Decaying Splendour

Cuba's architectural legacy spans five centuries of different architectural styles, from Spanish colonial to baroque, from art nouveau to modern. In the city, beaux art clubs and casinos stand side by side with art deco skyscrapers and cinemas; in the suburbs, Spanish style villas and modernist houses share the same street. The once colourful frescoes are faded, the paint is peeling, but the beauty and elegance of this cosmopolitan city is timeless.

In 1511 Diego Velasquez landed on Guantanamo Bay and set about establishing a command centre in the new colony. His house in Santiago is the oldest in the Americas. The artisans he brought from Spain had learnt to paint frescoes from Italy, and Muslim influence in 16^th century south of Spain was very much in evidence in the architectural style. Fervent Catholicism was expressed in the construction of numerous cathedrals, churches, and convents, where French gothic spires mixed with lavish details of baroque.

Terracotta and glazed tiles were used to decorate exteriors and floors, Moorish arches adopted, and locally available materials like dark timber were added to create a tropical feel. The mujédar carpenters, skilled boat makers, built the high ceilings with close fitting wood pieces and mahogany beams to resemble the upturned hull of a boat. This provided some respite from the heat.

The Spanish style villas were suited to the tropical weather; the arches allowed plenty of ventilation and inner courtyards with abundant foliage created a tropical sanctum. The Cuban ‘flavour’ essentially combined the Moorish and European, absorbing various styles but adapting them to suit their own materials and colours. In colonial Havana, the predominant colours are white, pale yellow and the azure ‘Havana blue’. The inspiration came from the colours they saw all around them white (sand), pale yellow, (sun) azure blue (sea). In the graceful mansions in the Vedado district of Havana, the fine lines of neoclassical mix effortlessly with tropical flair, as stained glass windows soften the glare of the sun and add a Cuban aesthetic. The pastel coloured art deco tiles perform the dual function of a bold, graphic design element, and give a cooling effect.

During the art nouveau period of the 1890s, Cuba was the richest Spanish colony. An offshoot of the movement in Paris saw countless homes and buildings combine the daintiness of art nouveau, with Cuban elements like mahogany banisters or balcony details in wrought iron. High ceilings and whitewashed walls remained a popular feature.

During the first decades of 20^th century, Cuba was under the influence of US money and fashions, and Hollywood stars were regulars at Havana’s many hotels. The Hotel Nacional is an example of mixing it up Cuba style as art deco, neoclassic and neocolonial styles come together effortlessly and the 19^th century Hotel Inglaterre combines a neoclassical exterior with Moorish interior. The Gran Teatro follows the same example, with art nouveau and baroque styles. The HQ is long gone, but the Bacardi palace with its streamlined, solid art deco lines is still a recognizable building in Havana.

The postmodernism of 50s saw the dawn of socialism in Cuba. The trend is seen in the shamelessly utilitarian apartment and office blocks of Havana, built by Castro's microbrigades to combat housing shortages.

Varadero's white sand and coral reef, and more close proximity to US made it the ideal location for a holiday destination. Before the present day tourist hotels and resorts, it was a summer escape in the 20s for US magnates, who built old homes and bought up large tracts of land. Some seaside homes still remain with wood siding and wraparound verandahs, where a couple of rocking chairs await those looking for respite from the heat, and while away long afternoons.

In Cuba's outlying towns and rural areas, you catch glimpses of little pieces of history here and there in architectural features. Peasant dwellings are still modeled after earliest Indian structures with thatched roofs; Camagüey was razed in the 1660s by the freebooter Captain Henry Morgan (yep the guy on the rum bottle) and was later reconstructed as a complex maze of streets to thwart future attacks. The cobblestones used to pave Trinidad streets were originally ballast from Spanish ships, that left laden with sugar.

Ravages of the elements and decades of neglect have left these architectural treasures in a sad state of disrepair. Fortunately, there are some aggressive restoration projects underway largely funded by the Spanish government. Some Cubans express concerns over this restoration by development, turning old buildings into museums, but they are preserved for several more generations of Cubans to enjoy.

