I traveled in Cuba for a month at the end of 2015. This story is excerpted from my story “Sugar Granny in Her Dancing Shoes” which won the Solas Award and will be published in my next book Dance Life. Enjoy!

After this wild trance-dance in a postage-stamp-sized living room in Havana, I didn’t dance again until I was in Santiago de Cuba two weeks later—in a shadowy courtyard crowded with garbage cans.

As I savored a late afternoon café cortado and creamy flan on the plaza in Santiago, an apricot-flamed sky lit up with bolts of lightning hurtled out of towering clouds. Surrounded by the dramatic thunder booms of the coming storm, I strolled through back streets. As the first drops of rain pattered onto the sidewalk, I ducked into the doorway of a once-grand apartment building where, blocking the entry, was a small table topped with a bottle of clear liquid and a folded towel. I had seen this in front of many houses and businesses in this city and thought that since Santiago is the epicenter of the Santería religion, it must be an offering to the orishas.

A skinny porter in a too-short uniform invited me inside. He gestured toward the altar and asked, “Did you wash your hands?”

“No” I said, mystified.

“Please wash your hands with the chlorine before entering. There is a cholera epidemic and eighteen people have died in the last two days.”

Still not understanding what he meant, as no one had mentioned it before, I squeaked, “Epidemic? This is not an offering to the gods?”

He laughed and then nodded solemnly. “No, not an offering but a health precaution. You do not know what it is because the government does not want foreigners to know there is an epidemic, as it scares off tourism.”

Jeez! I’d been a regular hugging ambassador in the streets of Santiago, wanting to spread American goodwill—clueless about exposure to a deadly disease. Why didn’t the guesthouse owner or taxi driver tell me when I arrived? I quickly brushed away the question, deciding not to worry but to be on alert for symptoms. The chorine, though watered down, was harsh as I poured it over my hands, and my nostrils flared and burned from the fumes.

Music was coming from far back in the building. “Donde está la musica?” I asked. With a crooked finger, he motioned me to follow him. We walked down a long, damp hallway lit by one bare bulb, which led to a grimy, covered courtyard lined with overflowing garbage cans, and the porter took a seat next to one. Apparently it was a slow day. In the center stood five men playing music—two conga drummers, a gourd shaker, a cymbal player, and a man who turned the handle of an ornately carved wooden organ from another era. The man was old and arthritic, yet he cranked the organ’s handle with vigor as the music spilled forth.

The ancient organ player gestured for me to come over and look inside a large wooden travel trunk filled with stacks of faded songbooks—perforated cardboard sheet music that created the melody as he turned the organ’s handle. Swooping calligraphy on the side of the instrument proclaimed it to be “Le Orgue de Paris.” It was a treat to see such a relic from the past being played, not just on display in a museum somewhere.

The music was lovely and rhythmic, and I couldn’t resist the urge to move. This was my first dance to authentic, classic Cuban music since arriving on the island three weeks ago.

One of the conga players rose, leaving the other to carry the beat on his own, and joined me for a smooth salsa dance and then a cha-cha-chá, despite the space restrictions of the tiny courtyard and the unpleasant smells wafting from the trash cans. He led me through the steps with ease and a gentle yet commanding hand on my waist—I held my own, thankful that my father had taught me these same classic Latin dance steps years ago in our living room. After several more tunes, the band took a break and invited me to sit with them.

I asked why they were playing in this claustrophobic courtyard, and they replied in Spanish, “We are professors of music at the university but have nowhere to practice. Our friend is the caretaker of this building and the acoustics are good. So here we are.”

Wow. I guess acoustics win out over the stench of rotting garbage.

“You must come to hear us again and dance. We practice every Thursday.” The octogenarian organ player stood, bowed, and planted a sweet kiss on my cheek. As I walked back to the street, escorted by the porter, I heard them say, “Americana! Es una buena persona de una buena familia.” I smiled.

That night, I decided to give the Casa de la Música in Santiago a chance. It had the reputation of being home to great musicians. I quickly found, though, that it was the same sad story—hustlers pushing drinks and fat German ladies dancing with young Cuban men in an attempt at salsa that included a lot of butt-cupping. I found it interesting there was no hand-washing table in the front of the club’s entrance, and felt fortunate to have discovered the music professors that afternoon. (copyright Lisa Alpine 2018)

You may also enjoy another excerpt from Sugar Granny and Her Dancing Shoes titled Dancing with the Saints in Cuba

I collected an excellent reading list on all things Cuban. Here are some great books—gotta reads—if you are going or are curious.

This is an article I wrote on where to stay: “Casa Particulars in Cuba: My ‘A’ List“.