Cuba is a modern parenthesis. I am just back from a writer’s jaunt to Cuba. The first ever Cuban American Writer’s Conference sponsored jointly by the Cuban Writers and Artists Union, an elite literary organization sanctioned by the government, and the Writer’s of the Americas group out of New York.
Two weeks with colleagues -- no mirrors -- the books I brought -- the clothes I crammed in between boxes of medicine and missives from New York based Cubans -- the cash secreted in my wallet. I was fax-less, email-free, phone-restricted, on a budget and without the duties and joys of children, husband and editors.
I wandered wrapped in reverie watching the 1950 Dodges or razor finned 55’ Chevys -- pristine or jacked up -- spitting fumes, picking up passengers; I licked the salt spray from my lips as waves leaped upon the sea wall of the famed Malecon at the base of Havana. I ogled yellow stone, Spanish beauties -- some crumbling towards the sea. I marveled that the Untied Nations had begun the renovation process to preserve the official Habana Viejo, the downtown historic district, from total ruin.
But really, all of Cuba could be an historic monument. I looked at hotels built in the forties and fifties as playgrounds for alleged Mafia mobsters who ferried across the sea for weekends filled with fun, either seamy or solid. Enter the Hotel Capri, and the strains of Volare virtually ooze from every crevice in the lobby. Steadfast citizens sweep steps and sidewalks in the midst of piles of rubble. Using brooms that would be found on Friday trash night discarded on loading docks in trendy TriBeCa, these men and woman toiled way. Time has stopped and progressed in a strange way and I wondered, is Cuba the only Third World country that used to be a First World country? |
( Downtown historic district)
|
Despite what we think about Castro or communism, the role of the United States in the embargo, or whether Elian should have been returned, it is indisputable that Cuba has been a force moving to keep up with the modern world. There were sugar refining factories, boulevards, nightclubs and an infrastructure.
(Amazonas Sugar Factory)
Yes, there was a dictator and jails filled with folks who had stumbled; there was prostitution and worker unrest.
The conference classes were housed in the sumptuous headquarters of UNEAC. The writer’s union, UNEAC has headquarters that are a fine mansion surrounded by a high wrought iron fence and a gate, which is supposedly now open to all. This scrubbed ochre house was formerly the abode of a Spanish banker. His initials J. C. are scrolled in ironwork over the front door. It has marble halls and a floor-to-ceiling Tiffany glass window where calla lilies and purple grapes spray out into the sunlight.
Continued on Next Page |
