Third Time’s a Charm

The Hyatt House bed was surprisingly comfortable. We were up late so we didn’t get a ton of sleep but we slept well. Our flight to Cuba didn’t leave until noon but we wanted to get to the airport plenty early to pick up our visas and get our documents cleared. I remembered how long it took to get thru document clearance in FLL when I went to Turks & Caicos and Brandon doesn’t have TSA pre-check (we need to work on that) so we decided to get there over three hours before our flight. Visa services were a breeze. There was nobody in line. The international counter to get our passports checked was also a super short line, we had timed it right with getting there after the first round of early international flights took off but plenty early before the next round. Security, however, that was another issue. The lines were crazy. But wait, they have Clear! I told Brandon I wished him luck getting thru and with my Clear was taken to the front of the line and thru security in two minutes flat. It took Brandon about 40. I bought a pair of sunglasses and some icy hot patches while I was waiting as my back has been in bad shape. I have been recovering from what the doctors believe to be a torn abdominal wall for over 3 months now and a corresponding pain/tensed muscle has developed directly behind it in my back. But I digress. I actually really like the white sunglasses I bought!

We had a so-so breakfast at the airport, sent off some “we are officially about to be without connectivity” texts, confirmed our AirBnB info while the app still worked, and then it was time to board our flight. I was downright giddy. We were flying Southwest and the whole boarding numbers process went out the window as nobody understood what was happening and everyone just raced for the front of the line. As we stepped on to the plane, the flight attendant smiled at us, “Welcome back, its you guys again!” Neither of us recognized him but he remembered us. As we took our preferred seats in the emergency exit row I did recognize that flight attendant, and he was excited to greet us, “You guys are back! I didn’t know you guys were on this flight!” I loved his enthusiasm and knew he was just excited to ogle at Brandon again (who wouldn’t be?!), he made that a bit clear on our flight from Denver to Fort Lauderdale yesterday! He loved getting to feel like he was lecturing Brandon with a one-on-one exit row info since Brandon had missed the little exit row “orientation.” Stevey Ray was super nice and we enjoyed chatting. He was already going to comp our drinks it seemed and I was already planning to give him a Southwest customer service appreciation card so it was a win-win all around. The flight from Fort Lauderdale to Cuba would only take a whopping 53 minutes.

Before we knew it, voila, Cuba appeared before us out the window. We were there. I could not believe I had finally made it to Cuba after all the cancelled trips, third time’s a charm I guess! They deplaned from both the front and back of the plane and it was time for what can be a scary process, foreign customs. We had read a lot about customs and still weren’t fully sure what to expect. We walked across the tarmac and into the little receiving building. We stood in lines before little stands with the customs agents hidden away. One at a time you had to walk into a super narrow hallway in front of a customs agent, present your documents, get your picture snapped, and then with the sound of a buzzer the door on the other side of the narrow hallway would unlock and you step through to the next line of scrutiny. Though the agent seemed like she hated her life and everyone she had to interact with, it was quick and easy. I waited for Brandon on the other side of the door and then we continued on to the next line, to send our bags through x-ray. No questions, nothing scrutinized, we were free to take our bags. Looking around us we realized that all the customs agents were women. And all in short, tight, skirts. And most with fishnet stockings. An interesting look for customs enforcement. We handed our health declarations to the nurses, handed our customs declarations to the final agent at the door, and walked right out. It took maybe 10 minutes to get through customs and we were out. It was a breeze, no searching and no real questions. We were free to start our adventure on Cuban soil!

I had arranged transportation through Yamil, he was the original AirBnB host I had booked with, and cancelled on multiple times. But he was still more than happy to arrange services for us. We walked out of the airport into a massive sea of people waiting for loved ones and were greeted by Julio, our friendly driver holding a sign with my name on it. He took my bags and led us down to the currency exchange. Everything we had read had warned of long lines but there were none. I walked right up to the counter. I exchanged euros, Brandon exchanged U.S. dollars, we both paid fees but, sure enough, the U.S. dollar had an extra 10% tax, bringing the exchange fee to about 15%. No words were exchanged while the money was exchanged. Just a series of pointing and nodding with the agent. Now it was time to explore!

We slid into the back of Julio’s black 1951 Chrysler de Soto and headed to Vedado, our home in La Habana. We arranged for Julio to drive us to our beach house in Santa Fe the next day. As we drove we both just kinda stared out the car window. We were really here. I didn’t really know what to expect and directionally I was all turned around. We drove past the infamous Revolution Square and I recognized the mural buildings that you see in all the typical Cuba pictures. I saw the sea and the Malecon coming into view ahead of us and I knew we were almost there. To our home for the week on Humboldt (should out to California counties!). Julio stopped and seemed confused, he couldn’t find the building, #255. I started looking around and he declared that no problem, he had our AirBnB hosts phone number and he would just call her. It took me a minute to realize how weird that was. I felt paranoid but didn’t want to say anything to Brandon lest I make him feel paranoid too; I knew he was already so uncomfortable and so far out his comfort zone. What was so weird? We had never told Julio, or even Yamil, who our AirBnB host was, we had simply provided them the address. I still don’t know how he knew, and I am still weirded out by it.

