¡Viva la Cuba!
I remember watching The Buena Vista Social Club documentary for the first time. It was 1999. The award-winning documentary featured an American guitarist and his son traveling to Cuba to record an album with some of the country’s greatest music legends.
I was instantly smitten. The classic cars, the crumbling architecture, the soulful sound of Afro-Cuban music. Someday I would visit this tiny island nation and experience it firsthand.
Fast forward nearly two decades later and my dream finally became a reality. In 2016, it was finally my time to visit. Together, with a group of girlfriends, we traveled intrepidly to this magnificent country, seemingly frozen in time.
Mi Casa, Tu Casa
The Cuban people are incredibly warm and lovingly hospitable. Some even now open their homes and rent rooms to travelers. The accommodations, called Casa Particulars, are a great way to experience the country through the eyes of a local. Ours was in Vedado, a sleepy residential neighborhood just minutes from Old Havana’s beating heart. Owned by a lawyer and his wife, the house featured mid-century Colonial architecture, art deco furnishings and colorful tile floors, all surrounded by a lush tropical garden dotted with vintage iron furniture. Our lovely hosts welcomed us each morning with a contagious energy and a bountiful breakfast of fresh fruits and rich, delicious Cuban coffee.
La Grand Dama
As luck would have it, our visit coincided with the International Ballet Festival of Havana which only takes place during one week every other year. Even luckier, we were able to secure tickets to the main event, held the last weekend before the end of the festival. That evening, the beloved Ballet Nacional de Cuba would dance at the Gran Teatro de La Habana. The venue was spectacular, rivaling any of the great opera houses of Europe. As the lights dimmed and the curtain rose, a surge of shock and awe ran through our bodies. What an incredible opportunity it was to be here in this moment. After the curtain fell, still savoring every second of the performance, we looked up into the balcony only to see Alicia Alonso, the very first Cuban Prima Ballerina and founder of the Ballet Nacional de Cuba, sitting front row center, flanked by husky bodyguards. A truly unforgettable night.
Papa Hemingway
I’ve long been fascinated by Ernest Hemingway and his larger than life persona. He was a man’s man, with a fervent thirst for whiskey and women. He craved adventure and adored the ocean, so it came as no surprise that he lived in Cuba for nearly two decades with his third wife, Martha Gellhorn, the world’s first and most highly revered female war correspondent. Having visited his home in Key West, I was excited to see how this one compared. Finca Vigía, which translates to “lookout farm”, was a 15 minute drive out of old Havana. The complex was perched on a small, remote hill, canopied by large trees and lush tropical vegetation. The rooms of the narrow, white wood framed house were flooded with light and scattered with big game trophies and rows of neatly stacked books. Strolling past the enormous and empty concrete swimming pool, I laid my eyes on yet another of Ernest’s loves, Pilar, his handsomely beautiful 38′ fishing vessel, with her stunning dark wood panels and bright red accents. Just behind the main house, Hemingway had built a steep tower where he would retreat to write for hours in deep seclusion. Climbing the stairs to take a peek inside, it was easy to imagine Hemingway sitting at his typewriter, whiskey in hand, channeling his inner inspiration and keeping a watchful eye over his beloved Havana.
My Buena Vista Social Club
Our last night in Havana was a balmy one. We dressed in strappy sundresses and climbed into the classically iconic cars that Havana is famous for. We were let us off at a large unassuming brick building and we were graciously welcomed inside. The interior was strikingly beautiful but showing its age. A wide marble stairwell with thick wooden bannisters snaked up six floors and opened to a large, dimly lit room with high ceilings and a small stage. It was 10pm on a Sunday night. The room was crowded and stuffy and metal fans turned slowly circulating the air. Clusters of people chatted loudly, young bow-tie clad waiters served cocktails, more people arrived. We fanned ourselves and sipped our mojitos, patiently waiting for the show to begin. And then it did. The lights went down and a spotlight hit the stage. The horns, the guitars, the drums. It was dizzyingly loud and profoundly magnificent. It was truly unlike anything I’d ever heard. Soon thereafter, one by one, elderly men in fedoras joined the stage, passing the microphone from one to the next, each singing a phrase of Chan Chan. For the next three hours, we danced and laughed and sang with the band, never missing a single beat. And with that, my Buena Vista Social Club dream had come true.
