Goosano

Pre-Trip Intro Goosano My Grandfather in Pre-Revolution Cuba My Grandmother in Pre-Revolution Cuba My Uncle & Father in Pre-Revolution Cuba My Family in Post-Revolution Cuba Operation Peter Pan Miami 1962 A Cuban Family in 1960's Iowa Eerie, Iowa Dad (Cliff Notes Version) Meanwhile In Iowa • Part I Meanwhile In Iowa • Part II End Of The Line My Childhood Preguntas About Spanish Discipline vs. Letterman Music Intervenes Pre-Revolution 45's An Adulthood of Sorts San Antonio 2008 Miami 1987 A Second Act When? Why? How? Who? What? Goosano Glossary Immigration Information Casa Particular Off The Grid Vampires In Havana Miami Portrait 1963 Havana Photos • 1949 y 1950 Trinidad, Cuba 1956 Dad's Miscellania Religion Provides Some Answers Secular Answers Dad's Little Book Letters From Cuba • 1966-1973 Cuquita Baseball Pre-Trip Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading this blog. Thank you for liking this blog. Thank you for reblogging this blog. Get to Cuba if you can. It's unlike anywhere else.

About Me Tony Mendoza lives in Chicago with his lovely wife Lauren and their ridiculous cat Pamook.  He plays drums for various bands and makes his own music under the moniker Tony Mendoza's French Goodbye.  For money he works on film sets as a script supervisor. More of my writing • Drumber Important musings from a touring drummer • Tony Mendoza: Winner or Loser? In 2010 I evaluated each day as a personal win or loss.  At the end of the year it was determined if I was a winner or a loser. • Solitary Van They gave me $1200 cash to drive alone from New Mexico to Chicago in an empty van.  So I did. My music • French Goodbye • The Nurse Novels • Let's Get Out of this Terrible Sandwich Shop Drumming with bands • Tijuana Hercules • The Bitter Tears • Unicycle Loves You • The Judy Green My cartoons • Guided by Nooses

It's been two months since I visited Cuba. Her romance has lingered in my day to day. A small Cuban flag now hangs in our kitchen. I made ropa vieja and we ate orgasmically for a week. On set at work, I wear a Cuban baseball cap. There's all those kooks in my underwear drawer. And I talk about Cuba with anyone who brings it up. Sometimes I bring it up.

I had to be up at 4am. Ana also rose at this ungodly hour to ensure I was up.  She had arranged for a taxi to take me to the airport.  While I double and triple checked my everything, she and the driver made pre-dawn small talk in the common room. I endorse Casa Ana Morales in Havana, Cuba. In the coolness of dawn, I forced a conversation with the taxi driver. Speaking Spanish to speak Spanish, while I still could. At the airport he declined a gratuity. It costs 25 kooks to leave Cuba. After all my fees and expenses I had 200 kooks. I stepped toward a window to convert my winnings to Canadian dollars, but a guard intervened and pointed me to the gate. While waiting I hit one last gift shop and bought one last souvenir. A refrigerator magnet of three drunk dominoes. Y'know, a nice little item that sums up an entire culture from a moron's perspective. For the record, I had no trouble leaving Cuba. The plane took off as the sun demanded another day. While vendors assembled shelves of Che merch. While viejos smoked cigars for the turistas. As a güiro grinded and the claves knocked out a 3-2 beat. Or is that 2-3? Somewhere someone would soon be playing "Guantanamera". And ultimately, "Oye Como Va". In the window Cuba got smaller and smaller. I looked out for as long as I could. "These are the last things Dad saw when he left," my mom would later say.

