“Did you see him?” smiled Allison.
The top of the steps of the Capitol in Havana offers a commanding view over the Paseo del Prado, the ornate National Theater, the passersby and loiterers in the park, the ’57-Chevy taxis, the fiacres, the laundry fluttering on the balconies of rundown apartment houses. After making the long climb up the steps, you look out over the smog and into the blue sky. Facing northeast with the Gulf Stream you preside over Havana, Cuba, the Caribbean, the world.
That afternoon I walked all the way up Obispo to Prado, bisecting Old Havana two-thirds of the way between the Malecón and the port. I crossed Prado and reconnoitered Chinatown, then doubled back to see if I could still get in to visit the Capitol.
As I rounded the corner and put my right foot on the first step, the guard at the top put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. He appeared to be waving at me. I looked a question across the distance. He shook his finger “no.” I pointed at my watch. He held up five fingers. I gave a thumbs-up and spun on my heel. I would come before five next time.
When I heard him whistling again, I turned to see him shooing two backpack travelers who were trying to spread their maps and books on the steps.
After buffet dinner in the hotel I asked Allison to have a drink with me in the Terrace Bar. I had found it useful to take someone from the group with me when I went to the Terrace Bar, to avoid the sweet annoyance of young Cuban women inviting themselves to my table. And talking with Allison was always a pleasure. She was about to enter an MBA program, but still had time for things like language and literature.
I sip my Cristal and tell Allison about how I spent the afternoon, and my postponed attempt to visit the Capitol.
“Did you see him?” she smiles.