Visiting Ernesto

The driver crosses himself each time we cross train tracks. His name is Chico or Ciccone, or something similar, and he claims to have won a gold medal in Judo during the Olympics in Barcelona. I haven’t had the chance to verify his statement, but I believe him. He’s huge–at least 6’3″ and though he has a gut, you can see the old muscles in his arms and torsos.

We’re driving to San Miguel de Padron, a suburb of Havana and Ernest Hemingway’s home for 20 of the last 21 years of his life. Finca Vigia (Lookout Farm) appealed to the author’s third wife in 1939, so they rented and subsequently bought the sprawling, 20-acre hilltop estate (with Hemingway’s first royalty cheque from For Whom the Bell Tolls). After Hemingway shot himself (back in the States), the land was appropriated from his widow by the Cuban government. The house and grounds re-opened as the Museo Ernesto Hemingway in 1995.

Ernest was a bit of a nut, as it turns out. They kept 57 cats on the property. They had a dedicated staff member to look after their pets, and 6 cows to furnish them with milk. In his bathroom, he kept a jar with a preserved lizard inside it. His favourite cat, Bossy, had killed the reptile, but Hemingway had admired its courage. During the Second World War, he appealed to the Cuban and American governments to permit him to independently patrol the Gulf of Mexico in his private yacht, on the lookout for enemy submarines. He used to write standing on the skin of a kudu, believing in the African tradition that it conveyed its power to him.

The house is actually quite humble. I’m not strong on architectural styles, but I think you’d call it a colonial bungalow. I’d guess that the whole thing isn’t more than 1500 square feet, and furnished in a simple, eclectic style. There are lamps made of antelope skin, some floral chairs and lots of paintings of bulls. And dead animals. There are apparently 15 of them in the house, including the aforementioned kudu with a particularly disappointed look on its face.

All in all, it was an enjoyable afternoon. I was also pleased to take a ride of out Old Havana, and see how the average Cuban lives and works. We ate lunch at a dodgy, second-floor restaurant, reached by a rickety set of stairs. In the back, there was a cage with a crocodile in it. Among other things, the proprietor offered us turtle. That’s not kosher (no pun intended), as they’re deeply endangered in Cuban waters.