As he was on the phone I looked out the window and voila, we were parked directly in front of 255. The peeling tan and green building had rusted bars against the doors leading to an “atrium” that smelled like livestock. We are convinced that there are goats somewhere in this building though we have yet to find them. Random cats sauntered around, a moped was parked inside, and a broken cushioned chair sat by the entrance. Our host, Gladys, met us downstairs. She was a pleasant Cuban woman who spoke limited English. We were shocked, yet pleasantly surprised, that there was a pretty new elevator in the building to take us to the 6th floor. As we got out of the small contraption Gladys pointed to the first door, that was her apartment. We could always come to her for anything. As we followed her down the hallway I was practically holding my breath in anticipation of just where we would be staying. She opened the door and we were pleasantly surprised by the clean, modern, well appointed apartment. It has its quirks, like glass walls around the toilet in the master suite, but it’s a great little place.

Gladys warned us to absolutely NOT drink the tap water, she described it as dire, and told us of two different stores nearby to get bottled water. She had the fridge already stocked with a few bottles, at $1 CUC each. She opened the window in the kitchen, pointed to the one directly across the courtyard and said “If you need anything just come to my door, or you can do it the Cuban way, and just yell for me out the window. GLADITA!”

We unpacked and situated ourselves in our little home. I was a bit dazed by the reality that we were actually here. What now? We knew what we wanted to do in the evening but hadn’t planned anything for when we first arrived. We decided that first things first, go find more bottled water. With trepidation, we walked to the corner and turned down the Malecon. We found the gas station Gladita referred us to for mas agua. Not a single bottle of water in the place. Not a single beverage at all actually. Just a few toiletries, basic condiments, and a bunch of crackers/biscuits. Ok, let’s try the shop that was in the other direction. We passed a little niche that was selling just beverages. I was too busy watching our surroundings and trying to figure out where the other store was, and ask watching a dog hanging out on the sidewalk, but Brandon paid attention and insisted on buying a bottle from the guy. We were also gauging how screwed over we would be getting on prices. We found the other store. Nope, no water there either. Hmm. We took our bottle back to the apartment and picked up our little local map I had printed out and decided to set off to explore Vedado.

We played chicken with classic cars as we dashed across the street to walk against the sea. As waves crashed fiercely, spray, and at times full waves, washed over the walkway, drenching the sidewalk. It was a struggle to keep the salt water from smudging my sunglasses. We decided to walk down to an art community I had on my list to visit, but I couldn’t really remember what it was as my only note was “art community.” I must remember to be more thorough in my notes when leaving for a country with no connectivity! As we walked around exploring the town we stopped to look at a locals market, it was closed and we had already been told that we were not allowed to shop there anyways but we were looking nonetheless. A man approached us, “Where are you from? Ingles?” Yes, we spoke English. We told him we were from Canada, Calgary, I guess that’s Alberta? We had already been berated by a ton of people asking where we were from and started to wonder if maybe being an American wasn’t such a popular thing. So we decided to go with Canada, Brandon’s second citizenship. “Ah! Canada! My name is like that, it’s Alberto. I like to find people to practice my English.” Alberto complimented Brandon on his tattoos and on having me by his side. He said he could tell I was a “good woman, not one of those other women, but a good one.” I was willing to listen to him more now. He walked along with us, gave us his local recommendation about weekend events, showed us where his apartment was, and let us know that if we needed a place to sleep, just come knock on his door. No charge and no problem. But food? No free food, that would be impossible. I wish I had taken a picture of this 60s-ish Cuban guide of ours. He also told us that tourists from France and England are the worst. At least he didn’t complain about the damn Americans.

Walking along we were perplexed that we hadn’t seen a single police officer. We had heard from Julio, and in our research, that there were police everywhere. But there were none to be found. We found the “art community” as it was positioned on the map and confusion set in as to what the hell that actually meant. Since really, it was just a crumbing Cuban neighborhood. We passed homes with the doors wide open so we could see right in their dim spaces, dogs roamed around the streets, and cats lounged around. The cutest puppy was tethered to one door. As we approached, cooing over how cute he was, he tried to convince us that he wasn’t cute, he was a tough guard puppy. Grr. One man was actually salvaging good bricks off the side of the crumbling building. Can you imagine that? Literally trying to chip away bricks from another building because you were so desperately in need. I wanted to take his picture but felt that would be disrespectful. Elsewhere, men were making their own screwdrivers. As we wondered along the dirty, dank, trash lined streets I looked over at Brandon, hoping he was still glad he came on this journey with me and wasn’t like “what the hell am I doing here?” He assured me he was good. But now we needed food. We wondered around, trying to figure out what was government, what was private, where should we eat?!

