Hemingway Adventures

Four Trips Across: Two Decades with Hemingway in Cuba

Paul M. Kendel

My first trip to Cuba came in 2000 and unexpectedly introduced me to Ernest Hemingway, beginning a twenty-year near obsession with the writer and his works. Before purchasing my ticket in Cancun I should have looked up the plane and Cubana’s safety record—a forty-year-old Russian YAK-42—received a “D+,” just above Pakistan International Airlines with a “D.” Stooping through an unusually low passenger door, I was headed to the back of the plane when I nearly tripped on a piece of bunched up carpet. Recovering, I checked my seat number again. Half the damn plane was empty and they stuck me in the last row where the seats wouldn’t recline. Ignoring my seat assignment, I sat down and pulled the lever to lean my seat back. It collapsed with a thud, leaving me in a nearly complete horizontal position. Raising it, I gave up on expecting any comfort.

Pulling out and onto the runway, the plane stopped. And then a most disconcerting event occurred—the cabin of the plane began filling with what looked like smoke. The plane’s on fire! was my first reaction. But through the haze I noticed that none of the Cubans aboard seemed alarmed; that was because the “smoke” was the result of an archaic air conditioning system expelling clouds of condensation. After reaching cruising speed, two female flight attendants began pushing and pulling a drink cart from the back toward the center but got stuck on the carpet in front of me. The struggle continued until a third came over to help. After believing the plane was on fire, I was in desperate need of a drink. Once served, the drink cart moved forward only to get stuck again two rows in front of me. A struggle ensued, followed by a recovery, and after a third stoppage, the cart finally made its way to the front.

Leaning back with my rum and coke, I tried to relax when I noticed something moving on the floor below the window. A large cockroach was slowly making its way toward the cockpit. Jesus, I thought. It’ll probably make better time to the front of the plane than the drink cart. Ignoring the wildlife, I reached into my backpack and took out my copy of Ernest Hemingway’s Islands in the Stream. I knew little about the famous writer and hadn’t even read The Old Man and the Sea in high school. Since Islands in the Stream was set in Cuba, I figured it was a good place to start. After reading only a few pages, the plane shuddered violently, like the pilot was downshifting. Then it seemed to settle, almost stop dead in mid-air; not a sound came from the engines. But it soon shuddered again and the engines shifted to a higher gear, and with a final shudder, we began our decent—the landing gear dropping with equal violence as well as most of the unoccupied seats—but within minutes I was in Havana.

And so began my first trip to Cuba and a life-long obsession with Ernest Hemingway. The drive into the city took me along the famous Malecon, with hundreds of Cubans lounging along the concrete wall while waves lapped against it. Rather than a classic car, my taxi was instead an old Soviet 1970’s Lada, a ubiquitous piece of shit that spewed out gas fumes inside so bad that at one point I had to hang my head out the window just to breathe. Dropped off near the famous Hotel Nacional, I was approached by a middle-aged woman asking if I needed a room. The cheapest accommodations were with a Cuban family, so I agreed. Just a block away stood an unattractive five-story building. Unassuming from the outside, the inside shocked me—I felt like I was back in my grandmother’s house! The living room had the same kind of nickknacks and heirlooms resting on white patterned lace. My room had the same warmth and even a similar ancient black and white TV my grandma had; the only difference was Fidel Castro rambling on about the Revolution for hours rather than episodes of He Haw and Lawrence Welk.

Taking in the 1950’s time capsule that Havana was, I soaked up the nostalgia in a classic 1955 Chevy with a song by Brittany Spears blaring from the radio. Passing billboards with “Free Elian,” the controversy and political dynamics over the young Elian Gonzalez were obvious. After strolling the ancient cobblestone streets of Havana I hailed a cab for the Finca Vigia, Hemingway’s home, now a museum. Dropped off at the front gate, I began walking up the treelined path to the entrance taking in the lush overgrown grounds filled with Bougainvilleas, bamboo, hibiscus, jasmine, and royal palms. Reaching the front, I felt as if I’d come home. Looking through the doorway into the living room, it was as if Hemingway had just stepped out, his favorite chair and drink bottles awaiting his return. Admiring the safari trophies, posters, books, and paintings, I suddenly found myself more intrigued by the man than his words I had yet to read; but what solidified my connection to Hemingway was my return to Mexico.

