Day 11. Regreso

My hosts this morning prepared a yummy breakfast. Besides the regular (fruit, eggs, juice), they also provides hot milk and cocoa powder (though it takes lots of honey to sweeten), and ham, cheese, and bread. I totally pulled a Home Alone, "I'll save these for later."

The bus ride back was the usual. I napped briefly, read, listened to podcasts, and scratched at my sunburn. Along the way, we paused to pick up an old man who produced a flask from his purse which he handed to the co driver. Im choosing to believe that he just wanted a drink of fresh milk from the cow that happened to be standing next to the road.

I collected my bag and stopped at the little bus statiom convenience store to pick up consumable souvenirs for family and friends. Its been surprisingly difficult to find packaged nonperishable foodstuffs. It seems like most such snacks are made in Spain or South America. But I did find some of those garlic flavored corn puffs. The clerk let me practice to see how many bags I could fit into my backpack. Four.

I had about three hours before I needed to arrive at the airport, so I considered walking. Id remembered to road being busy but passable, but when I asked the attendants they were assuredly against such a plan. "But I have so much time! I can walk the 12 km. I walked to Infanta!" They recommended the bus instead, number 12. Good old number 12, which was what Id taken to and from the water fountain on my first day. I was out of moneda nacional, but the guy kindly gave me the required peso and declined the 1 CUC I offered. I made sure to ask a taxi driver how much a drive was to the airport. 20 CUC. Okay I had two options.

Theres a huge necropolis just north of station. Is "necropolos" what we call it in English? It sounds right. Oh gosh, Ive become like those returned missionaries who are like, "ummm whats the word? Oh, 'man'!" Any this necropolis  (sounds greek) is a massive graveyard of above ground tombs. Reportedly its very beautiful so I started on my way with roller bag and all. I saw a man waiting for a bus so I asked him about taking bus 12 to the airport. "Hmm 12? Well not directly. But i think you take 12 and the change to another bus." Sounded promising and reliable.

The necropolis did in fact end up being massive. And of course I had to walk along two of the four sides before I finally arrived at the tourist entrance. It was also indeed beautiful, but for a relatively high entrance fee, I figured Id seen enough through the fence of the two sides id traversed. Besides, I started getting a bit of travel anxiety and decided it would be better to leave sooner than later, and via taxi. It would be awful to be sitting on a bus while I should be loading. An interesting story, but an awful feeling. Imunched my pilfered ham sandwiches in  a spot of shade and turned around.

At this point I had 7 CUC available. I remembered passing a fast food place named Pollo on my up and found it on my way back. There I did the mental calculations for how many fried bits of compressed chicken I could buy with my remaining CUCs. I got a bunch of bondigas (nuggets) and three hamburguesas (actually just patties. Sadly). Okay, heres lunch and dinner! The nuggets were about as good as nuggets can be, but my first bite into patty yielded pinkish meat. They went into the garbage; food poisoning on a plane is much worse than hunger on a plane.

I made the proper arrangements with a taxi driver in a 1952 Dodge and hit the road. The driver said that his brother bought it 10 years ago for $15k! The exterior looked ok, but the interior had been totally ripped out and re-upholstered, with corrugated plastic siding added. I gave him the 20 CUC plus everything I had left, total 21.50. Well I kept the 1 peso bus fare bill. That I'll keep as a souvenir. As our conversation drifted to American politics (he brought up trump), I clasped my hands together in prayer and I said, "I hope for only four years!" He responded with morose, "We've had the Castros for 60." That put the frustration of living under an undesireable regime into perspective.

Now I sit here at the gate, peeling my itchy body like a snake. In the immigration exit line, I overheard the guy behind me relay his experiences in Cuba, which sounded a lot like he just stayed in a resort. "Next time Im going to fly to this other resort on the island!" I do believe that theres a time for relaxing and enjoying luxuries, but I felt perplexed that someone would spend their whole time in leisure. It can feel overwhelming when onserving the human condition, but isnt it important to connect with, try to understand, and perhaps even help just a few people. Of course I dont now have a comprehesive understanding of the Cuban people now, but now I do know a few Cuban people, and this has been inherently valuable to me, and hopefully to those I've met. I feel like travel is immensely more rewarding when it contains a humanitarian component. But then, that's just me.