Brief Timeline-Architectural styles in Cuba

1525 Spanish colonial

1600 Baroque

1650 Rocco1750 Neoclassical

1812 Moorish revival

1865 Beaux arts

1890 Art nouveau / Colonial revival

1915 Modernism

1925 Art deco

1930 Streamline moderne

1950 Post modernism

Snapshot Havana

The humidity hits you as you step out from the rarified, air-conditioned confines of the plane, the heat dances off the tarmac, playing tricks on your eyes. But by the time you make your way past the tense sea of olive green uniforms in the lobby, you’re already in a blissed out ‘island state of mind’.

In 1492 when Columbus stumbled onto Cuban shores looking for India’s fabled treasures, he called it the most beautiful land he’d ever seen. Five hundred years later, life here is still a party and the world's invited. Beaches, resorts and hotels are teeming with new age saviours; western tourists with American greenbacks in their Tommy Bahama shirts, who will pay any price for a piece of Cubanidad-Cuba is for sale. The need for tourist dollars has reduced Cuba to just another Caribbean island, a tempting yet tired cliché of sun, sand and surf, but my experience begins right here in Havana as a java jolt of countless colors, sights, and sounds awakes me from a gray black winter slumber.

Founded in 1514, San Cristobal de la Habana was a docking port for Cortes’ ships returning to Spain with Montezuma’s gold. (He found no gold in Cuba, but when Columbus planted some sugarcane seedlings, he had no idea of the far-reaching effects. Sugar remains inextricably linked to Cuba’s destiny—a gift from a fickle mythical god that became a curse as centuries of slavery and colonization followed.) Today the fortified El Morro castle, one of Havana’s oldest landmarks, is a grim reminder of pirate sackings. Along the Malecón, images become anecdotal snippets in your mind: waves crash playfully over the seawall, drenching promenading Havanans, friends sit down to an impromptu game of dominoes, two guys carry a 1950s candy pink fridge down a narrow street and an amigo stops to say hi, and lend a hand; a couple of kids with defiant body art check out what’s hot in the music world on their radios.

Havana means nights drinking crisp mojitos at Hemingway's favourite bar Bodeguita, waiting for a literary revelation, and watching the shimmering Tropicana showgirls dance splendorous whirlwinds. Memories of a rat race life are insignificant, distant, dissipating into the ethers with the soothing smoke from an exquisite Cohiba. Summer evenings are long, spent under a vast, free sky of the bluest blue, listening to the warm sea caress the beach in hushed whispers, right before sleep comes easily, abundant, in a purple cloak. You agree with Columbus.

Cuba’s warm, passionate people amply express their spirit in sensual song lyrics, and their traditional son music. This is a country with a song in its body, the most dance prone society in the world. At a local El Rapido restaurant, revelers spill out on the streets, dancing to the music coming from within; I have to get into the rhythm of this place to feel its soul. People are friendly and share their worldviews or talk baseball over a cup of strong coffee or a stiff shot of rum. They are optimistic and resilient, feet firmly rooted in the past, and eyes toward a hopeful future.

The impressive Hotel Nacional overlooking the Malecón pays iconic homage to Havana’s colourful past when Americans just went south to drink and Prohibition era high rollers with big cars and bigger lifestyles frolicked here on the beaches. For Hollywood royalty, hippie child brides of statesmen, pioneering gangsters of dubious distinction, and suicidal novelists of genius, this was the mecca.

¡Hasta la Victoria siempre! (Ever onwards towards Victory)

¡Venceremos! (We shall overcome)

¡Socialismo ou muerte! (Socialism or death)

Revolution for Cubans is more than an intense looking guy on a t-shirt. The incendiary nationalist graffiti on Havana’s streets tries to give hope to a people who have lived through forty years of trying economic conditions. Combined with the breakup of USSR and the trade embargo, these are difficult times, making tourism an economic necessity. The pace of life is leisurely but waiting is a way of life here. People wait at food stores, for the bus, to pay the bill. Progress is like the sputtering 70s Ladas. The promise of the final victory is now wearing old, but they carry on, with hope towards the elusive Victoria.

