it was past 3 AM, and we had to be be up at 6:30 AM in order to make our flight. It was a good thing we had already packed. We were UAR at that point, but this was my best friend’s bachelor party. We had to make it count. As we walked back, I asked him if we did it up right. He said that we did. It was close to 5 AM by the time we fell asleep.
We woke up much too soon, and finished getting ready before meeting Ernesto who took us to the airport. We gave him the agreed fee and took some ceremonial pictures. He then chased us down, saying he forgot the gas money to Holguin, his hometown. I told him we didn’t have it. He told us how much we had to give him, and we reserved that for him. We didn’t have anything left. Besides, we gave him a lot for him to keep, due to the extra driving, more than enough to cover the gas. We checked in and then headed outside, where I lit up a Viñales and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close. I have written about these triumphant airport entries, at airports in the Caribbean named after national heroes. This is definitely one, and I believe it is my ninth. I just have two more left, DR and Haiti.
There was a huge smoking lounge with music, but we wanted food, and more rum, first. We opted for the steakhouse, which also had fish. It was a very good restaurant, but we were the only people there at that hour. They brought us each out a glass of champagne with the menus. I ordered the steak, very rare, along with the onions and a ham croquette appetizer. My friend got the salmon, along with grilled vegetables and a French onion soup appetizer. I ordered us each a glass of aged rum and a Coke to share. During dinner, I shared all of my stories with my friend, about girls we knew from grade school, about my college experience, basically the dark age in our friendship.
Needless to say, that did not happen. We made our way back to the hotel, on foot, with the rest of our cigars, and I finished my stories, my navigation skills not being affected by my inebriation. We went upstairs, and my friend said I needed to stop harping on the past. I said that what’s past is prologue, that it contributes to who I am. Instead, I invited him to share his stories with me. We had some more rum, and he reluctantly shared his stories with me. Obviously, what he said was unprintable, but they were stories we never shared with each other, and it helped us better understand one another.
We woke up much too soon, and finished getting ready before meeting Ernesto who took us to the airport. We gave him the agreed fee and took some ceremonial pictures. He then chased us down, saying he forgot the gas money to Holguin, his hometown. I told him we didn’t have it. He told us how much we had to give him, and we reserved that for him. We didn’t have anything left. Besides, we gave him a lot for him to keep, due to the extra driving, more than enough to cover the gas. We checked in and then headed outside, where I lit up a Viñales and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close. I have written about these triumphant airport entries, at airports in the Caribbean named after national heroes. This is definitely one, and I believe it is my ninth. I just have two more left, DR and Haiti.
Aboard DL 379, En route MIA-LGA
Now that I am back in the land of the free, I can write what I would not have wanted to be on my computer in case of a search of Cuban Aduana. Contrary to appearances, Fidel Castro is not seen by the pueblo as the beloved savior the road signs make him out to be. He is much hated, and with good reason. Communism does not work, despite whatever catchy phrase Fidel might wish to have printed on those road signs we saw throughout the country. Any economic system depends on two things, basic laws of supply and demand and motivation for increased production. Communism provides neither. The government artificially regulates the supply and the demand, which means that prices are inevitably either too high or too low, which leads to either people being unable to afford goods in the former case or shortages that cause people to be unable to find goods in the latter case.
With confiscatory taxes on even the lowliest of workers and almost all businesses owned by the government, there is no incentive for increased means of production. While the purpose of my program was to discover the religious identity of Cuba, it was impossible to miss the clear evidence of how communism has failed as a system. I could theorize about ow strong religious backgrounds either increase or decrease productivity, but that was not my interest. Cuba is a country with more natural resources than any other island in the entire Antilles, but, due to this failed economic system, it is the poorest of them all. I believe that no argument can be presented in favor of communism in view of that evidence.
It is such a beautiful country, and its 500 years of history are not to be missed, but it is so unfortunate that the borders are closed to American tourists. In due time, Cuba will be open to tourists and Baghdad and Beirut will be safe again. There are so many wonderful cities that are closed off due to stupidity on the part of the government or in the name of religion. With Cuba, it is clear that religion plays no part in the daily life of Cubans. When I closed, I was celebrating the successful completion of my trip, but there was still much to be done and few pesos with which to do it. First, we had to clear Cuban emigration, which was no problem. Then we had to go to duty-free, where I wanted to get a high-end bottle of rum, and my friend wanted a bottle for his father-in-law. I also wanted some coffee and a last ditch at a better flag pin. We got it all, with not a peso to spare.