Appendix A: Listicles

Things I will not miss:
"Taxi? Taxi?"
"Habitacione?"
"Amigo? Amigo?"
....but then I shouldnt fault these people for just trying to make a living.

Things that surprised me:
The US flag on clothes. I counted 89 people.
Tshirts worn that were likely donated to Goodwill in US
Ease of drivers vs pedestrians
Patterned black tights
Almost nonexistent porn or exotic dancers, strippers

Things I will miss:
Opportunities to connect with people whose backgrounds differ from mine
The delicious fruit, including Guyava
The thick fruit juice
Hunting for authentic (and affordable) Cuban food
The generally safe feeling for tourists

Things to look to observe the next time I visit:
Newer cars
International brands
Cuban made processed packaged foods
How an increase in American tourists changes things

Lessons Ive learned:
Noncompetition (often centralized monopoly) creates long lines, lack of specialization, subpar service, lack of creativity
Once things open, people are quick to be creative, take advantage of changes

Things I left:
Hair brush

Fake word I wish I would stop using:
Arrivir

Souvenirs I got:
Cigars
Musical sticks
Table runners
Garlic-flavored corn puffs
Sunburn

Things I would bring next time:
Sunscreen

Day 10. Viñales, rustic and natural beauty

Chino and Susi were awake to see me go when the taxi picked me up this morning. I amuse myself that I find the drive through central Havana becoming old hat to me. Oh theres the university. Oh theres the José Martí memorial. Oh theres the zoo. Im surprised people dont start asking me for directions.

After driving on the highway for an hour or two with banana and palm trees dotting the edges of fields, we turned off onto a country road and into a much more jungle-feeling region. We stopped to exchange some passengers at Las Terraces, an outdoor exploration resort. Thick vegetation blanketed the hills sorrounding the resort, which reminded me of the hills around a resort we stayed at in Thailand; I felt like a trex could jump out at any moment.

The road wound around hills and opened up the the Viñales valley. Maybe Ive been from Oregon too long, but wow what a sight. Great steep hills rise straight up from the flat valley floor and are mostly dripping with verdant texture, but have exposed rock faces that glow orange at sunset--a climber's dream, Im sure.

Viñales was a welcome departure from the frantic tourist hustling scene of Trinidad. Although both are small towns deriving a large economic slice from tourism, I only heard a few shouted offers for taxis or casa particulares, in contrast to Trinidad where they seemed to stick like glue.

Just around the corner from the bus stop (everything in this hamlet is just around the corner from the bus stop) lay my CP. I cant remember how much I paid, but it was easily the nicest. Plentiful hot water, a towel, a private toilet, an air conditioner that worked.  Plus other less important things like cupboards, soap, clean floors, a fridge. The owners were the Cuban aunt and uncle I didnt know I had. I asked Vladimir about planning my 18 hour trip and frankly mentioned that I had to budget my remaining money carefully. After formulating a game plan, I hit the road.

Along my walk to a cigar-rolling shop outside town, I felt amused to observe many hens pecking around with chicks in tow. The great hills (Mogotes) provided a picturesque backdrop as old trucks, cars, and country buses passed me. The cigar shop had closed for the season, a convenience store clerk told me with the exasperation that comes from having to tell it to multiple tourists every day. On my way back the the CP, I picked up a bottle of water, and I just want to note how much water Ive consumed... maybe 1.5-3 liters per day? Thats more plain water that Ive consumed in the last year combined (excluding in Israel).

At the arranged time, my cowboy guide walked up to the CP in gum boots. A 21 year old with three brothers (2 of them also guides), Adrián has been a guide for about a year, though he said he couldnt remember a time not being on a horse. Id believe it- in addition to the many free range chickens, this town was real rural deal: barn animals were scattered all about, I saw a cowboy texting-and-riding, and I saw two kids riding horses á la bikes to their friend's house.