Clack, clack, clack, came the sound just outside the entrance to the bathroom of my hotel room. Sitting on the toilet I was fully engrossed in Islands in the Stream, even more motivated after such an amazing journey to Hemingway’s home. I stopped reading and lowered the book. Clack, clack, clack, came the sound again. To my drunken horror, a giant black scorpion suddenly appeared in the doorway. It made a few tentative steps forward but stopped. He stared at me; I stared back. It was like a Western where two gunslingers square off waiting for the other to make a move. Shit! I thought, what the hell am I going to do? Chase him around the room and swat him with my sandal? I could ignore him and hope he’d just go away, but would I sleep dreading the thought of it crawling up onto my bed and stinging me in the face? I paused for a moment. And then I had the perfect drunken idea! I looked at the copy of Islands in the Stream still in my hands. I would throw it across the floor and Hemingway would land perfectly on top of the scorpion’s head, thumping it dead. What could go wrong? Holding the book up high, I stared at my enemy. Unleashing the novel at the dangerous beast—to my utter drunken astonishment—it worked! Landing right on its head, it thumped it perfectly. I watched the scorpion shake for a moment and then collapse—dead! I couldn’t believe my ridiculous drunken plan worked! I retrieved the novel, leaving the scorpion where it was (much to the maid’s shock the following morning), and retrieved my book. What were the odds of such a stunt actually working? I saw it as a sign. Over the course of the next six months, I finished reading every major novel Hemingway wrote.

A year later I reluctantly boarded another YAK-42 for Havana. Placing my ear buds in, I hit play on my CD player—U2’s A Beautiful Day. It was early, I was hungover, and the last thing I expected on a YAK-42 was a beautiful flight, but I did hope to arrive alive. With the obligatory smoke and downshifting of the engines, I emerged into the hot and humid Cuban sun nearly as rattled as before. Returning to the same family, I was welcomed back to the warmth of Grandma’s room. I spent another incredible day at the Finca, armed with a much greater understanding and appreciation of Hemingway and his books. Expanding my Hemingway sites beyond Havana and the Finca, I spent a day at the fishing village of Cojimar, ate at restaurant La Terraza, and admired the Hemingway memorial erected after his death by local fishermen. As amazing as these sites were—as well as those in Havana connected to the writer—the Finca Vigia became a special place for me unlike any other. But the best was yet to come.

My third trip to Cuba and the Finca came the following year. In January 2002, my California National Guard infantry unit was called up for a deployment to Saudi Arabia, active duty and combat pay providing me with the funds for another visit. However, after surviving five flights on Cubana, I worried I might be pushing my luck. After a day of revisiting the obligatory Hemingway sites, I allotted an entire day for the Finca. Little had changed, except for a new roof over the main house. The grounds still had the same lush and overgrown look. I took my time, taking in every minute aspect of the house and grounds, including the empty pool and the Pilar sitting on the old tennis court. Hours passed and by late afternoon I was alone. Standing at the back of the house admiring the view of Havana in the distance, one of the female staff approached me. Would I like to come inside? she asked smiling. Five dollars. Stunned, I thought I’d misheard her. She repeated the offer. Five bucks to walk through the Finca alone? I couldn’t get the money out of my pocket fast enough. After removing my shoes at the entrance to the dining room, we began my private tour.

Passing the wooden dining table, the blank space on the wall to the right sorely missed Miro’s painting, The Farm. Feeling the cool tiles beneath my feet, the musty smell of furniture and old books up close, I was no longer a tourist on the outside looking in, I was a guest. Walking into the living room I could almost hear Hemingway’s favorite music on his phonograph: Gershwin, Beethoven, and the sounds of the 1930’s and 1940’s. Stopping next to the faded, worn—and oddly feminine patterned colored chairs—in the middle of the room surrounded by dripping masculinity, I smiled at the drink bottles and ice bucket. Looking down, I was close enough to touch the small rocking chair bought by Mary for Hemingway’s birthday with Poor old Papa embroidered on it. Raising my eyes, they paused briefly on bullfighting posters, a trophy of a deer shot out West, more books, finally settling on the doorway to Hemingway’s study. Pausing for a moment, I honestly expected to see the great man himself emerge, stop, walk up to me, hold out his hand with a broad smile, and say, “Glad you made it, kid. Call me, Papa, everyone does. Care for a drink by the pool?”    

Entering the study, I stopped immediately to look at the Royal typewriter sitting on top of a book; on the bed, sat Hemingway’s sun cap—made famous by an iconic photo—resting as if he’d just tossed it aside coming in after a long day fishing on the Pilar; the only thing missing were the newspapers and magazines scattered over the bed. Passing his desk covered with various nick knacks, I admired the water buffalo trophy on the wall and the countless books on the shelves. Entering Hemingway’s bathroom, I looked for the spot where he recorded his weight on the wall. Next to the toilet sat a small bookcase containing volumes the author left unread, but had hoped to finish upon a return that would never happen. At the doorway the young Cuban woman waited patiently. And then I freaked her out! Moving close to Hemingway’s toilet I reached down as if I was going to lift the lid up. I turned to her with a serious look.    

