I Remember You

I Remember You

It had been almost exactly a year since my last trip to Cuba, and I was staying in the hotel Presidente, as I always do. After seven trips, I had begun to look upon that place as my home away from home. I knew many of the hotel employees by name, such as George the elder and George the younger, two bellmen who remember me when I show up. Frank is another bellman who remembers me, and Natasha is a waitress in one of the hotel's two restaurants. Stepping into the lobby to register for a short stay is a little like old home week.

With two dogs and six cats at home, I often miss their company when I'm away, but even in the pet department, the hotel makes me feel at home with Bigotes, a tabby cat who haunts the porches and dining room. She is always ready for a petting session, as am I. At less than half the cost of the famous Hotel Nacional my budget appreciates the Presidente too.

The Hotel Presidente is an 11 story building built in 1928. When completed it was the tallest building in Cuba—for a while at least. I like buildings of this era. Other examples mightg be the Chrysler Building in New York, the Carew Tower in Cincinnati, and the Bok Singing Tower in Lake Wales, Florida. That era was one of workmanship, no skimming on details, and high quality construction.

The Presidente housed one of Cuba's first casinos in the well-known gangster era. Today there is no trace of it, and every floor is filled with guest rooms.

Getting around in Havana is easy if you're staying at the Presidente. Cabs, vans, and buses line up along the east and south sides, and there is seldom a wait for a ride. This year, my traveling companions, Jerry, Xenia and Bob, came outside with me to get a cab, and a handsome, smiling cabbie sprung to attention and held a door for Xenia. We settled in with me in the front seat, and I told him we were headed to Central Havana, but first we had to make a stop in Vedado to pick up another lady (Nora).

The cabbie brightened and said, "I remember you. You were here last year with two Dutch women and then also we had to go to Calle I to pick up Nora." I was dumbstruck—he had remembered me for a year, my Dutch friends and Nora's name. He went on, "I had to call for Nora on my cell phone as she lives on the tenth floor." Incredible, I thought, he recalled the cell call and the floor her apartment is on.

His name was Reynaldo, and I was blown away by his ability to recall one cab ride a year before. What I wouldn't give for a memory like that! Reynaldo and I chatted until we got to our destination. I figure I'll see him again on another trip to Havana. I sure hope so, and if I do, I'm certain he'll remember me.

I always thought I had a pretty good memory, but after two encounters with Reynaldo, I'll never brag about it again. In fact, as I write these blogs, I sometimes come up short trying to remember a name. If necessary, I'll make up a name when I can't remember. I figure who will know, and it doesn't make any difference to the point of the story.

For example, in this posting, both Georges, Frank, Natasha, Jerry, Xenia, and Bob are all real names of my friends. I hate to admit it, but Bigotes and Reynaldo were christened by me when I couldn't dig up their real names from the dust bin that serves as my memory.

Les Inglis