Fortunately Adrián spoke Spanish reasonably slowly for the tourists, though my brain still hurt after two hours of exclusively Spanish dialogue. Though his brother was a ChE with the military, his family didnt have much experience education: his parents hadn't finished high school and his grandmother could only sign her name, which was not uncommon for someone from the Revolution era. He'd had the opportunity to go to college after high school, but though college was free to attend, he needed to start making money now. So far he didnt regret his career choice, though he did regret not taking English class more seriously. Apparently they also have the phrase "When am I ever going to need to use this??" He could say a few English phrases ("To the left," and "To the right"), but I think I was unable to effectively teach him his requestex phrase "The toe of your foot" that he could use to direct tourists how to ride.

Our dirt and rough gravel path initially wound through a nonpaved part of town. Although barn animals abounded and yhe folks appeared to live in a countryside manner, they didnt seem to be in poverty or squalor. To the contrary, I saw much evidence of ongoing home improvement, and though small, their cottages were well kept. I wondered if they appreciated the rich landscape views; at one time I marveled to a passing man while admiring the view, "It is so beautiful" and his tone was a bit, "Eh you get used to it."

Adrián preferred to trot the horses. In addition to making encouraging kissing noises at my horse Mojito, he also begged the horse to hurry by calling his name. "Mojiiiiito!" The reason he gave was that the tobacco farmers were far away and might close. Really it was because I ordered only 2 hours instead of 3 for budget reasons. This trotting led to a lot bouncing up and down in the seat (the raw result of which I observed later on my bum). I mentioned that, um, it was a little difficult for men to bump like that (the reason I didnt encourage the trotting. Poor Mojito.). He laughed and said he gets that a lot, then recommended leaning back in the seat to avoid bouncing. That would have been helpful advice, though I wonder how difficult it'd be to teach that in English.

The path was well worn, the result of many a tourist horse rides, and we bypassed a tourist trap refreshment spot to stop at a pseudo tourist trap tobacco drying house. There, a gentleman explained the growing and drying process in Spanish as we stood inside a high peaked barn with bound tobacco hanging from racks. Above, a rooster oversaw the whole operation from his perch among the leaves. The man took me to another building (like a school bus stop?) where he demonstrated the cigar rolling technique and gave me a free cigar to take ("Contrary to factory made cigars laced with chemicals, these are all natural so good for you!") Then he presented a "best" bundle of cigars and named the price for this premium souvenir. When I didnt grab my wallet, he brought out the "better." When I still didnt move, he plopped the "good" bundle on the table. I expressed my sincere gratitude as best one can who stumbles through a foreign language, but declined. He was still very warm and courteous, though Im sure disappointed. Still, I hadnt asked my guide to take me to a cigar rolling demo, so I couldnt feel too bad. (Side note: had we more time, my guide also would have taken me to a coffee plantation, which also would have been... complicated).

Afterwards I apologized for not smoking or buying, but tried to explain the tenets of my religion. He replied that it was ok, and that it was probably better for a person not to smoke. In fact, his grandmother died from lung cancer. He asked the name of my church which I shared, as well as the some basic premises, but he certainly didnt recognize the name. I wonder how many Mormons are in Cuba, let alone in a remote village.

After my horse adventure, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands. There I discovered that certain parts of my body looked like bubble wrap! The most sunburned portions had blistered. This provided a decent amount of fun as I popped and peeled ripe skin. Whitney would be in heaven.

