Pregled posta

Marketing

At some point during my short sojourn as an employee of the Seattle Olympic Hotel, I made friends with these two girls who, I think, were working that summer as waitresses in the coffee shop (not the Golden Lion restaurant). What the coffee shop was called I don't remember. Maybe they called it the Coffee Shop. I am, quite honestly, confused about the chronology, because I thought I met the girls after the maids went on strike, but I know I was out at their house (they had a rent house for the summer) on the Fourth of July, so there you go. The maids went on strike later, I think.
Anyway, these two girls (we'll call them Tracy and Paula) had this little two-bedroom rent house that was over near Green Lake Park (I think, though I could be wrong about that, too). I had to take a bus to get over there. Tracy's father worked in the accounting department as a controller, though he had just done a year or two on a Federal felony conviction for mail fraud, or something, so it's hard to see how he could have worked in accounting. Anyway, he got Tracy her job, and she brought along her college roommate, Paula. They were both students at Harvey Mudd College. According to Wikipedia, "Harvey Mudd . . . maintains the highest rate of science and engineering Ph.D. production among all undergraduate colleges and second highest (Caltech ranks first and MIT third) compared to all universities and colleges, according to a 2008 report by the National Science Foundation." In other words, if you're not supersmart, Harvey Mudd doesn't want you.
I don't remember much about Tracy (she was the frolicsome laughing half of the duo, though Paula laughed too), but Paula was plenty smart. Unfortunately, she was smarter than I was, which put me at a disadvantage. I hadn't known the girls that long when I found out, some way, that Paula's father had won a Nobel Prize, given to him as the co-inventor of one of the seminal inventions of the 20th Century. Something you use every day. You might be using one right now, for all I know.
So I took a fancy to Paula, and she and Tracy let me hang out. I would go over there on the bus and do whatever it was I did, which couldn't have been much. Across the street from their house, I remember there was some sort of down home cafe (about twenty years ahead of its time, but we are, after all, talking about Seattle) that served wonderful toast made from bread they mixed, kneaded, and baked on the premises.
Once, I remember, Paula was sitting on her bed in her bedroom, and I was sitting on her bed in the bedroom. That was it. Nothing more. I don't remember that I ever even got to kiss her, which at least would be a claim to fame.
There were some other people who hung around there too. Their house was a bit of an upscale hippie crash pad, though I was not a hippie, never have been, never will be. Don't have the temperament.

Although Hotel Raquel is lovely, it's way beyond my
budget to stay here, as are most hotels in Havana.

The guidebook lists several 'casa particulares' but
the one we choose is full. This doesn't seem to be a
problem. The landlady of the casa is immediately on
the phone to her friends and tells us to wait until
someone comes to pick us up. It's a steep learning
curve on my first day but I realise everyone in Cuba
knows someone who will give you shelter or feed you in
their home, at a price. In fact you need to go out of
your way to avoid being 'hustled' (more on that
later).

After visiting a couple of shabby 'casas' in run down
areas of Centro Habana we return defeated to the
Raquel to check out. The same hotel porter from last
night asks us where we're going and when I say we
don't have anywhere to stay yet, he recommends a 'casa
particular', which is where local people rent out a
room in their house to tourists for between 20-30
CUCs, almost the same in US dollars. It's an easy way
for local people to make money and the government also
profits by levying a tax. Although I had read about
the dual currencies of pesos for locals and CUCs for
tourists, I hadn't grasped how cash-strapped most
Cubans are.

Thankfully he takes us to a fairly pleasant casa right
on Old Havana's main street, Calle Obispo, albeit run
by a slightly scary landlady who immediately whisks
our passports off to register us. No doubt the porter
will receive some sort of commission for his trouble.

(Photo - Calle Obispo)