William Horberg: Havana Diary pt 2

More of my Havana Diary from December of 2000 (boy, does that seem like ages ago!).

The flight from Miami to Havana is only one hour long, but the US economic embargo and strict travel prohibition makes the boarding process in Miami one of the most torturous in the world. Roped off at the check-in gate like quarantined lepers, the passengers have to endure a 3:00 p.m. check in for a flight that is not scheduled to depart until 8:00 p.m., but which, on most nights, takes off an hour or two after that. The travellers, mostly Cuban, mostly elderly, are loaded down with luggage and mountains of material goods purchased in the States, all of which gets processed in a huge plastic wrapping machine which hermetically seals all goods and baggage, for security reasons, leaving a shining blue pile of suffocated belongings behind for the handlers.

The only thing that made the wait bearable was the comic scenario being played out across the waiting room, as pianist Herbie Hancock, a last minute surprise guest for opening night at the Jazz Festival, was engaged in a fruitless attempt to prove to the ABC Charter operators of the flight that he really did have a first class seat and did not have to travel coach with the rest of us proletarians. The white woman travelling with Herbie, clearly his girlfriend and handler, was trying her best to remain bemused by her temperamental artist lover and client, but the language barrier finally got the best of him in his debate with the Cuban flight attendant, as did his cell phone, which gave out mid-tirade, ending the connection to what sounded like his beleaguered travel agent. But as soon as his options were clearly exhausted, his mood changed like the weather, and it was fun to eavesdrop on his conversation - even though Herbie graduated from Julliard and I had dropped out of music school myself, it turned out we had one thing in common - it was my first trip to Cuba, too.

It was close to midnight when we finally got underway, and I staggered into my seat next to an elderly light-skinned Cuban couple and their very black-skinned young grandchild. I dozed off into a fitful, cramped sleep, and when I woke up, I smiled warmly at the sight of the old woman, as she showed the girl on her lap the Havana skyline at night out the window. It was only then, in a hallucinatory moment, that I realized the "girl" she was whispering to was really a fancy doll, braided hair, embroidered dress, probably a Christmas present from America for a soon-to-be reunited relative.

The Habana Riviera is a faded hotel on the Malecon in Vedado, the kind of Dean-Martin-gone-to-seed style you remember from bad Matt Helm movies or In Like Flint. Gold-flecked linoleum, wrought iron spiral staircases sweeping up from the center of the lobby and leading nowhere, an Olympic size swimming pool with a three platform diving tower; purple, turquoise, orange and other unimaginable colours dominate the decor. At the check-in desk a mob of just-arrived jazz musicians struggled to get their rooms organized, which, if you've ever spent any time around jazz musicians, you know is a bit like expecting a kindergarten class to fly an airplane.

Suddenly, a vaguely familiar face separated from the pack, carrying the familiar shaped case of an upright bass player. After a brief guessing game, we identified each other. John Weber, a classmate of mine ages ago at the David Bloom School of Jazz on Rush Street in Chicago, was playing bass with the Ronnie Matthews trio as a last minute substitution for the ailing Walter Booker, Jr. I hadn't seen John since 1986 when we both left Chicago after the death of our mutual friend and fellow jazz quintet member Tim Alcock, who passed away from cancer at the young age of 26. I discovered that John had moved to New York and gone on to become a gigging jazz musician, scraping together a freelance living, touring the world through jazz festivals, and I was made to consider the path not taken in my own life, and I envied his pursuit of la vida musica.

TOMORROW: Part 3 of my 2000 Havana Diary

william

URGENT ACTION:

As the subject of this week's blog is Cuba, it is only fitting that I share with you all these appeals for help from our friend Sandra Levinson and the Center for Cuban Studies in New York City. The recent hurricanes have been devastating to the island, and Sandra offers us all a way to help with direct humanitarian aid, something the U.S. government sadly refuses to do.

Comments

You can follow this conversation by subscribing to the comment feed for this post.

another great read with my morning coffee . It seems strange with the american/cuban government relationship or lack there of that they still allow tax receipts for charities helping the people there. Another reason why I am proud to be Canadian.

Posted by: Margaret Oomen | October 10, 2008 at 04:59 AM