My dinner of fish, beans, and rice was delicious (better than it sounds!) and I took an evening stroll back along the dirt path to try to snap some photos of the landscape in gentler sunset light. Along the way I saw a man and woman pushing a wheelbarrow of pineappples and selling to the residents (oh my gosh I wish Id had a way to butcher a fresh pineapple), and a passing cowboy argue about the price of mangos with a woman who sold them from her yard tree. I heard some gentle oinks emitted from behind a bush several young pigs scurried toward me. Id like to think its because they could sense my fondness for Babe, but probably they only thought I had their dinner. Along the way, cowboys washed their horses, the runoff of which created muddy pools in the path and blocked my sandal-clad procession (I can only imagine what the locals think of tourist attire). Finally I found an unobsured view of the sun setting behind some Mogotes, so I relaxed and just let it all set in. The sky turned purple with streaks of orange. And as the air cooled with resultant airborne bugs emerging, birds flitted about to gorge. I contemplated how fortunate I am to be able to travel and observe ao much. Though, perhaps like the folks in whose backyards I stood, there is beauty all around us. It just needs to be noticed and appreciated. I stood there being super deep until the constant barking of the neighbor's dog lasted long enough that folks might start getting concerned.

I returned to the town plaza where I hooked back into the rest of the world. Downloaded some podcasts, ran into some more OSU alumni (they saw the beaver hat!), followed the Beaver baseball game, reloaded my news reader, and chatted with Whitney as my final day in Cuba drew to a close.

Day 9. Penultimate

At the dawn of the final stretch of every foreign trip, there comes the evaluation of one's financial situation; do I have enough to make it through, but not so much that I return with excess (esp since I dont know if Cuban pesos can be exchanged in the US)? I counted my monies, projected how much more I should need, and asked my host Odalis directions to the bank. Having received those and a "bueno suerte, mi amor!", I was on my way.

I found the bank... and the long line outside of it. One of the common practices is to allow only enough people into the bank/Etecsa shops/etc who will fill the teller stations, and to put the line outside the guarded door. After asking loudly, "Último?", I stood at the end of an unmoving line. After some time, I asked the lady in front of me if there is always a long line for the bank. She responded regretfully that yes there is, but that I could go to a Cadeca to change money. I had thought that they only interchanged CUCs and CUPs, but they also have other bank-like services. She gave me directions, and I was on my way. Again.

I followed her directions for five minutes, but was a bit worried that Id missed the Cadeca. I started asking passer-bys for additional directions and had started to turn around when I bumped in the lady. "Where are you going? Im going to show you the cadeca! Im tired of waiting in that line." She was a nice older lady who, upon seeing the first bicycle taxi, declared that she was too tired to walk and we hopped on for my first Cuban bicycle taxi ride! Quite a few blocks later (I dont think I could have found it alone) we arrived and she directed me to my cadeca line and she went to the bank line adjacent to the cadeca. Im not so sure that bank's line was any shorter, so I felt especially grateful to the lady who literally went out of her way to help me.

The cadeca line did move faster and as the day warmed up, I noticed my back started to itch more... I had entered the itchy phase of a sunburn. Looked like a trip to the farmácia was in my future. The line passed in front of a repair shop where I saw guys sitting at three desks with tvs, a microwave, a blender or fan, and rice cooker around them in various stages of repair. Thats certainly a sight you dont see often in the US.

I asked for and followed directions from multiple people to make my way to a pharmacy. I waited in that line for quite a while before inquiring of another patron if the pharmacy would carry oral antihistimines. "Huh?" (Oh dear, this was going to be like France all over again.) I described how I was itchy from a sunburn. "Oh, this pharmacy is for prescriptions. You need to go to that pharmacy for over the counter medications." She pointed to a pink mall down the street. Okay, the adventure continues.

The pink mall was... actually a mall! This central part of Havana was very different and modern than old Havana (duh?). The interior of the mall was cube-like with a food court in the center ground floor and an inclined ramp along the perimeter that led to four floors of shops. At a tiny pharmacy I described my symptoms and the lady pulled out a cream. "No I dont have anyone else to apply the cream to my back."--plus can you imagine how fast I would sweat off cream??--"Do you have any oral antihistimines?" She presented a box of loratadina tablets manufactured on Spain. Well, loratadine sounded familiar, and after I confirmes that it would address my itchy symptoms, I coughed up the $11 (twice my budget). I asked for the administration directions and misunderstood to take one every hour. "But then the box will last only one day." She laughed and replied, "No, one every 24 hours. If you take the box in one day, sweet dreams." (I later read that loratidine can cause drowsiness.)

