Manny’s house was now a neurological institute. On the way, he showed us his old house, which occupied an entire suburban block, next to the house formerly owned by the Barcardi rum family. And we buzzed off to the Club Havana for lunch and a dip in the ocean.
He told us not to worry about holding cash there is no street crime in a Communist country, he said. In the morning, Manny returned us some hundreds of dollars in CUCs, some kind of Cuban money. It was a bit austere, the view, but well guarded. He put us in a one-bedroom air-conditioned apartment overlooking the ocean on the Malecón causeway, across from the American Embassy cost per night, $40. My wife, Ines, who is from Brazil and always nervous in developing nations, had asked Manny to set us up in a safe place. Manny picked us up in a multi-parted Renault from an earlier century, and took our crisp $100 bills to achieve the best rate on the open black market.
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