I welcomed 2016 in Cuba, prowling Havana’s streets with my family. In one wild night, I made a new friend and was invited to a party I’ll never forget.
Tourists gathered in Havana’s old town where the cathedral square was filled with tables, and servants scampered to rescue napkins from the breeze.
But we left the tourist center and walked three blocks into a barrio with buildings aging like melted sugar cubes and people who, it seemed, viewed the world from their shabby doorsteps. Creaky, rotating spits dripped the fat of roasting pigs onto hot coals and signaled that a big party was just warming up.
Peeking into a once-grand entryway, I saw a ramshackle spiral staircase leading to many floors of apartments — each with a family primed to enter the new year.
Marveling at the play of light rays streaming through cracks, I realized it seemed perfectly monochrome. As I steadied my camera to shoot in the low light, a man suddenly stepped into the shot. In a blue-and-black-striped shirt,with crucifix bling around his neck, he looked like a young Arsenio Hall. The bright-blue stripes and his toothy smile popped in all that black and gray.
He said, “Me llamo Jose.” We talked and shared our “Feliz Ano Nuevo” wishes.
Jose told us he was heading up the staircase to his family’s party, and invited us along. Knowing that this is the kind of opportunity I travel for, we accepted.
Rocking chairs spilled out onto the third-floor landing, providing an alternative space for the old boys to gather. Drawn to the bright light of the family room — a big space for cooking, eating, and lounging — we were welcomed into a four-generation scene. (Generations pile up quickly in Cuba. Jose is 39 and already a grandfather. He doesn’t like that his 13-year-old daughter had a child … but what can you do?)
I’ve enjoyed many parties with very poor people, but this seemed different. I sensed a high level of education; Cuba seemed to have the highest level among the poor of any place I’ve been. Regardless of a family’s ability to pay, Cubans have all been to school.
As conversation raged, the brother showed me his smartphone with quotes from Abraham Lincoln in Spanish. He translated one roughly: “The best form of justice is not always the best politics.”
Jose asked if I wanted a drink.
“A cerveza?” I asked. “No,” he responded, handing me a tiny glass of rum.
Cubans tell me that all you need for a party is a $3 bottle of good rum … or, on special occasions, a $5 bottle of great rum.
We all danced to a boom box. Our new friends taught us to rhumba. A 10-year-old Michael Jackson wannabe was happy to show tourists the steps. The patriarch proudly snapped photos.
Looking for some quiet, I stepped out onto the balcony. The grimy city stretched in four directions. Nearly all the action seemed to come from families gathered in homes — certainly more affordable than going out.
At midnight, everyone crowded out onto that balcony to enjoy the local tradition of using garbage and water to pelt anyone clueless enough to be out and about.
Later, we walked six blocks back to Cuba’s towering capitol building. Across the street, we climbed to a hotel rooftop and crashed a classy $50-a-plate dinner, with a band playing poolside. Even with over-the-top food and party favors, everyone seemed bored.
The contrast with the humble apartment where we just enjoyed our New Year’s was thought-provoking.
Out after midnight in a Havana barrio, we felt perfectly safe … except for ankle-twisting potholes and passing “bici” (bicycle taxis) in the dark streets. Ready to head home, we jumped into a taxi and I said, “Miramar” (our B&B neighborhood).
The driver said, “Twenty CUC” — that’s about $20. I said, “Ten.” He said, “No, this is a 1956 Pontiac. Fifteen.” I said, “OK.”
He said, “Feliz Ano Nuevo,” and we rumbled home … capping a New Year’s Eve I’ll long remember.
— Tribune Content Agency
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