Havana Hustlin'

A portly Cuban gentleman who looked as though the rations had no impact was sashaying over to my friend and I. His annoyed wife, and impatient child lagged behind him. She had the look of understanding, her husband was working his hustle yet again on unsuspecting tourists.

He began to mention he played with the Bueno Vista Social Club. The famous name rung excitedly in my ears. They were one of my absolute favorites. We anxiously agreed to follow him, not really knowing where we were headed. The possibility of being ripped off floated around in my mind, but wanting some adventure, we sauntered cautiously into a dilapidated bar that has probably never seen good days or good people.

Photos of Che, Fidel, and Hemingway were sloppily wheat pasted onto the wall like graffiti on a telephone pole. I had a feeling that when a whistle was blown, "Turista!" that these well-worn photos were slapped up in a pinch for our sake. I snuck a quick glance to see if there were any haphazardly drawn hearts over Che.

No such luck.

Once we were seated, he, along with the waitress explained that this was at one time, Hemingway's favorite haunt. I wanted to inquire if he was only here to buy sex as I can't imagine any one coming here for anything else than drugs or prostitutes. After the waitress languidly slithered on to the next table, our trusty guide went on about how we were to be his guests at the club. He was a musician, that played at the club frequently. He stopped for a moment to bark some orders in Spanish at his lackadaisical wife, who seemed more enthralled with her daydreams than her reality.

A second later, a pack of smokes tumbled out of her purse. He lit one, and offered me one. I took it, because how often do you find yourself in a shitty bar with a guy that is hustling you? Much to my poor friend's dismay, as she was not too enthusiastic about the smoke swirling around the poorly ventilated bar. Her disgusted, and irritated tone informed me that this situation needed to be over with now.

Fortunately, he nabbed the cigarette for himself, and began to dig in his pockets. After fiddling for a few minutes, the driest and oldest looking cigar-like object emerged. I imagined it had been sitting behind the bar since the revolution. I took it gladly, as I never say no to tobacco. As he was about to light it, she abruptly stood up in protest. "We need to go, as we are hungry and looking for a paladar." Even though a small sliver wanted to keep this going out of intrigue, I realized I was grateful for her perfect timing.

"Oh, I can help, a friend of mine has one", he suggested.

Clearly, he thinks our pockets are full of cash, and not candy wrappers.

We declined his offer, as we figured it would probably be as delightful as the bar encounter. As we left, he asked for compensation for his cigar: $24. Was it because it was antique? I placed it back onto his sticky palm, thanked him and wished him luck.

As we wandered back towards the bustling street, we both just shook our heads, and laughed.

Napkins drying before dinner service, La Guardia, Havana