Fantasy Island
Guido and I wanted to go somewhere amazing. Somewhere different. Somewhere hot, and not necessarily climate hot, but attitude hot.
And he came up with this idea: "You know what would be hot? Going to a restaurant around here, order a mojito, take a sip and say 'You know, that's a pretty good mojito. It's good. But I don't know: I still think my favorite mojito was the one we had in Havana. You know, the same one that was Ernest Hemingway's favorite. That was a great mojito. Now that's hot, right?"
He was right. But clearly, some problems with that plan, like the whole not being allowed to travel to that country. Sucks.
But still, I like to imagine going to a similar country, a similar island country in the Caribbean called Muba, because unlike the other country, Muba wouldn't be restricted to American tourism.
It's a beautiful country, Muba, as is it's capital Mavana, or at least it had been in the past--before the revolution. The city ends in the north with a wall called the Malecon which keeps the sea from spilling over onto the main avenue during high tide--a task not too well accomplished. At night the waves crash against the wall, sending over a spray of salt water onto the adjacent asphalt turning it into a mirror perfectly reflecting the moon. Surprisingly, the water doesn't detract the locals from congregating, sitting atop that wall in groups at all hours of the night. Then again, hanging out at the Malecon is one of the few distractions that the Mubans can afford.
On the other side of the street are beautiful pastel facades that look over the street, past the Malecon and out onto the bay of Mavana. At least one could look out over all this if the buildings were anything more than a facade. From the wall, anyone could see that almost the whole stretch of oceanside property was uninhabitable. The art deco and neoclassical facades were faded by salt and sun, and the plaster was chipped away in places revealing the underlying brick. Many were in such poor shape that makeshift buttresses made of 2 by 4's were erected in an attempt to prevent complete collapse of the buildings.
The whole city is like that, with vestiges of a once wealthy and cosmopolitan city, but now left to decay. There is no money for the upkeep, and to make matters worse, the people of the city, unable to afford repairs go to these buildings taking what supplies and resources they can pillage for use in their own homes. It's a vicious cycle.
There is much to see in the city--the two little bars frequented by Hemingway. The Floridita when he was in the mood of a daiquiri is still in a time warp; the bar and the booth seating have not been updated since at least the 50s. The Bodeguita is his tavern of choice of a mojito. It's a quaint bar, tiny. But upstairs is nice, overlooking the street, and the cajun food is to die for. There's the capital building, the various monuments, the Christopher Columbus necropolis.
And then there's the thing that many go to see--the cars. The still functioning, well-maintained antiques with the gaudy fins and bucket seats. The city is like a forty year old ex-high school cheerleader or ex-high school quarterback, reliving the best time of its life, the 1940s and 50's, though it's been many years since its popularity.
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