I sip a Crystal in what my companions and I call the "Terrace Bar," the bar adjoining our hotel, or rather the other half of our Siamese-twin hotel (Vedado/Horizontes), reachable by an intricate series of indoor stairways. Actually it is called "Café La Habana" or something like that. The night we arrived, the tour offered a "snack" in the Terrace Bar. Ham and melted cheese (I got them to leave the ham off mine) on crispy French bread (Crystal or other drinks extra). I smoked the first (and second) cigars of my life with Josh in the Terrace Bar. Some of us stayed up late (before the 4:30 wake-up call) in the Terrace Bar our last night in Havana. I really miss the Terrace Bar, open-air (but with roof for the rainshowers), people walking by, 1959 Chevys parked outside, shirtsleeves at 10:00 p.m. in December...
I sip a Crystal in what my companions and I call the "Terrace Bar." I came alone after dinner, but I am not alone for long. I am promptly joined by a young woman, short sausage dress, copper skin, permed blonde highlights, substantial makeup. She sits down as if I had been expecting her.
"Whereyoufra?"
"Estados Unidos."
She is pleased that I speak Spanish, and the conversation continues its course.
"What's your name?"
"What are you doing in Havana?"
"You like it?"
"Won't you buy me a drink?" (hisses at the waiter)
"How long you staying?"
"Where you staying?"
"You traveling alone?"
"Do you need a girlfriend?"
"No one's married in Havana."
"Do your companions need a girlfriend?"
When she sees that it is futile, she downs her cuba libre in one long pull (deliberately tendering regret-inspiring views of her large pink tongue grappling with the straw), and bids me farewell. Katia, she said she was a medical student and lived in Old Havana. Fare well, Katia.
"Whereyoufra?"
"Estados Unidos."
She is pleased that I speak Spanish, and the conversation continues in its usual course.
You sure you won't buy me some cigarettes?"
"No, it's not good for you to smoke. Let me buy you a beer."
"But you smoke. OK, how about a pizza?"
She gazes listlessly at the menu.
I look her up and down. "Sixteen."
"Seventeen. You sure you don't need a girlfriend?"
"But what are you going to buy me?"
Finally she settles on the pizza and claps her hands at the waiter.
"It's so boring here. You sure you don't need a girlfriend?"
I bid her farewell in the street, and I hug her tight. And I mean it, Jacqueline.