At the Toronto airport I listed Cuba on my customs form. I figured my bag was loaded with souvenirs. Also, I'm a horrible liar. The security agent at kiosk 27 was a smiley American. He resembled John Bobbitt. In the face, at least. "I see you went to Cuba." Yes. "Why did you go to Cuba?" I didn't know it, but I was in the middle of an improv scene. And I was bombing. At the airport. "Ummm...it's a...beautiful country.  And my dad was from there." This wasn't going well. "You know yer not supposed to go there," he chastised. I balked. In my head, as they say. "Oh, I have a license.  A research license." I reached for my three ring binder of organized documents. John Bobbitt 27 smirked and marked my customs form with a red marker. He placed it in a large yellow envelope and told me to go through the doors with the green arrows. But not before scanning my boarding pass one more time. Yippee! I'm on a list! There were about five of us in the secondary holding pen for potential weirdos.  A decidedly humorless busybody stabbed questions at a man frequently coming and going between the US and Canada. All her questions began with a sharp "why"? "Why do you have a stack of business cards?" Joining me was an Asian woman, a sophisticated ginger woman, and a few extras from season two of The Wire. I did not take any notes. My name was called by a dark skinned Latino. He wanted to see what I had in my bag. Maracas. Dominoes. A wooden calendar. A stack of coasters. He leafed through the coasters looking for clues. Zunzun, Malecón, Cerveza Bruja, Coco Taxi. "What the hell is a Coco Taxi?" I wanted to say it was a dodgy prostitution ring on wheels. But I didn't. "It's a coconut shaped taxi.  A three-wheel motorcycle." He checked my paperwork. And let me through. While in Toronto, I went to an airport currency exchange to transfer my 200 kooks.  Cuban to Canadian to US. "Do you convert the Cuban Convertible Peso?" "No," said another humorless woman. "It's a restricted currency," she added.  "You're not even supposed to have those!" Annoying. So now I have 200 Cuban kooks. I keep them in my underwear drawer next to the bed in case you ever need them. Still in Toronto, I wolfed down a bacon cheeseburger, poutine, and two glasses of merlot.  Sports highlights played on the multiple TV's.  "Owl" was ranked the #9 animal in sports bloopers.  A douchey kind of guy threw his money around in a hurry, flirting with/belittling the women at the burger bar.

At the gate, Everclear's "Santa Monica" competed with the Canadian news channel, which competed with loud, one-sided cellphone conversations.  The cacophony grated on my nerves.  I already missed Cuba. In the air I wrote until I couldn't.

I ate my last Cuban meal at Castropol. The restaurante that caught fire last week. Tonight it was not on fire.

The waiter sat me outside on the balmy balcony. I started with empanadillas fritas and a Bucanero Fuerte. "Bastante yummy" according to my notes. The pescado papillo was fresh, but could have used some more flavor somewhere.  Stuffed and yawny, I ordered a cortadito. And wrote more, for something to do. Traveling alone can be so lonely. The ink from last night's Maxim Rock handstamp sits faintly, delicately on my sunburn.  I hope the USA doesn't interpret it as revolutionary commie branding. Ugh...waiting for la cuenta.  I need to stop home before going out again.  This cortado has just accelerated thru my body. ¡Adiós conejo!

It was my last day in Havana. My itinerary included the Museo de los Orishas and a baseball game. The city center bustled like a Monday morning does. Trucks gurgled, vendors vended, people queued for food. I stalked around Paseo de Martí, Máximo Gómez, Dragones, Zulueta, Agramante, looking for the museum of the Orishas. With some help from a shopkeeper I eventually found it.  It was closed.

On to baseball. Yesterday Carlos in the Cardinals shirt mentioned a game today. A news stand displayed a few periodicals. I selected Trabajadores over Granma. Y'know, the working man's newspaper. Cuz I'm down with all those guys. "¿Hay información de beisbol?" I asked. The vendor pointed to a baseball logo on the front page. I gave him one kook, which was like paying $25 for the New York Post. On a bench in the Parque de la Fraternidad, I read the paper. Well, as much as I could. Something about assembly lines, something about meat. "Optimists but with their feet on the ground". A curious cartoon.

But no information about today's game. I asked a cabbie by the capitol. No game today. They were in Japan. Rats.  Well. I still had a full day ahead of me. In Havana, Cuba. What's wrong with being a tourist? The Plaza de Armas plays host to a daily open air market of second hand books, records, and miscellania.  I spent a good hour there. Every table seemed to have the same copy of Hemingway's El Viejo y el Mar and the same vintage comic book about The Revolution.

