A Morning Reverie

A Morning Reverie

There’s a little park three blocks from my hotel in Havana. It takes up a full city block and is surrounded by homes and apartment houses on three sides. On the fourth side is the Sala Rodán Theater, a performing arts hall built in the 50’s in the classic style. Panels in the walls are decorated with tributes to classical musicians like Webber, Mozart, and Brahms.

The park has large reflecting pool empty for the last five years, statuary, monuments, Japanese trellises, large grassy areas, some shade trees, benches, and paved walkways. When I’m in Cuba, I visit the park each morning to pass the time between breakfast and my first planned activity. It’s a good time to make cryptic notes in my little pocket notebook which is always with me in Cuba.

The park is dedicated to a mayor of years gone by named Germán López. Don’t try to find him on Google as this name is about as common as Pete Smith is in English. I find a bench near López’s monument and sit to enjoy a slice of Cuban city life.

Over in a corner of the park about 30 women have lined up in rank and file and are doing exercises to the call of their leader facing them. They look like a group you might see at the beach or the local Y. They don’t seem any more fit than the average Cuban, but they’re trying to be. My favorite aspect of the park is man’s best friend, several of which lead their human companions around the park.

First a Boston Bulldog sniffs at the legs of my bench and then comes up to check me out. Satisfied, he takes his human off in another direction. Next a little brown short-haired spaniel approaches me, his human standing behind him a respectful distance. Now a dark haired terrier—uh oh, no owner. Well this guy knew exactly where he wanted to go, and didn’t even give me a tumble. Was he stray? Definitely not. You could tell by his well fed look. He moved off diagonally across the park and reached his home, an apartment house nearly a block away. I watched until he disappeared.

A bus stops and unloads its entire capacity of young men and women. They’re all students at the ballet school in the Rodán Theater.

As I write, a lone musician plays scales on a trumpet. After a while he is joined by another horn player, and their perfect tones sound in harmony. I glance at my watch, stand, and slowly move off toward my hotel for another day of exploration.

Les Inglis