“Puedo usar?” I said placing my hand on the lid asking if I could use it.

“Nooooo!” she screamed in horror.

I smiled at her, took my hand off the lid, making it clear I wasn’t serious. But for a second I had her—she’d really thought I was going to sit down, grab a book, and make myself at home. Relieved that I hadn’t tried to actually relieve myself, she smiled and laughed. I doubt the toilet would have flushed, but I’m pretty sure they would have taken offence if I’d added my weight to the wall along with Hemingway’s. Returning to the living room she told the staff what I’d done and they all laughed. Back at the main entrance I asked if I could see the master bedroom where Mary slept. Just inside, the bathroom door was open. Lying in the tub was a reproduction of Waldo Pierce’s hideous portrait of Hemingway with a really bad hair day. Walking across the room I stopped and looked at the window and reflected on the words of Thomas Hudson: “In the moonlight that came in through the window, throwing the shadow of the trunk of the ceiba tree across the wide, white bed…” The original ceiba was long gone, but like the house, it had clearly played an important role in Hemingway’s life. The tour over, I retrieved my shoes and was led out through the main entrance. At the base of the steps I looked back at the female staff standing in the windows and waved. They waved back, blowing me kisses.     

It would be nearly 17 years before I returned to the Finca Vigia. In that interim period I’d fought in Iraq in 2005-6, got divorced, began writing myself, and called up for war again with a deployment to Afghanistan. These experiences connected me even more to the great writer; maybe it was war and the loss of friends, a painful divorce, or my pending mortality, but I developed a fascination with Hemingway’s later years in Cuba and his supposed literary decline and mental digression. I’d read my share of Hemingway biographies, but a few years ago I discovered Hemingway’s Cuban Son which gives a firsthand account of his private life at the Finca. Based on the recollections of Rene Villarreal, the majordomo of the Finca during Hemingway’s final years, and later the first curator when it became a museum, was co-authored with his son Raul Villarreal. In 2017, I learned that a Florida Hemingway Society had been founded with Raul as its director and a conference was being held in Gainesville, Florida, with presentations and book signings by prominent Hemingway scholars. Walking in I quickly recognized Raul Villarreal and introduced myself. Born in San Francisco de Paula, not far from the Finca Vigia, he and his family emigrated from Cuba first to Spain and later to New Jersey. We connected instantly. I told him how much I valued his book and the recollections of his father that had given me an intimate picture of life at the Finca in Hemingway’s later years that most other biographies did not. He still had memories of the Finca from his childhood. Raul was one of only a few remaining living links to the writer. In the months ahead I learned that Raul would be part of a Hemingway Society conference in Havana in 2019, giving me a perfect opportunity to return to the Finca Vigia after so many years.

But things had changed since I sweated through six flights on a YAK-42 from Cancun—at least as far as travel by Americans to the island was concerned. American cruise ships had been disgorging thousands of tourists over the last few years thanks to the easing of travel restrictions under the Obama administration, but in 2018 Donald Trump began rolling them back. Fortunately for me, I slipped in just as cruise ships were literally being turned back enroute to Havana and redirected to other destinations in the Caribbean. Departing from Ft. Lauderdale, my Southwest flight was the farthest thing from a smoke filled, worn out carpeted, bug infested, and shuddering, YAK-42. But other than my means of transport, very little had changed. Trump’s cruise ship ban had eliminated hordes of tourists from walking the streets of old Havana, making it great for me, but bad for the Cubans trying to make ends meet. Stepping out of my cab in front of the building I’d exited over a decade and a half ago when I still had a full head of hair, I knocked on the door. Within seconds I was welcomed by the same face who’d greeted me so long ago. As if it were yesterday, she led me to grandma’s room—trapped in time, like Hemingway’s home, it looked almost exactly as I’d remembered it.

