Etchings of the Mind

A rap at the door. Answering cautiously, a message is relayed from the hotel concierge. After a four day wait, a rental car is finally available.

I can’t hide my disappointment. I had hoped for a ’58 Buick or similar vintage vehicle. There’s no way a battleship grey 1990 Toyota carries the stylish appeal of one of its aged American-built cousins, so common in this part of the world. Nelio, my compadre and self-appointed Cuban guide, ignores my reaction and motions towards the passenger seat. We set off for Havana with nary a map, Nelio preferring to rely on “intuición” - his gut feeling.

Our journey transits several nondescript towns before slipping into rural heaven, where we meander through rich farmland populated with old tractors and compañeros on horseback. We pass the occasional pull-in where locals kick back under billboards picturing the attributes of hard work. Finally, we reach a barren highway made up of enormous blocks of concrete - the “Autopista Nacional” leads us up and into old Havana.

Our lunch stop, Le Bodeguita del Medio, historically frequented by Fidel Castro’s friend and protagonist, Ernest Hemingway, encourages its patrons to autograph the walls with whatever implement may be at hand. Interspersed with the odd photo of famous clients and large hanging banners of Cuba’s “poster boy,” Che Guevara, the signatures embellish every wall in sight. It is reminiscent of similar mass etchings at Strawberry Fields in London and Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris.

The menu includes a dish consumed throughout Cuba – “Moros y Cristianos” (aka Moors & Christians; aka black beans and rice). Most commonly served with horse meat, we make absolutely sure our server understands our wish for “no carne” (no meat).

After our hearty meal, we walk the promenade. Nelio stops to converse with the locals as I head out onto a large grassy plain. Arriving at the center of the field, I notice several young men heading towards me. My brain goes into overdrive and I envision news headlines reporting my dispatch at the hands of a gang of Cuban delinquents.

“Where are you from?” one of them asks in perfect English. “Uh… Canada” I stutter. “Would you like to buy cigars?” “Uh, no thanks, I don’t smoke…” I start edging back towards where I had left Nelio when, sight of sights, I see his head rising in the distance as he traverses a ridge and heads towards us.

The trip back to Varadero is uneventful. A box of cigars lays untouched in the back seat.