After stopping off at a cathedral to tap the previous day's journal entry, I walked to a Napolean museum. Apparently there'd been an Italian guy living in Cuba who amassed a fortune as a cigar czar and collected a gajillion Napolean artifacts. I walked around the first floor, thinking about how uncomfortable the clothes looked and took a seat ln the outside terrace. There were perhaps only 8 other museum patrons, so when one of the museum officers (whats that word for a person who guides/watches/guards at a museum?) saw me sit down, she rebuked me with a smile, "There are three more floors and if you sit down, you won't have enough time!" I guess I couldnt use the excuse of "absorbing the environment" right then.

A library of 3000 books about Napolean and his family filled the top floor where a museum officer volunteered herself as my guide. I knew that she was going to ask for a donation, but her guiding was actually quite helpful, so I didnt mind. As a side note, she wore patterned tights under her skirt (I didnt take a photo for obvious reason). This is a fashion Id seen among many professional women in Havana.

The museum is situated on the edge of the hilltop Havana University, so I walked through there a bit. It lacked any central campus quad, as is common among American universities, but rather consisted of many impressive buildings. Well, mostly impressive; the sports stadium was, well how should one say, it wouldnt attract many D1 recruits. The guard lady who encouraged me to enter, then encouraged a donation for her scant services as I left. This time I did mind a bit, as she acted a bit like a bridge troll.

After the unversity I walked to a famous ice cream shop that my guide book told me is famous and so I shoukd therefore visit it. Well, it doesn't take much to get me to eat ice cream. The main building itself is of unique architecture--the book describes it as UFO-like--but I didnt get to it. At the main entrance the guards turned me away, saying perhaps that that entrance was for Cubans. I circumnavigated the dish and found a shack serving the dessert. There may have been a tourist entrance for the main building, but lets get real: I was only there for the ice cream. I got a scoop of orange-pineapple for the surprisingly affordable $0.55. It was good, but not Tillamook good.

From there I found my way towards a monument for José Martí, a founder and martyr of modern Cuba. A stretch of park blocks lay in front of the monument, so I sat on a bench and absorbed for a while (totally justifiable). Behind me two blocks a saxaphonist practiced chromatic arpeggios, and closer to me, three or four trumptets practiced drills brass musical passages. Im not sure why they practiced together; their notes didnt seem to go together. But "birds of a feather." Half a block in front, a young man had set up shop with a cooler and sold to passing bus passngers. At first his gestures looked like he scooped ice cream, but I couldnt quite tell. My curiosity getting the best of me, I approached him and found that he sold guyaba jam-filled empanadas for about $0.08 each. Um of course I wanted one. Wait no I wanted two. He asked if I was from Argentina. I said no, the US. And he responded that I sounded like an Argentinian. Im pretty sure he was just being nice, but then again the way many Cubans slur like theyre recovering from the dentist, I suppose my enunciation could sound crisp like Ive heard the Argentinians are. But he was probably just nice.

After another block or two, I arrived at a big asphalt plaza preceeding the monument (not nice grass like we have for the Washington Monument). Bleachers had been set up for Monday's march and rally ("You really need to be here to see that!" one guard remarked). But then I saw a huge cluster of bees swarming or forming a hive on the bleacher structure. I notified another guard who said, "No there arent any bees." "Yes, I saw them under the chairs!" He probably thought I was crazy. We we'll see who's crazy on Monday!

Day 8. Return to Havana

This morning I woke bright and early to catch my bus back to Havana. I unexpectedly met my German friends at the station, who were heading to Sanct Spiritus. It's funny how if you spend enough time in a small town indundated with tourists, youre bound to start recognizing each other. Its kinda like a college campus in that way.

When I checked my bag at the bus station, the clerk had a series of motions that he executed with mechanical precision. Print the boarding pass, produce the bag ticket, fold ticket into pass, point to tip basket, tuck folded documents under basket. 1-2-3-4-5. He got the message across pretty effectively. (Side note: Ive noticed that the drivers are generally crisply dressed, freshly shaven, and with slicked hair. Makes me think of the airline pilot aura of the 1960s.)