I almost got some scratchy Cuban jazz records. I almost got a Cuban tourist map circa 1966. I almost got some Cuban baseball cards. Instead I picked up a Cuban edition of The Little Prince for my wife. She collects them. During the transaction a hoarse man hidden behind some restaurant umbrellas began screaming. "I KEEL YOO!!" By the time I could see him, a federal guard had made him vanish. Sometimes Cuban friendliness and my dehydrated crabbiness didn't mix. I had grown tired of people asking me where I'm from. Lately I'd taken to "Estoy aquí" or "Estoy cansado". I'm here. I'm tired. Isla de Cansada. Me voy, me voy, me voy... I found some shade and a cordadito at El Bosquecito, a café I had passed a million times but had never patronized.  There I continued trying to decipher the newspaper. Something about health care and the elderly, something about Angola. "Why is there no social rebellion in Spain?" Another curious cartoon.

It was getting close to noon, so a daiquiri was in order. I entered El Floridita while a rumba band finished their set.

It was all tourists, many getting their picture taken with the life-size statue of Hemingway at the bar.

The daiquiri was nice and came with a small platter of platanos.

Now I could check this off my list. I chose Los Nardos, an inexpensive, highly acclaimed paladar, for a candlelit lunch.  The grand rustic decor complimented the heaving helpings of Cuban comfort food.  The Garbanzos fritos was a delicious chick pea stew with copious chunks of ham.  My fricase de conejo was dark and tender.  I actually wrote "mmm" in my notes. It also marked the third time I had eaten rabbit in little over a week. I washed it all down with a minty mojito. Perhaps my favorite meal in Cuba.

A bike taxi took me back to the casa particular. He chose a bumpy route through Barrio Chino. His chit chat with a police car - a white Lada - made me nervous.

I returned to Maxim Rock for an evening of Cuban rock 'n roll. The box office dude was a tall skinny black guy with long dreadlocks. 3 kooks to get in. Ian MacKaye would approve.

A former movie hall, Maxim Rock had replaced the original theater seating with an open space of plastic patio tables and chairs.  It was dark.  I ordered a Cristal from the bar and sat toward the back of the house.  Music videos played on a screen like previews. Whitesnake "Here I Go Again" Aerosmith "Crazy" Black Sabbath "Iron Man" (Live) Bon Jovi "Blaze of Glory" The powerful air conditioning added to the frigid, American experience. Chic "Freakout" Toto "Africa" Commodores "Brick House" The room started to fill up. People of all ages grabbed tables and made their own cocktails with a bottle of rum and two cans of soda.  The mild mannered barback chiseled at ice.

The previews rolled on. Deep Purple "Strange Kind of Woman" (Live) Europe "The Final Countdown" Van Halen "Jump" My seat got taken while getting another beer. I considered sitting next to a lady rocking out alone to the videos. But she was probably with the band. 4 Non Blondes "What's Up?" 4 Non Blondes? What was going on? Eddie Escobar took the stage with a seven piece band. Guitars, bass, drums, percussion, keyboards. They opened with "Locomotion"(!), English lyrics and all. The song took me by surprise. I hadn't been expecting a cover. People started dancing and having a good ole time. I grabbed another beer and joined in the fun by the bar. The dreadlocks guy from the box office gave me a big smile. I blessed him with my Cristal. Eddie and his cruisers ran through a hit parade of classics.

Creedence Clearwater Revival "Down on the Corner" Aerosmith "Crazy" (again) The Police "Every Breath You Take"

Some goth kids filed in. One girl had platinum Crystal Gayle length hair. A few dudes sported metal T-shirts: Dio, Testament, Metallica. Meanwhile Eddie kept cruisin'. CCR "Who'll Stop the Rain" Queen "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" AC/DC "Highway To Hell" They closed with "Honky Tonk Women" by the Stones. I grabbed my fourth beer. While the second band set up, the dreadlocks guy tried to sell me a Japanese metal band T-shirt.  He held it up to my face to smell.  Proof that it was new.  I asked if he had any Maxim Rock shirts.  He said no. The second band featured a sexy female lead singer. I could tell she was sexy because her shirt said so in gold letters. Certified Sexy. These guys were younger and their choice of covers heavier. They opened with AC/DC "You Shook Me", followed strangely by Supertramp's "The Logical Song". I moved closer to the stage.

