Rachel's House: The streets have ears and they speak...

Leysis Quesada vera, from My Town

The streets have ears and they speak, the neighborhood feels, breathes and I am part of it, I carry its impregnated mark.

Leysis Quesada vera, on her photographic work

Havana, 2019

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Flower lady with helper

I was hungry after my flight, my arrival, and my welcome, so Barbara recommended a place called the Creperie a few blocks away where I could get a light meal for not many pesos. A paladar like the Creperie is often housed in the front room or the ground floor of a home; it's private, not government-run, and its hosts provide meals from their kitchens...formally, as in some of the fancier places, or informally, with whatever is available that day. The foods I ate in all of these were tasty, fresh, and cheerfully served in comfortable, often comforting surroundings. Sometimes other tourists found their way there, sometimes I was the only one in the place. Sometimes it was three-star, a simple elegance of taste; sometimes plain, homey good food. But that, too, is another story.

Following Barbara's clear directions, I came to the address only to find it under renovation. But the workers patiently untangled my question and pointed me to a place a few more blocks hence, Mojito, mojito. "It's good! You'll like it."

It was well after two o'clock by then, but the restaurant had plenty of other late-lunchers and drinkers at the bar. Open, inviting, and set across from a small, but beautiful garden, it seemed a lucky choice. The waitress, a young Cuban, set down water, then went off to order me grilled shrimp with black beans and rice...Moros y cristianos, as not only the Cubans but the New Orleans folk call it...which are available with every meal. (You will be fortified with protein, no matter what else you order.)

Waiting, I looked around:

Don't drink the water from the tap! advised everyone from websites to Barbara and Maidy, who kept boiled water by the bottleful in her refrigerator for the household to load up on. In Cuba, you don't go far without water...it's hot (the air, not the water), though the breeze from the Bay and shaded sides of the street cool walkers. But main waterlines are antiquated and narrow, sometimes broken, so everyone in the country is cautious while these are replaced. The first truck to wake me in the morning was the water truck rumbling down the street; neighbors ran down to meet it with gallon jugs in hand to fill up. Tiny water-juice-ice cream spots along the street had it available as did stores and cafes. I kept one in my purse all the time, and my nice guide, Leonel (more about him later) made sure I was well stocked.

I snapped this picture off a plaza. There's a man, I thought, who will have his refreshment all day!

Back at the Mojito (no, I didn't order one...it's not my thing), my food came, and so, delightfully, did a small band to entertain us.

As it happened, they were four of a group of eight who played around the city, and these four were perfect afternoon fare. As it also happened, the woman at the table in front of me (she had eggs and sausage with her rice and beans) knew the sax player, and they began to dance a salsa.

One night I will learn this, I promised myself...like the rest of the place, it was an exercise in cheerfulness.

Eventually, I picked myself up and left to begin the "official" purpose of my visit: A study of Cuban Art, per the careful agenda I'd prepared according to the U.S. State Department's requirements, under Support for the Cuban People (and who wouldn't?). And by the way, no one ever officially inquired about it, or even asked what I had done there, after all my research, gathering, mapping, planning, arranging. Not that I regret it: it was a lens through which I could see the interiors of their aesthetic and culture and imagination. Certainly the Cubans didn't need a reason for me to visit, and at the Miami airport, as I returned, neither did the customs official, who politely asked where I had been...Cuba! I told him. Great...have a good time? Yes! It was wonderful. Welcome home, he said. End of official inquiry.

A few blocks and a few turns more and the Plaza Vieja opened before me, busy then with children ending school and people coming from shopping and work, and leftover tourists looking for a place to settle for a while, while I was just getting started.

It didn't take long to find two galleries in the square. The art I found was modern and representational...narrative, really, working toward statements on Cuban life...a good start, for I was really looking for the Cuban people, their memory and history and stories embedded in that art. The buildings on the Plaza were arresting in themselves, both outside and inside; I've already written about the courtyards and ancient edifices. But this art, though so contrary in form, nonetheless seemed to find a suitable home there.