Many of the angelic and profane sculptures date back a hundred years or more and the quirky Cuban character is evident even here, in death. There’s the “Domino Tomb,” the final resting place of Juana Martín de Martín, a fanatic of the game whose tombstone is a three-by-three domino tile; her last game is chiseled into the side of the crypt. Despite being vilified post-revolution and embroiled in a decades-long lawsuit with the Cuban state over the copyright to Havana Club, the Bacardí family pantheon stands tall here, contained inside a wrought iron fence lined with black bats. One of my favorites is the “Faithfulness Grave” of Jeanette Ryder whose devoted dog Rinti padded to her tomb every day following her death, refusing to eat until one day he died right there, beside his beloved owner. Ryder’s friends were so moved by the dog’s devotion, they raised money to commission a tombstone sculpture with Rinti sleeping contentedly at her feet.
One of the most-often visited graves in the entire cemetery, piled high with flowers, stuffed animals, baby shoes, and written supplications for infant health, is that of Amelia Goyri, familiarly known as “La Milagrosa” (The Miracle). Amelia died eight months pregnant; the baby she carried died with her. They were buried together, the unnamed baby placed at her feet. When she was exhumed some years later, the baby wasn’t at her feet, but in her arms. In 1909, a life-size sculpture of the would-be mother with babe in arms was placed at her tomb; today it is festooned with all manner of offerings from parents petitioning miracles for their offspring. Not long ago a friend asked me to do a favor for his neighbor, an elderly compañera charged with administering all the offerings: would I be willing to carry the nickels, dimes, and quarters deposited by supplicants in the box at La Milagrosa’s tomb to New York in my luggage and change them for bills? (Cuban banks don’t change US coins.) The little old lady offered me half for my troubles—around $75. I told my friend I would heft the nearly ten pounds of coins stateside, but I wasn’t risking the health of someone’s baby purchasing my morning coffee with money offered to La Milagrosa. Another cemetery highlight is the Androgynous Angel statue (who knew?!). You can hire a guide to tour the cemetery, wander independently, or buy the detailed map and booklet Guía Turística Necrópolis Colón at the entrance.
DON’T BOTHER ASKING YOUR TAXI driver or waiter how to get to the Jardín Japonés (also known as the Isla Japonésa); this is one of Havana’s best kept secrets, unknown even to many lifetime locals. Tucked behind the imposing 19th-century mansion housing the unremarkable Restaurante 1830, this little seaside hideaway is perfect for when you need some peace and tranquility mixed in with your hectic Havana days and nights. Constructed entirely of coral, rocks, and seashells, the turrets, bridges, benches, and diminutive caves here are marvelous for beholding a sunset while a trumpeter or two practice their chops in the Moorish cupola overlooking where the Almendares River empties into the sea. I was literally brought to tears the first time I explored this site—granted I was wracked with grief at the time and a friend suggested I head here for some solace. This artificial island officially named Koisima Isla Japonesa (love island) emits a rejuvenating energy that is hard to put into words. Indeed, after I swiped the tears away and headed back home, I discovered I’d lost my keys somewhere amongst the shells and coral and caves, but didn’t even care.
No cost was spared in constructing this idyllic isle: the tiles for the mini-mosque were imported from La Cartuja in Seville, Spain and the cupola crown was brought piece by piece from India. Local lore holds that the Jardín Japonés was contracted by the mansion’s owner, Carlos Miguel de Céspedes, to keep tabs on his lover who lived across the way, in the mansion known as the Casa Verde, distinguished by its green gabled roof. Perhaps apocryphal, the towers here do provide a direct view of the Casa Verde, a short rowboat ride away, adding weight to the story. Carlos Miguel (who is no relation to the father of Cuban independence, Carlos Manuel de Céspedes) was Secretary of Public Works under President Gerardo Machado, a dictatorial figure who spilled blood indiscriminately. Céspedes oversaw the construction of major projects including the Capitolio, the Carretera Central, the Prado, the Hotel Nacional, and this mansion. Thursday and Saturdays, the patio of Restaurante 1830 facing the Jardín Japonés hosts live salsa bands with raucous dancing and plenty of willing partners. The Torreón de la Chorrera (the stone tower just east of “1830” as it’s known here) is a popular seaside spot for beers packed with Cubans at all hours and hosts occasional electronica raves as well.
THERE’S SOMETHING MAGICAL ABOUT HAVANA. It’s in the sea salt spray caressing the Malecón, the smell of night-time gardenia under a full moon, children laughing in the neighborhood park, and the smile of a grandma as she passes you on the sidewalk. Music pours from Miramar mansions, while a trumpeter improvises jazz under the crown of an old-growth ceiba. It’s this magic, I believe, which partly explains the levity Cubans carry when faced with frustrating bureaucracy and interminable lines. It’s also why visitors tend to fall fast and hard for Havana, not knowing precisely why. This indescribable energy enriches life here, makes sex better, and soothes grief. It can’t be bottled, this unique flavor and swing for which Havana is justly famous, but I hope we can retain, sustain, and grow it moving forward—otherwise, I might have to look for another place to live!
Poet Langston Hughes felt this magic, translating it into prose in his essay “Havana Nights,” collected in the thought-provoking collection Cuba in Mind.
One way to experience this magic for yourself is to set aside a dusk or two with a good friend or lover, or if you’re like me and enjoy your own company, alone, to fully appreciate a Havana sunset. A classic spot is at the bar atop the city’s tallest building, the Focsa, on Calles M and 17. Exiting the elevator at the top, site of La Torre restaurant (expensive and luxurious), you’ll see the entire western stretch of Vedado spread out below the wall of windows. Settle in with a beer or mojito and you’ll have a panoramic vista as the sun goes down in golden, pink, and purple hues. They make decent vittles at the bar, for a fraction of the price of the restaurant. Another iconic building, right on the Malecón, the Riviera Hotel and its iconic lobby bar oozes 1950s mobster ambiance—logical, since this was the pet property of Mafioso Meyer Lansky before he joined the wave of Batista cronies escaping ahead of the winds of political change sweeping the country. Have a cocktail here and gaze through the floor-to-ceiling windows with nothing but glass between you and the Malecón. Speaking of Havana’s seawall (nicknamed “the city’s sofa” because it serves as an extension of everyone’s living room), this is as perfect a place as any to watch the sun go down with a bottle of rum and a quality cigar, if you’re so inclined. A hugely popular spot for habaneros to swim, neck, and enjoy the sunset is Playa 16 in Miramar. Despite the name, it’s not a beach but rather a block-long stretch of coast covered with diente de perro (dog’s tooth) rock with steps descending into the sea. Carry some flip flops or swim shoes as the shallows are littered with sea urchins. The best access is at Calle 14 and 1ra, where there’s a simple cafeteria serving burgers and such, as well as 7 Días, a proper restaurant right on the shore which is hit or miss but occupies a prime sunset location. Two other favorites are La Chorrera, at the western end of the Malecón where the beer bongs are tall and cold and just beyond that the Jardín Japonés (see Chapter 14); both are seaside.
SOMETIMES HAVANA GETS TOO OVERWHELMING—LIKE today, when my building has no running water and neighbors are knocking down walls accompanied by really
