Cuba: It's Illegal Just to Be There, or, Talk About Temptation, Part I
It’s beisbol
by Sub-commandante X
Henry, my friend, is a student. We arranged to meet at a café on Saturday, and made plans to see a baseball game that evening.
I’d planned to take the autobus this time to save money on the taxi fare, and to get a more authentic feel for everyday life in Havana.
I definitely know it’s not to be found in the fantasy world of the marina resort that I’m staying at. It’s an isolated, self-contained, tourist enclave.
No Cuban experience this. But as it turns out, I didn’t have to tackle the city buses with my limited pesos, or my limited Spanish, because the marina runs free tourista buses into town each day.
Nice to learn of this service 5 days into my 7-day stay. Oh well, no use crying over spilled cab fare, gringo. You did meet some interesting cabbies, local color and all that, y’know?
By way of coincidence, I was left off right in front of the U.S. Interests Section in Havana, just a couple of blocks from my destination.
The U.S. compound is heavily fortified with barbed wire fences, guards, and satellite dishes. Your tax dollars at work.
I got my Che’ t-shirted self outa there fast, and decided to pass some time at the sea wall of Havana harbor, just across the boulevard.
A young man walking by spotted my t-shirt, and pleasantly surprised, asked pointing, “ Estay Che’?” “Si Che’”, I responded.
I watched a freighter pulling out of the harbor and wondered if it knew there was an embargo in place?
The passing parade of dignified, proud people could have made my eyes water. But, I’m sure it was the sea breeze at the shore that was doing it.
I was sitting on a bench writing, when a young man introduced himself. That is how I met my namesake, Wilfredo Echavarria. Very strange, I can’t ever recall meeting another person with my unusual last name.
Wilfredo pulled out his identity card to prove it. Yep. Echavarria. It’s a Basque name, pretty common in Puerto Rico. But, fairly rare in Cuba, I understand.
The young man is 16, and will be 17 in April. We had a half of chicken wrapped for him to take home for him and his mother.
“We could be family,” he said. And truth be known, the young fellow has a remarkable resemblance to my father, who made his transition about thirty years ago.
Yeah, it was a bit eerie, but in a warm familial kinda way. My father has been on my mind a whole lot during this trip. Spirit may have just showed me that he is still close enough to touch.
Wilfredo and I traded addresses. He said he’d be at the airport on Monday to see me off. (And, he was.)
Next, we met Roberto… who showed me a picture of his lovely baby girl. I gave him a dollar for the baby’s first birthday.
All this festivity was beginning to wipe me out. Now it was time to keep a beisbol appointment with Henry.
When he showed up, I gave him some pens, shirts, books, and a Spanish-English Dictionary. We smoked cigars to celebrate. I got dizzy. Don’t laugh.
I told Henry I didn’t have any money left for cigars. But, he gave me a box anyway. So, I gave him $20. (When I get to Nassau, hope I can find an ATM.) Wish me luck.
Oh, shit – now I have to get past U.S. customs. But, that’s manana, tonight, It’s beisbol.
Henry got us a taxi. I paid the fare. At the stadium, he got the tickets. This game, he explained, is between the second teams, what we would call ‘farm’ teams.
We’re sitting right down the third base line, just behind the home team’s (Metro’s) dugout. Game starts in 30 minutes.
It was really an entertaining game. In the early innings it looked like the visiting team would dominate.
But in the 7th inning, a home run with a man on, tied the game for the Metro’s. It went into extra innings. Ultimately, the better team won (the visitors).
“They’re from the country,” my friend told me, “The city teams and the country teams hate each other.”
“Yeah, it’s the same where I come from too,” I said.
I was told the opposing pitcher was on the Olympic team. Now, I really find it hard to believe the U.S. beat Cuba in the Olympics. But, “That’s beisbol.”
No beer vendors, no peanuts. But there was Cuban coffee, and bread and cheese (pan y queso) offered all night.
After the game, we went to a historic Hemingway bar, and had a favorite drink of his, ‘Salud’.
A beautiful young lady was disappointed when I said, “No tango dinero.”
I told her she was “very pretty, but no, not tonight.”
I confided in the taxi driver, that maybe I was getting too old for these ‘chicas cubanas’. But, he chuckled when I reconsidered,
“No, you’re never too old for chicas,” I said.
Especially with viagra in hand, and love in your heart. Still, money helps.
Sub-X is a survivor of the radical '60s. These days he's attempting to get beyond the 'Them' and 'Us' duality of Conflict Consciousness. Trying to eliminate conflict from one's reality is a lot like dealing with alcohol. It's an on-going process. Currently, Sub-X seeks solutions and asks, "Why not more beauty, love, and joy?" We know we can do so much better. OK, so why not?