A small cheerful woman spotted me and made a bee line in my direction. Over the rock, she asked me where I was from. Even in pitch black I stood out as a tourist. "Estados Unidos," I yelled. Her eyes lit up like Christmas morning. "¡Estados Unidos!  ¡Como The Doors!" Ha!  A Doors fan in Havana. "¡Sí!  ¡Las Puertas!" I smiled. She told me she was writing a book about the Doors. I told her I was from Chicago, "como Ray Manzarek." "¡Sí!  ¡Ray Manzarek!" she yelled. She spoke in English and I spoke in Spanish. We both needed to practice. She asked me what my favorite Doors album was. "Esperando Para El Sol." "Waiteen For Da Sun!" However, my favorite Doors song was "Días Extraños". We drank to Jim Morrison, that mystic oaf. Meanwhile the rockeros rocked out.

The Cranberries "Zombie" Joan Jett & The Blackhearts "I Love Rock 'n' Roll" 4 Non Blondes "What's Up?" (again) 4 Non Blondes? I got another beer. To prove they still had cajones, the rockeros launched into "Man In The Box" by Alice In Chains.  It took me back to my radio days in the mid-90's.  This was one of those top of the hour songs that sounded tuff at 10pm sharp, like "Outshined" by Soundgarden or Stone Temple Pilots' "Sex Type Thing".  The songs that the guys stocking supermarket shelves wanted to hear. Miss Sexy summoned notes deep from within those satanic hips. Ahhhm da maaan in da boss Shoave ma nooosss en chet I found myself front and center, pounding my fist on the stage and smiling hard.  I wasn't even an Alice In Chains fan. But nostalgia, beer, and those damn hips had prevailed. I wondered if I could get lost in Cuba, like Ginger Baker in Africa. Woooaann yooooo cooaammm annn sa'e meee

Between sips I snapped a few pictures and took a little video. The next thing I knew, every guy with a camera was doing the same thing.  Just a moment ago they had all been rocking out, the way rock shows used to be.  Now it was a sea of stationary outstretched arms attached to dudes staring into devices. Oh no! Had I just ruined live music in Cuba? I immediately retreated to the back of the house. And got another beer. At the bar the dreadlocks guy introduced me to a woman. She was blonde and appeared to be in her forties. I shook her hand. She smiled and seemed embarrassed. The dreadlocks guy twirled her once around and lifted her skirt for me to sample. Oh. I forget how I got out of this situation but I did. Maybe I employed one of my famous botched soul handshakes. Eddie Escobar returned for a second set of good time rock 'n roll. Thankfully the all ages crowd reconvened on the dance floor. It was wild to see what tunes had leaked over here. A lot of classic rock and AOR. There seemed to be a presence of metal for sure. I wondered if any indie rock had found its way onto Cuban ears. Perhaps those G Cafe shaggies had some DIY squat scene going on in the derrumbes. Say what you will about cover bands, but I had a **hiccup** a blast. I stumbled back toward the casa particular. Two ziggy kilometers. On the way I grabbed a slice of piña pizza from a window vendor. I stood on the corner juggling the piping hot paper plate, inhaling and whistling with each bite of drunk grub. A rare glimpse of graffiti spoke to me.

