This was our last trip PC (pre-corona). First of all, thank you for reading. If you have stumbled upon this you are probably the kind of people that have stories that we would love to listen to, and we hope to buy you a drink and listen someday.
“How about Cuba?” My wife asked, “You up for some sultry Havana nights?” She looked at me, leaned forward and raised her eyebrows with a bit of a smile.
I didn’t even know what she meant, but the way she said it made me think it was the best idea I had ever heard in my life. I liked sultry, whatever it meant. I nodded and tried to say something witty and flirtatious back. “Umm, is that like a combination of sulky and slutty?”
My wife obviously married me for my cooking and not for my flirting abilities.
We wanted a small group so I called my ol’ reliable buddy and said “Cuba?”
“I’m ready!” He always responds this way whether I’m asking him on a trip, have a margarita,
or to take me to my colonoscopy. His wife Mary is the Great Reluctant Adventurer, dragging her feet (sometimes her whole body needs to be dragged) until it begins, then all wine-infused accelerator and no brakes once it starts.
Expectations and anticipations were high. Our vivacious redheaded friend Gigi reminded us to keep expectations low; often in her experience her online dating partners don’t have any resemblance at all to their profile pics. Except the ones featuring the guys pictured with dead animals or fish. Those ALWAYS match up, unfortunately.
Small groups are best to get the most out of the island. Four is ideal, we brought five. Gigi considers herself a fifth wheel, but to us she is more like a birthmark shaped like Elmer Fudd; maybe not needed but worth a lot in entertainment value.
The country had recently been closed to American tourist which is the main reason my wife wanted to go there. The less tourist the better. She found a travel loophole and booked. We boarded in Atlanta. At the gate you are required to fill out the reason for the Cuban visit form. #loophole coming up. You have to check “Support of the Cuban people” in which you are agreeing NOT to spend any money in government supported businesses (resorts, et.). You are agreeing to only stay with locals. There is a lovely Cuban Travel Specialist you can ask for at Delta who is very helpful in this regard If needed. Avoid “Converting into a communist agent and seeding unrest in the US” as that guarantees the Immigration Customs Agent will get to know you better than your gastroenterologist.
The entire trip was arranged by our local friend named Roger. Handsome, witty and seemed to know everyone in Cuba. ¡Acere, qué bolá! was the first Cuban phrase he taught us (hey friend, how ya doin’?) We wanted him to get us from city to city and hang with us when needed, and sometimes just let us explore by ourselves. He arranged a driver and arraigned all of our stays with locals, starting in Old Havana. Feel free to email us for Roger's contact information.
We put our bags down and looked over the balcony, and in a single moment expectations were met. Old cars filled the street below. Music coming from somewhere nearby, and old Havana. The buildings were decrepit, but under the dirt and disrepair you could see the majestic past just below a layer of chipped paint.
Old Havana is best enjoyed by foot. We were all fairly ambulatory, even my wife (She had left her “Cute” shoes at home, which greatly enhances her speed of ambulation). We started out at the famous La Bodeguita del Medio for the classic mojitos and traditional music. We also took our picture with the iconic legend of La Bodeguita (He educated us that he was the iconic legend by showing us his picture on the cover of an old National Geographic).
Two things stood out. The lack of Americans and the politeness of the shopkeepers. During many of our travels we have had vendors with the persistence of of a dingleberry (and sometimes just as irritating) but here was the usual invitation to come in to the shop, but then just a simple smile and pleasant “enjoy your visit” if we shook our heads no.
All of us brought gifts for the Cuban people. A lot of controversy out there on the internet on what to bring (too many pencils, the authorities think you are gonna sell them. A pencil pusher). Cat decided on Martin guitar strings. The guitar strings were a HUGE hit. There was so much street music, and when she gave the strings she got a such an emotional response she was a bit overwhelmed. One of the restaurant owners explained “If he breaks a string, he will not eat, you gave a great gift.”
So we had a driver. Nice gentlemen, in his 50’s and built like I am. Well, like I am when I’m wearing a Superman costume with the big foam muscles. Gigi was attracted to him but there was a language thing. Not just a language barrier but more like the Trump Border Wall of Communication Prevention. Occasionally she would point at something and smile and nod at him. He would then point and look at her to see if he was pointing at the right thing. If she nodded vigorously he would smile, then nod back. Pretty soon they would nod together and language barriers would collapse in a bobble-headed frenzy. We were imagining how that would work if she actually got him in the sack.
