Chapter 3 – The Outdoor Living Room
When I got down to the basement, the breakfast buffet wasn't open yet. I walked around, looking at the posters of plays hanging on the wall. Some were Soviet, all (of course) in Spanish. There was a plaque outside the dining room declaring that this was the site where the Young Rebels Organization was founded in 1960. Back home, we have Rotary International. Then the cigarette machine caught my eye. Along with brands I didn't recognize were Marlboro and Winston. So much for the embargo. Again. While I was musing over this, I heard the doors of the dining room open. I joined the handful of other early risers in getting a table. Most of them looked like Americans. I guess more of the 200,000.
As I walked in, I was greeted by a chilled display of fresh fruit. A snowman was crafted out of melons and carrots. He was surrounded by oranges and what I thought were unusually colored watermelons. To my astonishment, I realized they were actually the largest, orangest mangoes I had ever seen. The local produce looked incredible. There was also obviously imported produce such as apples. I found a table, where a waitress took my order for orange juice. I returned to the buffet and helped myself to a staggering variety of foods – sausages, bacon, toast, breads, fresh fruit, yogurt, cereals and eggs. As I was serving myself, I guiltily remembered what Felicita said about how many meals a day usually include meat. The hotel obviously fell under the category of "dollar store". I concentrated more on the yogurt and fruit. I returned to my table and sat. My gaze was directed ahead of me out of the floor to ceiling windows. They looked out to the Malecon near a large statue, then beyond the seawall to the harbor. Bobbing on the bright blue water were maybe hundreds of rowboats. Each was being rowed out to sea. In mid-bite, it occurred to me with a sudden thrill that a scene just as this is what inspired Ernest Hemingway to write
The Old Man And The Sea
.
The yogurt was positively nasty, almost bitter. The fresh fruit, however, was among the best I had ever tasted – especially the mango. I ended up eating mostly mangoes and muffins, although I did try many of the other choices. Remembering Felicita, I was careful to limit my waste. As I ate, I watched the fishermen heading out to sea, to the Gulf Stream for the day's work. Mariel (home of the Mariel Boatlift) was only a few miles west of where I was sitting. I thought of all the people who put their lives at great risk to try to escape the tyranny of Fidel Castro. There I was, sneaking in at almost the same place they snuck out.
After breakfast, I checked my watch and saw I had a little time before I could meet my girl at the taxi stand. I walked up the stairs to the lobby and out onto the veranda at the back of the hotel. The early morning air coming in off the harbor was surprisingly cool. I could almost have worn a jacket, in spite of the latitude. I bought a morning paper from the stand that sold postcards. It was the Granma, a propaganda publication named for the boat that had carried Fidel out of exile in Mexico back to Cuba for his second (and ultimately successful) attempt to take over Cuba. There were wicker chairs and tables set out on the high-ceilinged porch. Cages of little birds dotted the walls, set there to sing and add to the ambience. I sat and soaked up the decadence, sitting among the red tiled floor, cream colored stone walls trimmed in pink and the aged stone columns. The carvings on the stone were quite intricate. The way the stone was worn attested to its age. I wondered what Felicita's home looked like. Maybe I'd get her to show it to me. I knew I couldn't spend the night there. My visa required me to stay at a government-operated hotel in Havana for the duration of my trip. I read my paper to the sound of the birds. It contained useful information. The ads gave me an idea of what commerce was like, and the companies that might someday be my customers. The political articles told me more about the government. Before long, it was almost time to meet my driver.
I walked back in and across the lobby, then quickly up to my room to call Canada and speak the code that would tell Ross that everything was still alright. I was becoming a lot more comfortable in Cuba. There was a second code that I didn't think I'd ever need. If I placed an order for chestnuts, it meant I was in great danger and needed help. I was starting to think all this cloak and dagger stuff was ridiculous. I still knew I might have trouble returning home, but I felt pretty sure I was safe here. After getting off the phone, I went back down to the lobby, past the check-in desk, down the marble stairs (I loved the cool feel of that marble handrail) and up the palm tree lined driveway out to the street. At the street, I turned left and strolled over to the taxi stand. There were some drivers waiting with their yellow scooters, but Felicita wasn't there yet. One young driver approached me, looked me up and down, and addressed me. His tone was stern.
"Are you looking for Felicita?" he asked.
Panic washed over me.
Had Felicita gotten in trouble going home last night? Had I been the cause for her arrest?
I wondered. I nodded cautiously.
"She wanted you to know she had to take a fare. She will be back in about twenty minutes."
Relief now replaced the panic. I thanked him and started to continue walking along the street. The young man stepped in my path. Straightening himself up to look taller, he looked down into my eyes.
"Do you love her?" he demanded.
I wasn't sure how to answer. I decided to be honest. "Yes, I do," I said. I think my words even surprised myself.
The man's face softened. "She is my cousin. You should take care of her. I wouldn't want her to get hurt."
"I will," I promised. I said it with sincerity.
He smiled. "Good. She said you are a good man. I wanted to see for myself that it was true." Then he stuck out his hand and shook mine, clasping me on the shoulder with his other hand. "She will be back in a few minutes." He politely stepped aside to let me pass.
I walked further down the hill a ways. Behind me, I heard the put-put of a scooter climbing from the other direction. I quickly spun around, expecting to see Felicita's smiling face. I started jogging back to the taxi stand when I saw it was one of the male drivers. Disappointed, I turned around. No sooner had I started walking down the hill again than I heard another scooter. This one blew its feeble horn. I looked around and saw who I had been looking for. She passed up the taxi stand, pulling to the side of the road when she reached me. I hopped aboard and she turned around to kiss me. As I took my seat, I could see the man who had stopped me earlier. He had watched us kiss. He smiled and waved as we pulled away.
I leaned forward so I could speak in Felicita's ear. "I met your cousin," I said.
She spoke with a stern tone. "Did he bother you? He's always trying to control everything I do – just because he is older than me."
