Nacional runs so deep, the bar tucked away behind the lobby is called Salón de la Fama (Hall of Fame) and is packed with photos of famous guests (Steven Spielberg, Rita Hayworth, Errol Flynn, and Marlon Brando), and vitrines filled with ephemera from golden times gone by. Part of the reason the Nacional is so symbolic and Cubans take such pride in now having full ownership stems from its links to the USA and other developed nations to the north. Designed by a US firm, and a favorite of the global glitterati, the Nacional was also the setting for the climactic scene of Graham Greene’s Our Man in Havana. But perhaps what sticks most in the Cuban craw are the Nacional’s pre-revolutionary mafia ties: notorious mob boss Lucky Luciano convened his cronies here to divvy up the city and its casino, prostitution and other nefarious money-making niches. A handful of years later, Meyer Lansky took over operations at the Parisien, the Nacional’s casino and cabaret; today, the Parisien makes a good alternative to the world-famous Tropicana for a hip-shaking, butt-quaking extravaganza.
You need not book a room at the Nacional to experience its seduction—though if it’s within your budget, the setting, location, views, and amenities (two pools, an executive floor with added services like a private restaurant, and one of the city’s top cabarets) make it worth a night or two. Get a coveted room during the Festival Internacional de Nuevo Cine Latinoamericano (AKA The Havana Film Festival), headquartered here each December and you’ll be a fly on the wall for all kinds of star sightings and gossip. Pop in during the festivities and you can get a taste without paying the price. The lobby, with its combination of Moorish, modernist, and eclectic styles is laced with ribbons of cigar smoke, punctuated by the sound of ice shaking in highballs and a polyglot of excitable voices bouncing off the walls. It encapsulates Havana’s wicked torpor and promise; no wonder it sets the tropical tone for Pico Iyer’s novel Cuba and the Night.
Through the double doors lie the hotel’s elegant gardens, with wide-angle views of the sea, stately palm trees, and comfortable wicker couches for taking it all in. A cocktail and snack will set you back at least $10CUC—a small price for gaining access to such hallowed ground. The central fountain and grassy expanses leading to the Malecón beyond are popular spots for Cuban quinceñeras (girls turning 15, this is a coming-out of sorts, where the 15-year-olds dress like child brides or harlots and videotape the entire affair) to pose and mince; a more kitsch rite of passage doesn’t exist—have your camera at the ready. Speaking of kitsch, there’s one Havana spectacle that doesn’t seem to die, though most of its performers already have: an incarnation of the Buena Vista Social Club plays here three times a week and the music, while not played by original members, is superlative—but then again, if you’re listening to bad live music in Cuba, you’re doing something woefully wrong. For those looking for history below the neatly clipped gardens of the Hotel Nacional, daily tours of the underground tunnels and bunkers are a unique way to learn about Cuban defensive mechanisms and get beneath the surface of the hotel—literally.
I LIVED IN HAVANA FOR years under the mistaken impression that the giant parade ground that hosts hundreds of thousands every International Workers Day and the occasional pope, high-profile funeral procession (both Hugo Chávez and Fidel Castro were mourned here) and military displays, was constructed by the revolution. But like many buildings, plazas, hotels, and monuments, the Plaza de la Revolución was built by previous administrations, in this case by the infamous Fulgencio Batista. Back in those days, when it was known as the Plaza Cívica, no one imagined eight-hour speeches by Fidel Castro attended by a million admirers or Pope Francisco taking several turns around the plaza, without bulletproof glass or added protection in the Pope mobile, like happened in 2015. The giant sculpture of José Martí looming over the Plaza is one of the few full-body depictions of the “Apostle” in Havana. In 2018, an exact replica of the José Martí statue at the entrance to New York’s Central Park, a collaboration between the Bronx Museum and Cuba, was unveiled on Havana’s Prado; another one is Marti holding a baby and pointing (accusingly, say folks who like to read into these things) toward the US embassy. Both the Plaza de la Revolución and the “Protestódromo”—the open parade ground along the Malecón directly in front of the embassy—were once the preferred sites for railing against “yanqui” policies, but since the ascension of Raúl Castro to the presidency (and by the time you read this, there will no longer be a Castro as President), the rhetoric has been tempered mightily. No one says yanqui anymore, for instance; the preferred term for foreigners is Yuma and you’ll hear it wherever you go. There are still giant demonstrations held here, however, and if you can catch one, don’t miss it for the insight into how Cubans rally en masse.
Theories abound as to the origins of the slang term Yuma; most agree it comes from the Hollywood western 3:10 to Yuma, based on the story of the same name by Elmore Leonard.
It always makes me cringe to see folks visiting this monumental space under a blazing Havana sun. Don’t make this mistake: the emblematic Plaza de la Revolución is a wide open concrete parade ground (imagine a football stadium parking lot) completely devoid of shade, your photos will be totally burned out, and the risk of sun stroke is high. Besides, it’s one of the stops on the ubiquitous convertible car tours so some randoms from Kansas or Moscow are likely to make their way into your trip photos. At night, on the other hand, the bronze sculptures of revolutionary heroes Che Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos are attractively backlit, the Memorial José Martí is illuminated from below and it will be deserted.
Time a visit on a Saturday night and you can catch the city’s best drag queen extravaganza, Divino, in the Cafe Cantante, below the Teatro Nacional. Early morning is another good time to head to the Plaza, when throngs of Cubans in olive green are arriving at their Ministry of the Interior posts (where the Che sculpture hangs), and workers are making their way to surrounding buildings, including the Ministry of Communications (where Havana’s main post office is housed) and the National Library. The one bonus to visiting during the day is you can access the Memorial José Marti—the giant phallus fronting the plaza. There’s an art gallery on the ground floor and an elevator that takes you to the top of the monument, delivering 360° bird’s eye views of Havana (or more precisely: buzzard’s eye views—the scavengers are constantly circling the monument, eliciting all manner of morbid commentary). Walk around the back of the memorial and there are some cafe tables and chairs and a full on view of the Comité Central, the seat of Cuban government.
I’M NOT A BIG FAN of churches and cemeteries (nor slums or battle sites) as tourist attractions, but there are always exceptions. In Havana, that exception is the Colón Cemetery, a city unto itself, established in 1868 and interring corpses daily since. Like in most high-demand cities, overcrowding is a serious problem—almost every Habanero wishes to be buried in Colón (formally the Necrópolis Cristobal Colón, but unceremoniously clipped to just Colón; Cubans, a profligate bunch in general, are surprisingly parsimonious when it comes to syllables and words). Alas, people keep dying while the cemetery’s acreage remains the same, forcing loved ones to disinter their dearly departed after two years and move them to mausoleums. It’s not a pretty sight on the day they’re digging up remains, the named and numbered streets littered with scraps of clothing, splintered plywood, and dead flowers. You have to be an unlucky soul to witness this sadness—like I did when we buried my friend Odalys a few years ago. On all other days, the cemetery is a quiet oasis in the heart of chaotic Vedado jam-packed with spectacular sculptures and elaborate aboveground tombs. The chapel anchoring the main boulevard, blazing yellow in the midday sun with its terra cotta cupola, calls all photographers; inside is less impressive, unless