“It actually might work pretty well” Mary said “besides, the language of love is universal”
We traveled to the Bay of Pigs and that night we invited our guide and driver to the rooftop of Casa Franco for wine. As the night progressed we watched the nodding between Gigi and the driver progressing so we left the two alone and went to bed. What transpired became known as the Boa incident of The Bay of Pigs. We waited at the breakfast table for Gigi to arrive, speculating. She straggled down the stairs, eyes downcast, and poured coffee and sat down. She sighed.
"He should have had Catastrophic Insurance on that thing..."
We all nodded encouragingly, holding our coffees with both hands and leaning forward.
“Well, it was like a Boa. We both were nodding and trying. And trying. It just wouldn’t fit. I tried everything and finally I was just out of nods. I was done, but he didn’t seem to understand my sign language so I told him “Fino!”
“Wait” I said “You told him ‘Fino?’”
“Yeah, but he just laughed. I was very firm and said “FINO!” Several more times but that didn’t seem to phase him! I finally had to be rude and throw him out. He seemed confused.”
“Gigi” I said, “Fino means ‘Fine’ in Spanish. Like, excellent. You were telling him “Excellent!” For the rest of the trip I would point out anything large and say “fino” to my wife.
It was off to Viñales, which translates to: “Awesome picturesque valley with great cigars and cool place to get a haircut.” Spanish is such a great language. One of the most beautiful places we saw in Cuba.
We paid a local to borrow bikes and rode down rocky dirt roads to a local tobacco grower (“Between Señor Boa and this bike, I’m getting pretty sore” Gigi quipped), stopping by the Casa de los Viejos (old folks home) on the way.
We met a proud 3rd generation tobacco grower who walked us through the farm, showed us the drying tobacco sheds and then rolled us cigars. The aroma of tobacco was incredible. There is nothing like learning a cigar from the Cuban source. We fired up the cigar, and learned to dip the end in rum or honey intermittently while smoking. Cat held up the oversized cigar and said “fino” and offered it to Gigi. Too soon, apparently.
On the way back a quick stop on the porch of a local barber, who flirted shamelessly with my wife, winking at her every time he pushed my head down to trim my neck. He spent a LOT of time trimming my neck. Flirting is an art form in Cuba, and the Cubans were the Michelangelo’s of the flirt . As far as we could tell no matter what the woman said, there are only two answers that the men heard, one was “yes” and the other was “not now, maybe later”. When a local went by the barber motioned toward my wife and said to his friend “tremenda manguita”. He didn’t know I spoke Spanish but I was wondering why the hell he called my wife a “big mango.” I asked our guide later and apparently it is a way to describe a desirable person, originating when in the past a mango was a rare favorite treat. I guess in Minnesota we should be calling attractive people “Big chunk of lutefisk” then.
After a couple of days exploring the valley we were off to our favorite place we visited, Trinidad. It was a town with cobblestone streets, ever-present music. Roger showed us how to get to a huge cave where they had built a bar/disco/dance floor where the locals went to salsa dance, which was incredible to watch. It inspired all of us enough to take a Salsa dance lesson the next day at a friends of his house. After an hour trying to teach me the most basic of steps I am quite sure they wondered how I was even ambulatory without assistance.
Our trip spanned a good part of the island, from Viñales to the west, to Trinidad in the southeast, avoiding the resort filled Varadero district. Bikes, scuba diving, rides in vintage cars and great food (despite what we heard about it being bland). Hemingway’s house, museums, hiking, even after 10 days it was just an appetizer. We would go back and do the exact same trip again (3 days in old Havana is enough) but we felt like we wanted to see so much more.
Despite the gorgeous landscape it was the people that were the best part of the trip. They showed us their lives and opened their homes to us with pride despite their hardships. If any of the people we met can ever make it to the US we would be happy to open our home to them. Except the barber.
We ended the trip wiser, with a little bit of knowledge on dancing, on cigars, and on the warm Cuban people. I ended up with a little bit knowledge of my own and on our final night at the Buena Vista social club I leaned forward raised my eyebrows and said to my wife;
“tremenda manguita”
Maybe not to old to learn how to flirt after all.
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