Fortunately, this bus ride back wasnt overbooked and nobody sat by me! I guess I must look fearsome. Also, I may have looked like an imbecile: the only snacks at the convenience store were next to the infant formula and the cookies I bought had milk-flavored filling. I dont know if Id want to sit for 6 hours next to someone who was gobbling down jarred baby food.

The ride was fairly uneventful. I listened to some podcasts and slept a little; the sunburn has made sleeping a little less continuous.

After arriving in Havana, I picked up a snack at the station store. The attendants must have noticed that I was preparing for a street journey as I repacked, rolled up my sleeves, and looked my phone map, because one asked, "Amigo, can I help you?" I explained my plans to walk to Infanta street, the location of my next CP. They got worried looks and remarked about how far it was. Well, Id been sitting on a bus all day and wanted some exercise. Okay, whatever crazy American. They did also comment on the uniqueness of travelling to Cuba alone, something that makes me feel a little proud and nervous.

My CP had listed an address on airbnb that didnt readily show up on Google maps. But if the location were at one end of the road, it wouldnt be too far of a walk. Of it were at the other end.... well I needed some exercise anyway. So off I went, with bsckpack shouldered and rolling suitcase in tow.

About a mile in, I passed a lady struggling under some bags, so I offered to help her. She readily accepted and then struck up a one-sided conversation. Ive noticed that many of the Cubans drop consonants. So "tres", "seis", and "diez" become "tre", "sei", and "die" and "estoy" becomes "toy" with just a little bit of an S at the beginning. Well this lady had the accent going strong. Along with speaking a million words a minute, I found it hard to totally understand. She kept saying somethinh abouy how long Infanta is, but then something repeatedly about "guaua." "Taxi? Bus?" I asked. Nope. I wasnt getting the guaua meaning. After a ehile we reached her bus stop and after dropping her bag, I kept walking.

After some more time I reached the end of what I thought was Infanta. Actually it was another street that becomes Infanta. The number on the block was 400. Okay, so I only had four blocks to walk until Infanta, then the number of the CP was supposed to be a 407, so another four blocks after that?

When the road finally changed names, the block read 1600... oof. Okay, twelve more blocks is doable. When I finally reached 407 Infanta, I rang the bell maybe a little impatiently and the housekeeper let me up the two flights af stairs. In all, I walked about 4.5 miles in pants and with backpack and roller bag, on a sunny day in the 80s. I take pride in being a hearty American, but at that point I think I began to start feeling symptoms of heat exhaustion. Fortunately I could rest in the shade and had water to drink. And they had a sweet littke chihuahua to keep me company.

When Odalis arrived a few minutes later, she entered the room like a mother hen who encompassed the stereotypes of Havana: vivacious and effusive. Despite my sweatball status, she pulled me in for a baci (not sure what its called here) and also spoke a million words a minute. She showed me my room, I turned the fan to high, and recuperated for a bit.

Some time later, she energetically asked if I wanted her to show me the wifi park. Uh duh. We strode quickly for three blocks where we both signed in. I to upload a blog post, and she to catch up with her business dealings (she said it's illegal to have personal internet in the home). I also translated messages from English-speaking guests to her, something I stumbled through. When she had finished, she asked what I was up to for rest of the evening: go to old Havana, walk along the Malecón, etc. I replied that I didnt know, maybe both? She then gave me instructions, rapid fire, on how to get back, how to use the keys, then I started to lose track of what she was saying for about 20 sec. She asked if I understood. I shook my head, said no, and laughed. She laughed, clucked, and as she turned made kissing noises that an aunt might make to a silly nephew. And just like that, she disappeared into the crowd.

