The story below is actually part of a strange series of events that culminated with my being
flown to Miami in February of 2002 to appear on a Spanish Language TV Talk Show.
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It was 1951 and I just had to go to Cuba. I'd learned to do the mambo at Arthur Murray's and wanted to try dancing it in its native country. After all - it might be my only chance. (Who knew if I'd come back from Korea alive?) The Korean "Police Action" was in full swing, and I had two weeks to get from Fort Belvoir, Virginia to Camp Stoneman, California (for shipping out). Two weeks. What was I going to do with two weeks? I had no family or girlfriend waiting to see me - but I was intrigued with the idea of going to Cuba. Well, I had most of the $85 from my previous month's paycheck - and if I hitchhiked all the way, I figured I could just about make it. First stop: Miami. I was lucky, and got there in two days with four rides. The last one got me to the airport, where I bought a round-trip ticket for Havana. I found a small, inexpensive hotel downtown, and was excited about going out that night and practicing my high-school Spanish. At 19, I was of legal drinking age in Cuba, so decided to look for a night club where perhaps I could meet someone to dance with. But there was so much to see! There seemed to be an impromptu musical group on nearly every corner, with people stopping to listen and/or dance on their way to wherever. Music also poured from the open doors of many of the shops, restaurants and bars. The town just pulsated with tropical dance rhythms. I felt sure I'd find a dance partner that night. Suddenly I found myself on a side street, where I saw a crowd of people at the entrance of a building with no discernible sign. They were obviously locals, and nicely dressed - as if going to a theatrical event of some kind. A couple of uniformed guards were taking their tickets as they entered the building. My curiosity aroused, I walked over to see if I could learn why they were all waiting at this unmarked building. One of the guards spotted me and gave me a puzzled look. (It was obvious that this skinny young gringo was not part of the group waiting in line.) Nonetheless, he smiled and nodded at me. He was surprised when I asked him in Spanish what was happening. He smiled again, and said this was a radio station, and that these people were going in to see a broadcast. When I asked him what kind of broadcast, he gave me a condescending look, and said it was a musical show, which featured one of Cuba's most popular singers along with the country's favorite dance band. It was obvious that he was sure I had no idea about whom he was talking - but when I asked if he might be referring to Celia Cruz and the Sonora Matancera, he looked as though he'd gone into shock. His eyes widened and he was speechless. Then he blinked, shook his head and quickly moved to the other guard's side, where he pointed my way and whispered something that caused his friend to also look like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. |
Then they told the people with the tickets to wait - and asked me to step to the side. "Who are you?" they asked, and how did I know about these artists who were about to perform?
"Just an American tourist," I said, and added that I liked Latin-American dancing and happened to own a couple of recordings by these artists. Now they were both speechless - but not for long. With one on each side, they hustled me past the crowd and into the studio, apologizing to the surprised ticket-holders as they went. It was not a large auditorium, seating perhaps 150. About half the seats had already been filled by what appeared to be upper-middle class locals, who were appropriately dressed (men in suits and women in flowered hats). I was the only one wearing a casual shirt and khaki pants. I was embarrassed. But it quickly became even more embarrassing. The first two rows had been roped off with signs reading, "RESERVADOS." Well, guess where they put me - dead center in the front row - all by myself with an empty row behind me. Hushed whispers began to arise from the people behind me, as they looked my way with puzzled expressions. When I looked over my shoulder, many smiled and nodded at me. This was ridiculous, I thought. A 19-year-old kid who just happened to like Cuban music was being treated like some kind of visiting royalty. Shy guys just weren't supposed to be treated like this. Yet it became even more bizarre. If you're not a fan of Caribbean dance music, I'm sure the musicians I mentioned don't mean a thing to you. But they were, at the time, the Cuban equivalent of Harry James and Dinah Shore. And Celia Cruz is even more popular today than she was then. She left Cuba just before Castro took over and began touring the world - and continues to entertain with traditional Cuban music right up to the present time. (Nowadays her music is usually referred to as "salsa" - although I've heard Ms. Cruz say she's never gotten used to the term and still refers to it simply as música tropical.) Anyway, the thought that Cuba's most popular female vocalist would soon be coming onstage and see me sitting alone in the front row gave me a mixture of feelings that are hard to describe. I'd have felt much less uneasy if I'd been dressed like everyone else and seated back where they were. When Ms. Cruz finally walked onstage that night and saw me there, she paused, and then came down to where I was sitting. She shook my hand, said "Bienvenido," and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Talk about being made to feel important! (And the show was great!)
This happened over 50 years ago, but I remember that evening like it was yesterday.
PS: Yes, I did find a dance partner that night - but
Margarita is a whole other story.
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