We were soon boarding our flight, and we had the whole three-seater to ourselves. I read another chapter of Hemmingway en route, and we soon landed. With my Global Entry, I was able to breeze through MIA’s famously long border lines, and I wasn’t even questioned at Customs. She didn’t ask what I was doing in Cuba, nor if I was bringing anything back. It was just like any other country. I didn’t even have to hand in my form. I caught up on my notifications, and my friend soon joined me. I checked in and checked my bag, rushing to make my flight at this point, as my friend was taking a much later flight.
We said our goodbyes, had a little tiff about the lunch arrangements, which continued over text before we finally made up in the end and agreed once more how Epic the trip was. I went to Nathan’s right by my gate and got way too much food: a corn dog, five chicken tenders, a hot dog with bacon, mushrooms, and onions, and French fries with bacon and ranch, along with a large Coke Zero. It was now 1:30 PM, and I hadn’t eaten anything since like 11 PM last night. I was starving, and I finished it all before we took off. I napped quite a bit, getting more sleep on the flight, I think, than I did in bed last night. I sifted through my work emails, and none of them required my immediate attention.
I will be heading to the office after I land, so I can sort all the emails out tonight and hit the ground running tomorrow morning. I’m sure I will need to work both days this weekend, too. After my naps, I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close as we are now “making our final approach into LaGuardia” and need to turn off our laptops. I will also now close out this epic and Official trip. Next stop: Guadalajara. There’s a great joke from “Friends” about LaGuardia and Guadalajara, so it’s funny to see those two words so close in my Travelogue.
With confiscatory taxes on even the lowliest of workers and almost all businesses owned by the government, there is no incentive for increased means of production. While the purpose of my program was to discover the religious identity of Cuba, it was impossible to miss the clear evidence of how communism has failed as a system. I could theorize about ow strong religious backgrounds either increase or decrease productivity, but that was not my interest. Cuba is a country with more natural resources than any other island in the entire Antilles, but, due to this failed economic system, it is the poorest of them all. I believe that no argument can be presented in favor of communism in view of that evidence.
It is such a beautiful country, and its 500 years of history are not to be missed, but it is so unfortunate that the borders are closed to American tourists. In due time, Cuba will be open to tourists and Baghdad and Beirut will be safe again. There are so many wonderful cities that are closed off due to stupidity on the part of the government or in the name of religion. With Cuba, it is clear that religion plays no part in the daily life of Cubans. When I closed, I was celebrating the successful completion of my trip, but there was still much to be done and few pesos with which to do it. First, we had to clear Cuban emigration, which was no problem. Then we had to go to duty-free, where I wanted to get a high-end bottle of rum, and my friend wanted a bottle for his father-in-law. I also wanted some coffee and a last ditch at a better flag pin. We got it all, with not a peso to spare.
We were soon boarding our flight, and we had the whole three-seater to ourselves. I read another chapter of Hemmingway en route, and we soon landed. With my Global Entry, I was able to breeze through MIA’s famously long border lines, and I wasn’t even questioned at Customs. She didn’t ask what I was doing in Cuba, nor if I was bringing anything back. It was just like any other country. I didn’t even have to hand in my form. I caught up on my notifications, and my friend soon joined me. I checked in and checked my bag, rushing to make my flight at this point, as my friend was taking a much later flight.
We said our goodbyes, had a little tiff about the lunch arrangements, which continued over text before we finally made up in the end and agreed once more how Epic the trip was. I went to Nathan’s right by my gate and got way too much food: a corn dog, five chicken tenders, a hot dog with bacon, mushrooms, and onions, and French fries with bacon and ranch, along with a large Coke Zero. It was now 1:30 PM, and I hadn’t eaten anything since like 11 PM last night. I was starving, and I finished it all before we took off. I napped quite a bit, getting more sleep on the flight, I think, than I did in bed last night. I sifted through my work emails, and none of them required my immediate attention.
I will be heading to the office after I land, so I can sort all the emails out tonight and hit the ground running tomorrow morning. I’m sure I will need to work both days this weekend, too. After my naps, I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close as we are now “making our final approach into LaGuardia” and need to turn off our laptops. I will also now close out this epic and Official trip. Next stop: Guadalajara. There’s a great joke from “Friends” about LaGuardia and Guadalajara, so it’s funny to see those two words so close in my Travelogue.
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