Images of Che abound all over Cuba, most prominently the steel and glass sculpture on the façade of the Ministry of the Interior building. It is based on one of the most iconic images of our time that captured the revolutionary zeitgeist. Alberto Korda, a photographer for LA Revolucion took the picture in 1960. Years later, the Italian publisher Giangiacomo Feltrinelli stopped in Cuba on the way back from Bolivia, where he had heard that Che's capture and execution was imminent. Korda refused payment for the print since his visitor was ‘a friend of the Revolution’. Within days Che had achieved instant mythical stature in death; millions of reproductions later all over the world, Korda never received as cent as he was ‘not averse to its reproduction…to propagate…the cause of social justice throughout the world’. Castro had a different take on the issue, describing the protection of intellectual property as imperialistic ‘bullshit’.

The world's eyes are once again on Cuba. Will a post Castro Cuba remain communist? Is Cuba at the brink of another revolution? This time the Cubans are poised to determine their own future.

Fast Facts: Area: 110,860km; Pop: 11,382,820; GDP (PPP): $3900; Literacy: 97%; Main crops, sugar, tobacco, citrus; Main cities: Havana, Santiago, Camagüey, Holguin; Currency: peso, convertible peso: Religion: (85% Roman Catholicism); Govt: socialist republic. (source: CIA World Factbook)

An old poem I found in a long forgotten file

Phone Manners

Called you

after a lapse of several months

Typically, you say this time I have

disrupted your viewing

of a Val Kilmer movie

(The Saint? The Ghost and the Darkness?)

or does it matter?

Rudely reminded

Why

I'd stopped calling

In the first place

Hotel California—To all fellow James Thurber fans

I usually sleep dreamlessly, but it was quite balmy last night. In a resultant nightmare, I almost checked into the hotel from The Shining.

If you know me, you'll also know it's entirely possible I'd booked a room without checking the rates. I go to collect my keys, and the severe looking concierge tells me it's $530 for the night. I emit a feeble acknowledgement, stealing a quick glance in the mirror behind her to check if I look as incredulous as I actually am. (To clarify, I'm not on holiday, but thought it would be fun to check into a hotel somewhere for a lark, a mini getaway.) 'Let me just get my bag.' I approach the bellman cart slowly to buy time; still in two minds, I open my wallet—my Visa Avion is gone. (Ahem, now would have been a good time to redeem those points...). Luckily, a pillar obstructs the trolley from the concierge's view, and as she starts talking to another guest, I grab my belongings (yes two suitcases for one night) and make a dash for the side exit. Even in this dire circumstance, I cut a ridiculous figure wrestling two bags and an oversized purse, but at this moment I can ill afford to pretend to be Grace Kelly.

As the twisted illogic of dreamland would have it, either all taxis seem to be occupied and going in the wrong direction, or there's a most ghastly hailstorm out, but following a series of incidents of increasing jeopardy, I find myself back at the hotel. I'm probably here to retrieve something. I dread leaving personal effects behind in public places, and of late have developed a nervous habit of double-checking subway seats, my gym locker, cash registers at stores, the compartment in my bag that houses my keys...

Out of the corner of her eye, the concierge spots a flash of my sea green vinyl suitcase, (I am the owner of such an item, yes) and springs into action, warning me as she strides purposefully across the lobby that now the said room is $880! I suppose they're overbooked—is this the busiest day of the year for you? Are you hosting The Annual Convention of (and For) Disturbed Sleepers (TACoDS)? ‘Disturbed’ referring to the sleep and not the sleeper, of course.

The woman does not follow me out of the building and across the street. She stands in the entranceway, mumbling something about not having a choice but to call the authorities. I am overcome by a sinking feeling reminiscent of the Thelma and Louise ending that this is it, the point of no return, the moment we defy all odds and take control of our destiny…

Well, not quite as memorable and iconic, but I vaguely remember wondering just as I came to, how I would look in my mug shot—and whether I'd be charged under the amended section 252 of the criminal code for 'failure to remain at the scene and check into a hotel room'.

A June morning in another Toronto village…

I

JD and I decide to meet for a summary tour of his new apartment and brunch from 10 to 1…on a Wednesday. Our peculiar situations afford us this luxury; he works retail and I am recently rendered unemployed—and honeymooning my newfound freedom.

