'Havana'.
At a party I was once asked of all the places I'd been too, where would I return tomorrow. Without skipping a beat I replied 'Havana', and watched pleasant surprise cross my conversationalist's face. 'Why?', was the friendly question, to which I responded with a litany of reasons culminating in my firm belief that it is one of the most truly romantic cities on earth. 'More romantic than Paris?!' Now early shock switched to teasing incredulity. 'Yes!', I passionately replied, pushing a chicken's beak off my forehead (it was Halloween), 'but for different reasons'. Then I proceeded to explain why to a partner in ballerina-inspired drag.
My initial reasons for heading to Cuba focused on a desire I'd had since childhood to visit all the places my Grandmother loved in her various travels over her lifetime. I would look with envy at postcards smattered across her fridge and vowed that in adulthood I would visit those faraway places. I had an inkling through undergraduate coursework that Hemingway had spent extensive time in Cuba—at that point I'd only read 'A Clean, Well-lighted Place' but it stuck despite having a theme nearly entirely disconnected from a nineteen-year-old girl's experience. So when the option arose for a between-degrees break, my husband and I picked up a copy of The Sun Also Rises and went.
La Abadia restaurant
Havana is sweltering sticky heat. The sun radiates off of pastel-coloured walls in Habana Vieja and directly off of the white-hot cement of the Malecón, a walkway where young couples walk hand-in-hand and then take repose watching the sunset. Each night at El Canoñazo (a canon firing ceremony) Cuban families gather at El Morro and watch the fiery blasts, munching on snacks, laughing, excitedly chatting. Live music wafts like Cohiba smoke from varying bars and cafes, many former Hemingway haunts, late into the night in a city that doesn't sleep. And these are just atmospheric points.
Only in Havana would the touristy Plaza Vieja see a sudden downpour cause travellers to duck for cover in surrounding cafes while local boys picked up a game of soccer and splashed in the fountain. Local police watched disinterested; the rest of us got café con leches and vicariously absorbed the fun.
Lit flame, El Canoñazo
Only in Havana would you find yourself lost, have an off-duty tour guide hear you speaking English, take pity on you, walk you to the Buena Vista Social Club's favourite jam spot, and proceed to share a pitcher of mojitos with you, with actual yerba buena. You're introduced to the world-famous band, down Cuba Libres together. Later, you confirm his story via successful internet searching that he was, in fact, a former Montreal Expo who married the Canadian girl that popped out of the cake, got divorced, and returned to Cuba to live with his politically higher-up parents.
Only in Havana would you giggle with your Coco-taxi driver about being respectively drenched following an afternoon visit to the Hemingway Museum, where you saw bullfighting posters reminiscent of his time in Pamplona (scenes in the book you're currently devouring - The Sun Also Rises) and the emptied pool Ava Gartner swam naked in. Hemingway vowed to never have it drained—a sad irony.
Parked vintage cars, Coco taxi front left
Once I'd relayed the above, in addition to mentioning having relished the best cigars on earth (personal favourite: Monte Cristo, No. 4), my friend was persuaded. He speedily bought a ticket to Havana and has since reported he was not disappointed. I have since continued to follow Hemingway's travelling track record, much like my Grandmother's, and am not yet dissuaded. If you get the chance, pick up a book and go.