Cuba: Day 6 - Part 2

The Bay of Cienfuegos

We head back to Cienfuegos for lunch - with musical accompaniment, of course - at the Casa Verde across from our hotel.  It’s like being on the lakeside back home, eating out in the open air.  But in January!  (That part isn’t like back home.)
       Then another opening for adventure, if we want to walk into town on our own and meet up by the statue of Benny Moré for our next people-to-people.  I jump on the opportunity to unwind my legs and burn off at least some of the calories from all this lobster that’s being forced upon me.  Besides, it’s comfortably warm and the sky is blue.  Perfect for taking photos.  And it’s impossible to get lost because the hotel is on the only road into town from this peninsula.

The waters of Cienfuegos’s Caribbean bay are much calmer than Havana’s Atlantic waters. This is the same blue that I know from Martinique, and it’s very inviting, even in January.  I pass the Yacht Club where we had lunch upon our arrival, and then on past house after house with a blue anchor sign indicating a privately-run B&B, all newly painted and pleasing to the eye.  On the waterfront, there’s a huge billboard - a rarity in Cuba and usually reserved for political messages.  This one is of a man doing a dance step and saying “Cienfuegos is my favorite city”.  He looks a bit like Michael Jackson but is probably Benny Moré.  Farther along, a young man walks atop the breakwater, a bucket in one hand and fishing nets in the other.

        All of a sudden a pedicab stops and the two men in the back ask me if I speak Spanish.  They have Slavic accents and want me to ask the “driver” whether he has to pay anything at the hospital if he gets sick.  That is within my capabilities.  The answer is no, he doesn’t, it’s free.  The pedaler thanks me and pedals them off, all happy.  I guess once an interpreter, always an interpreter.
       In town there are lots of people, many of them young.  Maybe it’s a week-end.  I’ve lost track of the days.  I poke around a bit, and when it’s time I ask for directions to the Benny Moré statue, our group’s meeting place.  After one young man tries to lure my tourist pesos into his Benny Moré café instead, someone has pity and points to the corner.  There’s the statue; I’ve walked right past it.

       Our group reconstitutes itself, arrival by arrival, and we’re off to our next appointment.  On the way, we go into a few stores to see how things function in Cuba.  One is a pharmacy where a sign says “It’s free for you, but here’s what medical services cost” (I’m assuming in Cuban pesos, not CUCs) - and then there’s a whole list of treatments:  general and local anesthesia, angioplasty, glaucoma surgery...  All very interesting.  And obviously designed to make people realize that they’re getting their money’s worth with Fidel, and now Raul.  Another store is a dry goods and old-fashioned general store, with a corner for “recycled” clothing.  All very interesting and orderly.  Very 1950's rural America, actually.

       We’re allowed a few minutes to take a spin around the main square, with its Arch of Triumph that’s the only French touch I see in this reputedly “French” city.  Another bigger-than-lifesize statue of Jose Marti... with a pigeon on his head.  Just like the pigeon that sits atop the head of King Henry IV’s statue in Paris.  Or the one on Lincoln’s head at his Memorial  in Washington, DC.  Worldwide, pigeons have no respect.

        Our people-to people is at a theater on the square.  It’s a performance of the Choir of Cienfuegos.  17 singers in an a cappela group that has traveled the world, including Paris but not the United States.  They start out with Monteverdi, move on to a Cuban classic and a more modern Cuban song.  Then, in honor of the Yankees, they perform Oh Shenandoah, and close with a stirring version of a gospel piece, My Soul’s Been Anchored in the Lord.  We’re very honored, and their harmonies are beautiful.

Back at the hotel, I avail myself of the services of René, the bartender.  Last night he served me a pineapple juice, followed by a pineapple juice “but this time with rum”.  Which he taught me is called a Habana Especial. When I walk into the bar and say Hola, he smiles and asks “Habana Especial?”  Good memory.  We talk a bit and I tell him he has a French name.  He’s relieved to learn that René is also a man’s name in French, if it has only one “e”.  He thought is was only a girl’s name.

       Then it’s across the parking lot to a Moorish mansion, or “rather palace”, the Palacio de Valle.  Shortly before the Revolution, a company bought it and planned to turn it into a casino.   (Perhaps it had Mafia connections?)  But Castro returned, won the war and decreed that casinos were a thing of the past.  So now it’s a restaurant and meeting place for the Hotel Jagua.  Built of alabaster and marble from Carrara in Italy, accented with exotic woods such as mahogany, the walls and ceiling completely covered with elaborate carving, and all of it lit by crystal chandeliers of astounding proportion, it’s overwhelmingly luxurious.  The meal is every bit in keeping with the setting... and there’s lobster yet again. For once, the wine flows freely. Will this torture never end?

For a look at the Palacia de Valle, try this link:  http://www.cienfuegoscity.org/cienfuegos-city-arch-valle-palace.htm