My motives are far from altruistic. I’ve been living inside my head for a few weeks and it will do me good to sit across from someone who can tell me to cut the crap and get some perspective.

I write down his address as if to imprint it in my brain, then google map it, just in case. As a Church-Wellesley Village denizen who wants to able to walk most places in ten minutes, I haven’t been out to Forest Hill in years.

In a congratulatory gesture, I want to bake JD my molten lava cakes that have an eerie tendency to solidify on me (yet to figure out my oven of three years). Should the baking precede the painting of nails? Plus I need to reschedule an 11a meeting, but not yet, as he might need to cancel. Will it be the Ann Taylor dress with blazer or Citizens of Humanity jeggings with silk top? Preoccupation with these and other consequential issues keep me awake until at least half past one.

A few hours later, feeling unusually festive and zippy for 6.30, I take care of all of the above dilemmas and leave my place at a decent time. I arrive early; actually right on time in a normal world, but early by my book. This isn’t as far far away as I’d previously thought…

II

As I approach the designated four-storey yellow brick walk-up, I recall the last time I walked up this street. I had come apartment hunting here many years ago, but on a dusky late fall evening, it had seemed far less friendly. This part of the city is well-planned with wide tree-lined streets and tidy-looking neo-Georgian apartment buildings that house upwardly mobile residents; apparently for most of this city’s short history, and in some ways even now, this community is a bastion of all things WASP.

We greet each other with a hug. I always hold onto his middle longer than appropriate, as though he might disintegrate if I let go; I like to think it imparts sincerity. I breathe in the lazily wafting scent of incense; the air is infused with some sort of freeform music my limited repertoire can only recognize as jazz; there is a wooden sculpture of the reclining Buddha on the coffee table, even fresh cut flowers in a vase—the sounds and smells of my yoga studio from the previous evening. It’s kind of new agey in here and a side of him I have not seen before. To his slight discomfort I am curious about everything he hasn’t yet had time to put away. For someone who only moved in days ago, I am relieved to see that he’s quite at ease in his new environs.

III

A quick stroll along the outskirts of Cedarvale Park and we’re in Forest Hill Village. In mediaspeak, this strip offers an abundance of ‘cozy village shopping’ to its local trenders and affluencers. There’s the expected coffee franchise or two, a homely bookstore, an upscale Italian bistro, I spot lingerie in a window display. It’s still too early for most places to open, so we opt for the Village Restaurant, located at Spadina Road and Lonsdale. The décor has an old school (read 70s) charm, and the menu is refreshingly unpretentious. I think the fare can best be described as roadhouse cuisine, or hangover food. The staff is friendly, and seems patient with our indecision, as though we have stepped back into a simpler, unhurried time.

JD orders a smoked salmon omelet with home fries, and is pleasantly surprised to find a tiny puddle of the endearing gravy at the bottom of his plate. Breakfast was a few hours ago for me, but it’s still too early for a big meal. Nonetheless I settle on the club sandwich without bacon, with a side of fries. The service is fast; portions are generous, and coffee refills forthcoming. My turkey is moist, tender, and mildly seasoned, and the only way to do justice to this more than ample sandwich is through big unladylike bites. Soon we are engrossed in our conversation, and for the time being the food fades into the background.

I notice a bucket strategically placed to catch a leak in the ceiling. It’s always like this, JD says; ‘aren’t they breaking some sort of code?’ I raise a cynical eyebrow, but secretly embarrassed to admit I’m no stranger to leaky ceilings. My boarding school, a dismally utilitarian construction from 1882, with lofty aspirations to a Queen Anne Victorian, was thusly prone. The rough-hewn wooden floors were routinely dotted with rainbow coloured plastic washbasins; with typical childlike unconcern for the mundane, we simply devised games of hopscotch around them. The bill comes to slightly over $25. We were not charged for my fries, but I hope we more than made up for it by leaving a generous tip.