Singing orishas carried brooms down the streets of Vedado. One of them blew me a kiss. Not sure what kind. Starving, I wolfed down an entire pizza for lunch. Napolean style, eaten with a knife and fork. I ate it standing in a hot sunny garden. The pie was dry but I savored its gooey crust. Two kooks. A most tasty bargain. The woman behind the bar gave my change back in Cuban pesos. She also chose to treat me like a human as opposed to a tourist. But I could not escape this identity. Everyone knew. It came down to these variables: • Haircut • Sunglasses • Sunburn • Guayabera shirt • Levis • Pumas • The way I carry myself Oh well. That's what I was. A tourist. I walked down Calle 23 to G Cafe. The barista reluctantly waited on me, then disappeared. Over a Cacique beer I wrote in my little red Cuba Libro about the day's events. Between sentences I snatched glances at the clientele. A Nick Cave/Keef Richards/Adam Goldberg looking guy held court over a table of tan goths.  Some shaggies hovered near the take out bar, one sporting a prominent fro.  Two foxies - a rubia and a negra - chatted in my sightline, driving me a little bonkers.  A dude shared a giant pair of headphones with his braided ponytail pal. They all sneaked peaks at me as well. Usually followed by snickers. Bummer. "Bizarro Easy Rider" I wrote in my notes. But no one was on a laptop. And nobody checked their phone. Or watched TV. They all talked to each other in the present moment. I continued writing. A jolly Cuban in a St. Louis Cardinals shirt sat next to me. His sunglasses bore American stars and stripes. He smiled like a chubby child, and forced a conversation out of me. My name, where I was from, etc. His name was Carlos. Carlos guessed I was from California and pointed to his Cardinals shirt. Maybe he thought St. Louis was San Diego. He asked about all the beautiful blondes in California. I said that was in the movies. When I told him my name - Tony Mendoza - he said it was like the song "Tony Menendez" by Chucho Valdés. I'm not sure this song exists. Maybe he meant the pitcher Tony Menéndez. Or the armless Branson guitar picker Tony Melendez. The subject changed to baseball. I told him I was bummed that the Havana Industriales were out of town for the World Baseball Classic. Carlos said there was a game tomorrow. I jotted that down in my notes, trying to segue back into writing. He gave me a Cuban peso as a gift. I thanked him and continued writing. He handed me a cigar. What did he want? I told him I didn't want the cigar. "¡No quiero!" He seemed saddened, and explained this was just what they did. I went back to writing, aware that I had soured the mood. Carlos invited me to some rumba later across the street and walked away.  He left the cigar on the table.  I hid it in the pocket of my touristy guayabera shirt. Cranky, I tracked down the MIA barista and paid her then and there. I found a bench in the Parque de los Rockeros. Those shaggy dudes from the take out bar were sleeping on the grass next to their guitars.  Taking their cue, I grabbed a few horizontal winks while the rumba warmed up nearby. Maybe if I closed my eyes maybe everyone would stop looking at me.

Cementerio de Cristóbal Colón. A teeming necropolis. 140 acres of graves, tombs, mausoleums, and much more. Admission is five kooks. My goal was to find the grave of my great uncle Raymundo Toll. First violin, conductor, and music director for the Havana Philharmonic Orchestra during the 1950’s.  If it existed here.

I went to the office of records. The sunlit room felt ancient and parochial. A woman sat at a computerless desk. I gave her the name Raymundo Toll. She asked the date of his death. I had no idea. My family seemed to lose touch with Cuba around the mid 70’s. All I had were the names of great aunts and uncles born in the 1910’s whose whereabouts had become unknown. I didn’t even know if he was actually dead. I just figured he was, since everyone in my family seems to be. She said she had no way of looking him up without the date. So that was that. I decided to open up my search. Anyone with the last name of Toll, an uncommon name. With a large water bottle in hand, I embarked on a hot mid-day in the cemetery.

It was overwhelming. The necropolis is set up like a little city. A grid of streets, each block saturated with graves. Every inch of real estate seemed occupied by death. Very similar to the Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise in Paris. Some monuments were enormous. Some tombs had been shattered. The lid to one was half open(!). A bed of dirt marked the tombstone of Harold Freud, a New York born man who died at the age of 24 in Havana in 1917.

I noticed a lot of folks buried with their co-workers. Mausoleums for electric company workers and the television industry. Another mausoleum resembled a bank of PO boxes. One corner of the cemetery was a flat plain of numbered graves. Some tombs looked like appliances covered in tiles. A cluster of orishas, all dressed in white, paid their respects by a canary yellow wall.  One woman carried a white umbrella. A railroad spike sat at the foot of a sarcophagus, its head wrapped in black cloth entwined with black thread.

I hadn’t seen any Tolls, but I did stumble across a Mendoza. José Hurtado de Mendoza. His grave featured a cool cartoon self-portrait. I wondered if we were somehow related. I like to draw cartoons…

A couple of orishas saw me taking pictures. They asked if I was related. “Tal vez,” I replied, optimistic. We had a discussion in Español and only Español. They wished me luck. I combed the calles up and down. A big yellow columbarium. Edwardian Scissorhand landscaping.