What originally drew me to the Hemingway conference was the fact it was to be held at the Finca Vigia, but it changed to Hotel Habana Riviera, built by mobster Meyer Lansky on the Malecon due to an increase in attendance. Walking inside I expected to find Bugsy Seigel or Lucky Luciano sitting at the bar in one of its original tacky red vinyl seats. Exploring the old city with three newfound friends, we found ourselves drinking at the Ambos Mundos roof top bar admiring the view of the city below, the spires and domes of the cathedrals and the intimidating Morro Castle across the harbor, postcard perfect. We began discussing Donald Trump’s cruise ship ban, but quickly agreed that since we were attending a conference involving Ernest Hemingway, we should discuss him, rather than Trump—much to the president’s chagrin if he knew we’d stopped making him the center of attention. Getting to know each other better, I told my companions I was an adjunct History professor and had travelled extensively throughout the world as both a civilian and a member of the military. I told them a little about my time in Iraq. I’d deployed hoping to help the Iraqis, but once fellow soldiers began dying, altruism towards the Iraqis faded quickly:      

The gifts sent from home for the Iraqis piled up. Any desire to pass them out was gone. One night I stopped at the remains of a bombed out building occupied by an Iraqi family. The father asked me to bring them bottled water. I said I would, and I’d return the following evening. Then his wife, holding their three year old girl in her arms, asked if I could bring a doll for her daughter. Where the hell was I going to find a Barbie doll? I thought. The following evening I dumped a bunch of the gifts collecting dust into a box to take to the Iraqi family along with the water. While digging through the unused gifts I found the last thing I expected to find—a Barbie doll! Later that night I handed the box of miscellaneous goods to the father and turned to the mother holding the doll out. The mother smiled, and the little girl, with a look of fear and apprehension, reached out taking the doll, holding it tightly to her chest…I like to think that she still has it today, and maybe her mother still tells the story of the American soldier who gave it to  her…a memory of kindness rather than one of violence and death.   

In Iraq I’d hoped to make a difference; to help the people as Hemingway had in WWI and Spain. But it was still war, and like Hemingway, who passed out chocolate bars to Italian troops on the front lines, no matter how many Barbie dolls I gave to Iraqi children, war, “…no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime,” as Hemingway believed. With time I would adopt his more cynical view toward war, one that comes with age and greater understanding. Hemingway was speaking of “modern war” in the early 20th Century, but war in the 21st is no different, soldiers still die “like a dog for no good reason.” Maybe this was why my interest and connection to Hemingway in his later years grew; he’d left the young man pictured in crutches smiling after his near death experience in Italy far behind, replaced with a grey haired realist grappling with his own mortality.

A visit to the Finca Vigia was the last event of the conference, and a fitting one. Our tour bus stopped in front of the newly built research and restoration center, gift shop, and bar. The grounds were now manicured, complete with signs directing visitors to the various highlights around the estate. Our tour was enriched by Raul Villarreal who entertained us with memories of his early childhood at the Finca, wandering the grounds, playing with friends, and staring in awe at the exotic safari trophies on the walls as his father worked. But it was the stories his father told him about Hemingway that would ultimately shape his life. Walking around the back of the main house, I took a picture of the toilet that I had joked about years earlier, feeling as if it had occurred yesterday. The Finca was a veritable time capsule. Adjourning to the bar for drinks and snacks, Raul impressed us with his salsa skills and happily joined the Conga line that weaved its way around the participants and staff. When the party ended, I shook hands with him as he got onto a different bus than mine. We were all heading back to our respective hotels, the conference over. I planned to attend future Hemingway Society trips to Cuba, hopefully with Raul as a participant.

I brought my copy of Hemingway’s Cuban Son with me for Raul to sign. Coordinator for Cultural Programs at Santa Fe College in Gainesville, Florida, Raul was a man of many talents: writer, musician, filmmaker, and world renowned artist. Inside my copy, he drew a picture of a beautiful palm tree and above it the words, “For Paul, from your Cuban friend.” I looked forward to furthering our friendship and getting to know him better in the years to come, but that was not meant to be. But as I’d experienced in Iraq, one could smile and wave to a friend as he left the base expecting to meet him later for a cigar, only to be informed that a bomb had rendered his body unrecognizable. Less than two weeks after returning from Cuba I received word that Raul had died unexpectedly at his home in Gainesville, Florida, from a heart attack at 55.

Raul Villarreal was a portal to a lost time; his personal connection to Hemingway through his father’s stories was a direct link to the writer’s life in Cuba. His loss is irreplaceable for Hemingway studies. For me, he was another friend who’d died too young, but had made an indelible mark on not just me, but countless others who are now the better for having known him, no matter how brief the time. “The rain will stop, the night will end, the hurt will fade,” wrote Hemingway, but “hope is never so lost that it can't be found.” Raul’s memory and accomplishments will continue with the Florida Hemingway Society that he founded and loved dearly. “Every man's life ends the same way,” Hemingway said. But it was “the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.” Raul’s life—regardless of its length—will forever be remembered because of his kindness, generosity, warmth, artistry, and devotion, to not just the memory of Ernest Hemingway, but to his family and friends—even those like me who had the privilege of knowing him for only a short time.

For Raul, from your American friend.

“Every true story ends in death”—Ernest Hemingway