We walk back to JD’s apartment for dessert (always have room for dessert) and coffee, and observe the sights and sounds of this genteel, almost suburban neighbourhood. Wind is rustling through the leaves and birds chirpily go about their business. A grandmother walks her precocious ward, who is characteristically wandering twenty yards ahead. A baby protests in his stroller as mother wheels him with intense purpose to the familiarity of home. And two casual, well-fed, post-caffeine-bliss observers, just enjoying a late June Wednesday afternoon.

best fish curry from my childhood

My Aapa ji (grandmother from my mother’s side) was the best cook and I’ve never tasted fish (nor anything else) the way she made it. ‘Aapa’ is a form of address for elder sister. Not sure how this title is appropriate for one’s grandmother, but Aapa ji she was to us. She passed away when I was very young, but I can still recall the sweet scent of henna she used to dye her palms and of the paan http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paan she enjoyed on lazy afternoons. My grandparents lived in the Lahore Cantonment, where sometimes the odd street vendor would hawk his wares from atop his squeaky bicycle; Cook would be sent scurrying after him, big bowl and a couple of crisp hundred rupee notes in hand. His return was greeted by a loud cacophony from the numerous pet cats, in anticipation of their favourite fish parts. She would have preferred sweet water fish from the river Ravi and cooked it in an earthen vessel using a wooden spoon but I am told salmon or any fish that can withstand a bit of cooking and does not flake too easily will do for this recipe as well.

Fish ½ kg; onion 1 Ginger paste 1 tbsp

Garlic paste 1 tbsp Cumin seeds ½ tsp

Coriander seeds ¼ tsp Yogurt ½ cup

Spinach 1 cup, Chopped Green chilies 3-4

Ajwain (caraway/carom seed) 1 pinch Salt to taste

Fresh coriander for garnish Oil for frying

Heat oil in a pot. Add finely sliced onion and fry till translucent. Add garlic paste, ginger paste and continue frying. Add cumin, coriander, and ajwain, and fry till aroma evolves. Add spinach, and fry, adding a splash of water now and then, to keep the masala sticking to the bottom. Keep frying until the spinach reduces and oil separates. Now turn the heat to a simmer and add the yogurt. When the yogurt begins to boil, gently arrange fish pieces in the pot, and shake slightly so that the yogurt mixture covers the fish. Add the whole green chilies, cover the pot and leave to simmer. When the gravy is thickened and fish is tender, remove from heat. Add salt at the end. Garnish with fresh coriander. Serve with plain boiled rice and dal, or naan.

on foot

following some foot troubles i have been recommended sensible flat shoes fitted with an 'orthotic device'. i hope this situation is temporary and i can go back to wearing un-sensible shoes by next spring.

the last time i was pre-occupied with my foot ailments was years ago. it was my first winter at boarding school and my first snowfall, i must've been 5-6 years old. after running around with my tongue stuck out, catching snowflakes like a puppy, i remember noticing how soft and easy the snow was under my feet.

the novelty wore off speedily. one afternoon i was walking around the compound and sticking my foot into any mound of snow i saw, stomping it into submission, rejoicing in its scrunchy protestations. verily i espied an undisturbed patch along the periphery and ran to make my personal mark on the territory. i stuck my foot in, anticipating to meet concrete under what i guessed would be 6 inches of snow. in my excitement i had failed to notice this was roughly where an open drain was located. as it turned out, the snow was only a couple of inches deep, my foot (and leg) went right into the drain...and the freezing water under the snow. so now my shoes (completely girly and unpractical) and standard-issue 'knee-length gray woolen socks' were completely drenched. i didn't know what to do. i was convinced i would get severely reprimanded if not spanked by the resident dragon lady (masquerading as mrs graham, head matron) that i did not tell anybody. i felt like an infantry soldier from world war I, so was my utter misery. when we were sent up to our dorms to change after supper i breathed a sigh of relief; my foot was a most ominous shade of purple.

sometime the next morning our school 'shoe man' came by with a special package for me to deliver an order that had been placed some weeks prior. he unpacked the most plain and ugly black lace ups you ever saw. but the new leather scent along with that of shoe polish was a heady mix indeed! plus they were so warm and comfy. and dry. and how they shone! and squeaked when i walked...i was in a very different kind of shoe heaven.