There were tents set up along the Malecon, all selling basically the same chicken or pork plates. The pricing was a confusing mix of both Cuban currencies, the CUC and the CUP. It is roughly 25 CUP to 1 CUC. Some of these tents actually had tables and chairs set up like a restaurant, yes on the highway, with table side ordering and full service. We decided to go for it. We picked one that seemed pretty well patronized by locals and got a table for two. They had few options for us. Pork or chicken? Fried rice or beans and rice? We said we’d take one of each to share. Plus one cerveza and two bottles of water. The “restaurant” setting was that of a tacky 80s wedding reception, fully covered white chairs with giant purple bows, purple and white tulle overhead, and an archway of flowers. The beer was good and the food was delicious. It was a great meal. But we were wildly overcharged. It was still a very fair price of $20 CUC (1 CUC is 1 USD) but the locals price that was posted on the board out front would have been about $4. We realized that we were for sure going to be taken advantage of here.

Finally with happy bellies, it was time to return to the apartment and clean up for our evening outing. We would spend the evening at the Fabrica de Arts Cubano. An old factory transformed into a co-op art exhibit with different rooms displaying local art and entertainment throughout. Within the Fabrica there were multiple rooms with stages and multiple restaurants and bars.

Showered, rested, and changed, we were ready to go about 8:30pm. We would need to hail a cab. A skill neither of us are particularly comfortable with. We walked out onto the Malecon looking for private taxis as opposed to the modern, yellow, government cabs. I saw just what we needed about to pass us and surprised myself when I stuck my arm out and hailed him down. It worked! He stopped! We hopped in and started on the $15 taxi ride to the Fabrica in red 50’s Chevrolet Bel Air. We decided that there are officially no seat belts in Cuba since we hadn’t seen a single sign of one in either car we’d been in so far. Our driver didn’t speak a word of English. But somehow when we got there we realized he was asking us if he wanted us to come back for us later. Name the time and he will return. I mustered enough Spanish to think I knew what he was saying and, quickly conferred with Brandon a time for pick-up. With my rusty Spanish and Brandon pulling out the translator app we made this arrangement happen! Our driver’s name was Rojas and I wondered if that was a nickname because of his cherry Chevy.

We had been warned in all of our research to expect long lines to get in to the Fabrica de Arts but there were no lines at all. We paid the $2 entrance fee and stepped up to the first bar to grab a cocktail. At the Fabrica they give each person a card on which all your expenses are written, you must turn in your card and pay the total upon exit. We wondered around taking in the art and exploring the Fabrica. One room had a stage set for live music, another had a giant dance floor and a movie screen playing music videos, another had a stage and live theater being performed. This wasn’t just an art exhibit, this was a club. Some of the art was pretty creepy, including a portrait of a possessed-looking doll setting up for tea along the Malecon. There was also an entire exhibit of dead superhero/character renditions.

We met a couple from Florida when we asked if they would take our picture so they knew we were American. The husband was distracting, he was sooooo tan, it was ridiculous, he was practically the color of an Oompa Loompa. After they snapped our picture we thanked them and went into the next “room.” The wife was desperate for American interaction, they followed us and she asked where we were from and she just wanted to chat. They were on their third day in Cuba and had spent every day at the beach. I had to stop myself from telling her that we could tell… She was very nice but after a few minutes we peeled ourselves away.

As it grew later, the crowds grew and you could tell it was a hang out spot for locals. A musician had taken over the downstairs stage and we stopped to listen. He was playing a guitar and the most beautiful melodies were belting out of his mouth. I had no idea what the words coming out of his mouth meant but it didn’t matter. I felt his music in my soul just the same. It was perfect moment, standing there with my man’s arms around me, listening to the man with the perfect voice sing to us. And the sound quality? Perfect.

Now the bathrooms in the Fabrica. That was a different story. I was quite thankful that I knew to always carry tissue in my purse when I travel since there was no toilet paper at all provided. Ever. There were also no toilet seats. I was very thankful for my wonderful fitness instructors and the hellish squats they put me through to prepare me for moments like these.

We were supposed to meet our driver Rojas in front at 11pm and it was getting close to go time. And we were getting hungry. We decided to grab some food from one of the Cafes. And wow, we are tempted to go back there again Thursday night just for the food! We had hummus tapas and their hummus was better than mine! How does that happen?! It was delicious. We also got a Cubano to go since the appointed hour was upon us. We walked out wondering if our driver would really be there and sure enough, right across the street he spotted us and waved enthusiastically with a giant grin on his face. He was probably more anxious wondering if his expected fare was coming out than we were wondering about if our ride would be there.

Rojas delivered us back to our apartment safely. Half the Cubano was eaten, it too was damn good. And the first Cubano either of us had ever had! Showering also felt damn good. Tomorrow is our first full day in Cuba, Julio is picking us up in the early afternoon to take us to Fusterlandia and then on to our beach house in Santa Fe for the night.