of them (for a fee) and people making their way to El Bodeguita del Medio for an overpriced, watered-down mojito. For me, the most interesting places to visit around this plaza are the Taller Experimental de Gráfica (see Chapter 19) in a small alley off the southwestern corner where Cuban printmakers are hard at work creating under bright lights, the air thick with the smell of ink and sweat, and the Centro Wilfredo Lam (headquarters of the Bienal de la Habana; see Chapter 8), a contemporary art gallery named for and featuring Cuba’s most celebrated artist. Known in art circles as a “tropical surrealist,” Lam is the quintessential Cuban mongrel—an exotic mix of Chinese, African, and Criollo (those of Spanish descent born in Cuba). I’m surprised there isn’t a cocktail named after him. Having one of the best galleries in the city bearing his name is honor enough.
LA HABANA VIEJA—LITERALLY OLD HAVANA, THE first permanent settlement in the city, dating from 1519—is the number one tourist attraction in the country, though I predict its status will be challenged by Fidel Castro’s grave in Santa Ifigenia cemetery in Santiago de Cuba (see Chapter 71). Wandering the cobblestone streets linking colonial plazas, each one more picturesque than the last, is a lesson in history; branch off and out of the painstakingly restored areas (what Cuban’s call “Disneyland” for obvious reasons) and into the ’hood, however, and an entirely different world unfolds. Here, laundry hangs listlessly from balconies held up by wooden scaffolding, chunks of mortar crash to the sidewalk too often, shirtless men crowd tables under streetlamps shouting as they slap down dominos, and exhausted housewives haul buckets of water to third floor apartments via a rope and pulley system. In this part of town, running water is only available every other day, few people have air conditioning, and the daily struggle is defined by how families are going to put food on the table. In short, Habana Vieja is a tale of two cities. For insight into the historical context that has resulted in the grand contradictions evident today—luxurious colonial palaces next to falling down tenements; well-heeled Cubans and tourists sidestepping mounds of household garbage; the sound of lobster sizzling on the grill mixing with the knife sharpener’s peal—the area known as La Loma del Ángel, behind the Iglesia del Santo Ángel Custodio (1847), is a good place to start.
Just a handful of years ago, this pocket neighborhood exemplified the dichotomy of modern-day Havana, with boarded up state stores and bakeries cheek-by-jowl with new colonizers including moneyed artists and designers, huge potholes in streets running alongside freshly painted homes, and nary a tourist in sight. Some people would venture to the church where José Martí was baptized and where the first (and to date, still most famous) novel exploring interracial dynamics, Cecilia Valdés (1882) is set, but few ventured beyond.
Cecilia Valdes by Cirilo Villaverde is the story of a beautiful mulatta and her star-crossed romance with a young white man of means, who unbeknownst to either, is her half-brother.
Today, the little hillside neighborhood of La Loma del Ángel is a tourist attraction. The cobblestone streets are completely repaired and closed to traffic, little sidewalk cafés with chic umbrellas serve crepes and fruit salads, there are no lack of artists’ studios where visitors can browse and buy, and the cultural events organized by Papito and ArteCorte (see Chapter 42, Playgrounds, for other initiatives by this socially responsible business) are a spontaneous carnival. Just a few blocks outside of this enclave is where the real Habana Vieja lives.
AS THE BEST-PRESERVED HISTORICAL CITY in the Americas, Habana Vieja is chock full of gorgeous buildings inside and out. Dating from the 16th century through the early 20th, some are in disrepair or falling down, more are downright crumbling, while many others gleam. Others still seem to be undergoing perpetual renovation. File under this last category the Capitol building. Anyone from the United States will feel an eerie déjà-vu beholding the Capitolio—it was modeled on the US Capitol and looks like a carbon copy, albeit flanked by palm trees, its marble plazas a beehive of activity with skateboarding kids, peanut sellers and photographers. Before construction began on this monumental public work, this was a military parade ground, a bullfighting ring, a botanical garden, and train station—the city’s first.
As soon as the first shovel hit the dirt, the Capitolio project was beset with problems, from the cost ($20 million US, all told), to accidents and delays—ground was broken in 1912, but the building wasn’t finished until 1929. According to Claudia Lightfoot in her exquisitely researched book Cities of the Imagination: Havana, “a large slice of the $20 million disappeared in graft and straightforward theft....one politician’s house, now the Museo Napoleónico in Vedado, was supposedly entirely built from materials filched from the site.” Patterns set in motion a century ago still hold strong: the refurbishment of the Museo de la Música (a building of eclectic styles dating from 1902) has been ongoing for more than a decade and many neighbors have improved their living spaces with materials from the construction site. The Capitolio itself has been undergoing renovations since 2012 (who knows in that time how many resources have been “detoured,” as Cubans say) and was opened to visitors as this book went to print. Insiders tell me it’s spectacular and that the time to see it is now while the renovation is fresh and accessible to the public—word on the street is that this building, long the headquarters of the Ministry of Science, Technology, and the Environment, will once again house the Parliament once the renovation is finally finished.
Everything about the Capitolio is over-the-top extravagant, from the grand marble staircase guiding people inside to its 300-foot high dome. The Statue of the Republic guarding the entrance hallway is enormous, weighing 49 tons and covered entirely in 22-carat gold leaf. It’s almost 65 feet tall and if the statistics are credible, it’s among the largest indoor statues in the world. If there was any doubt about Cubans’ propensity for flaunting their wealth and gains, no matter how ill-gotten, the Capitolio dispels it—quickly. No expense was spared in the construction and decor here. Says Cuban historian Ciro Bianchi, the diamond embedded in the floor (known as Kilometer 0—from this point all distances in Cuba are measured), is from the crown of the last Russian czar. What Bianchi doesn’t mention is that the diamond was stolen under mysterious circumstances—further providing evidence for the Cuban grift and graft stereotype that’s so pervasive. Ironically, the two statues flanking the stairway entrance are entitled “Labor” and “Virtue.” The czar’s diamond eventually graced the desk of President Grau. Today, the real gem is kept in a bank vault—or so they say. The Salon de los Pasos Perdidos (the Room of the Lost Steps, so called because the cavernous hall plays acoustic tricks on visitors, their footsteps being swallowed in their wake), with its arched, gilded ceiling and geometric marble floors, is breathtaking. I admit I’m a sucker for libraries—my first job out of university was at the San Francisco Public Library and I’ve had a romantic interlude or two in some closed stacks—but the one here will make even the hardest of heart swoon. It can all be a bit overwhelming and give you a stiff neck admiring all the friezes and finery; when you need a break, head to the tranquil interior garden, a hidden oasis few know about.
PEOPLE TALK ABOUT “DOWNTOWN” HAVANA, which is a misnomer; asking a local how to get to downtown or the “city center” is met with a question mark written across their face. Havana turns on different axes, so “center” or “downtown” depends on your perspective. There’s Vedado, which for many young Cubans, is the center of all the action; there’s Habana
