Carlos had advised me not to change more than five hundred dollars at a time to avoid drawing attention to myself. According to Carlos, half the population of Havana were volunteer snoops called los vigilantes, or los chivatos—the finger pointers—members of the revolutionary watch committees who reported on their neighbors and also reported any suspicious activities of foreigners. Okay, we definitely weren’t in Switzerland, but I had the feeling that Carlos, like Eduardo, exaggerated the degeneration of Cuban society. Somewhere beyond the paranoia and the hate of the regime was a reality that was not easily understood.
I handed over five hundred greenbacks and my passport to an unsmiling teller and expected to get five hundred CUCs back at the official exchange rate of one for one, but there was a ten percent Screw You, Yanqui charge for American dollars, and they also Photostatted my passport.
After everyone was back on the bus—holding up their CUCs to find the watermark—Tad did a head count and off we went. Alison said our next stop was the Hotel Nacional, where lunch awaited us, then to the Hotel Parque Central, where hopefully our rooms would be ready.
I looked out the window as we made our way north toward the Straits of Florida. Havana. Mildewed magnificence, said the guide book.
When you get to a place that you think you know because it’s been in the news, or because it’s been talked and written about so much, what you discover is that you know nothing about the place. As it said in my travel packet: Put your prejudices aside and discover Cuba for yourself.
Okay, but in the end it didn’t matter much to me what the truth or the reality was of this place, and I didn’t need to leave here wiser; I needed to leave here richer. And alive.
CHAPTER 15
Our tour bus pulled into a long, tree-lined drive that ended at the imposing Hotel Nacional, which according to Alison had been inspired by the Breakers in Palm Beach, where I’d actually stayed once, and when I got my bill I knew why they called it the Breakers. But that was in my carefree days before I sunk my small fortune into The Maine—which I actually didn’t own anymore.
Alison also informed us that the Nacional had been opened in 1930, and that it had been the scene of many important events in Cuban history, including a takeover by a group of revolutionaries, many of whom were later executed—maybe for complaining about their bill. Also, according to Alison, the Nacional had hosted many rich, famous, and powerful people, including royalty, world leaders, and American movie stars. The infamous had also stayed here, including Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano, who in 1946 convened the largest meeting ever held of the American Mafia, which gathered in the Nacional under the cover of a Frank Sinatra concert. I wondered if Frank knew what was going on. In any case, I’d heard of the Nacional and it had come to mind as a good place to meet Jack.
We all got off the bus and marched through the ornate lobby, which showed signs of restoration, then out the back doors across a terrace and down the sloping lawn toward the Straits of Florida. We followed Tad and Alison to an open pavilion that was serving lunch to tourist groups.
There were two long tables in the pavilion reserved for the Yale group. We all seated ourselves, and I found myself between two couples who were trying to make conversation. Across from me was the bestselling author and his better-looking wife. Sara was at the other table.
I couldn’t imagine sitting here through a family-style lunch—pass the beans, please—so I excused myself and walked down toward the water to what seemed to be fortifications overlooking the Straits of Florida.
A freelance guide offered me a history lesson for an American dollar, and I promised him two if he kept it under four minutes.
The guide, a university student named Pablo, told me that some of these fortifications were ancient, but that F.C. had ordered new fortifications built on the high ground of the Hotel Nacional during the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis when the regime feared a U.S. invasion.
The so-called fortifications looked pretty pathetic, consisting of some bunkers and a few exposed gun emplacements. As a former military man I knew that these structures could be knocked out in about two minutes by a single salvo of 16-inch naval guns. But sometimes the optics are more important than the substance.
Pablo also thought the fortifications were a joke, and he confided to me that he wanted to go to the U.S. He looked at the Straits and said, “Over there.”
“Good luck.” I gave him an American ten, and he gave me his opinion on the Cuban economy. It sucked.
As I was contemplating heading for the bar, Sara appeared and said something in Spanish to Pablo, who laughed and replied in Spanish, then walked off with his half month’s pay.
“What did you say to him?”
She smiled. “I asked if you were flirting with him, and if not, I’d give you a try.”
“You could have just said, ‘Adios, amigo.’?”
“Conversation in Cuba has to be clever. That’s all they have.” She suggested, “Let’s take a walk.”
We walked along a park path that overlooked a four-lane road bordered by a seawall that ran along the shore. Sara said the road was called the Malecón, which meant the Breakwater. The Straits were calm, the sun was hot, and there was no sea breeze. Sara asked, “How are you enjoying your Cuba experience so far?”
“Too early to tell.” I added the mandatory, “The people seem nice.” Actually, they seemed listless and indifferent. “I need another day before I become an expert on Cuba.”
She smiled, then said, “They’re good people who’ve been badly served for five centuries by inept, corrupt, and despotic leaders. That’s why Cuba has had so many revolutions.”
They might have better luck picking a government out of the phone book. I asked, “How do you feel about being here?”
“I don’t know.” She confessed, “I feel some ancestral connection . . . but I don’t feel that I’m home.”
“How many Cubans in America would return if Cuba was free?”
“Fewer than those who say they would. But all of us would like to travel freely back and forth, to see family, and maybe to buy a vacation house—and to show our children and grandchildren where their parents and grandparents came from.”
“That would be nice. But not on that airline we flew in on.”
She smiled. “Within a year, there’ll be regularly scheduled airline service from the U.S. And by next spring there’ll be cruise ships at the Sierra Maestra Terminal filled with Americans.”
“Two nations, one vacation.”
“That’s clever. Did you make that up?”
“I did.”
We walked in silence awhile, me wondering why Sara skipped lunch to be with me, and she knowing why.
We reached the end of the park where a monument stood that Sara said was the Monumento a las Víctimas del Maine.
Well, that was ominous.
We turned and began walking back toward the hotel.
She asked, “How do you feel about the U.S. seeking improved relations with Cuba?”
“Well . . . I understand why it’s time to do that. But we need to get something in return.”
“We won’t get anything from these bastards. Except lies. Nothing will change here until the regime changes.”
“It’s a process. Cuba needs a half million American tourists and business people with money and big mouths spreading the idea of freedom.”