I ended up just meandering on the Infanta street for a while, and finding a latino fast food place. Like pizzas, rice and beans, chicken filet, etc. AND the prices were ij moneda nacional. At that point I didnt really care what I ate, so I asked the waitress what her favorite is and ordered that. The chicken filet was delicious, then again Ive noticed a relationship between how tired I am and how good food is. I got  some bitter salad (it seems that most lettuce here is bitter, I think that's usually because it is under-watered?), rice and beans, a few tomato and cucumber slices, a cola nacional, and a jugo natural  (guyaba and melon)... all for $6. What a deal. This time I didn't ask regarding client nationality.

I then walked up to the Malecón, thwarting several taxi drivers/would-be guides, and people-watched next to a fountain. Then walked up the most all-out display of the American flag: a man with pants, shirt, neckerchief, and hat, allade out of stars and stripes fabric. I mean, Ive seen a whole dress, or a skirt/shirt combo, but not four items. I maybe obviously took a picture.

After a walk along the shoreline to watch the sun set, I headed back to my room ready to rest, even if the pseudo-working air conditioner and itchy sunburn were determined to disturb my slumber.

Day 7. Long Trinadero days

Today was another slow-paced day. This was in part due to my skin's crispiness and sore bum, but also because I hadn't planned any excursions (which are relatively numerous for a town the size of Trinidad, but still limited). A horse ride through a nearby exposed local park would have worsening effects on my sunburn and backside, and I hadnt made the necessary preparations to visit any of the local farms though the conditions of the ones I passed on my way to the beach suggested that I wasnt missing much. No, instead I would practice the art of idleness. Ive been surprised in the past with how increased distance from frenetic happenings can mute their rapid pace; laying next to a river, one can easily forget its powerful current.

I took a brief swim in the local figurative river though, by waiting in the pulsing cluster outside Etecsa. The time on my wifi card had almost expired and figured that I could be a fly on the wall. The mob outside the shop was present again--apparently it is every day, all day--so I diffused through the folks to get in the wifi card line. It proved also to be a good time to observe passer-bys and count the Stars and Stripes. I got up to 50 by day's end. These folks today had much of the same desires (so surprise, I mean how many services could a communications company offer?), though I noticed more people buying (their first?) smart-ish phones. I remember the excitement that I have felt when buying the new iphone, so could easily identify with the anxious look in their eyes as they hoped for their line to move faster. In the end it took... maybe 45 minutes to buy another wifi card, and I did question if the opportunity to observe yhe Trinaderos was worth the cost-saving of buying a card from a scalper.

From there I stopped at a supermarket to get some snacks for lunch. I rrally dont mean to sound condescending, but there was actually selection! Like: two different types of tortilla chips; three different juices; and some bon bons. I really take for granted what selection we have in the US. I settled for some garlic puffs and a big bottle of cola Nationalista. I walked back to the wifi park and tapped the previous day's blog entry, interrupted a an army of ants intent on securing a garlic puff and an older man who approached my with his hat in hand.

Afterwards I departed on a mission of souvenir errands. I navigated myself throught the streets to look for a musical instrument shop that makes claves--the wooden sticks that resonate when struck. Unfortunately I didnt find the workshop, but did stumble upon a street market. I moved from stall to stall, the hawkers eagerly showing their goods, and I enjoyed the utlitly of having a list to shop for rather than browsing; it made it easier to say no. At one shop, after I turned down their trinkets, they held up a cup and asked if they could have a drink of my cola. I happily gave them the rest of the bottle, and felt a slight twinge of survivor's guilt.

I spent an absurd amount of time at ine stand that had a pile of claves, both Afro-Cuban style (a lower pitched, hollowed-out stick) and Cuban style (higher pitched and solid). Of course I had to find which set would be as close as possible to an octave apart, and which sticks were the most resonant and sang. I'm sure the sellers thought me insufferable by smiled encouragingly as I tapped through all the options.

Next up: a table runner, or walker in Spanish. One of the crafts is embroidered table cloths/runners/placemats. I first saw them in a village that we stopped at along the train ride. The visual of the hanging white cloths, billowing in the breeze sorrounding by verdant bushes and with a tower in the background was striking. I would have said that it is a woman's craft, but I remember walking by a security guard whose hand passed a needle to-and-fro through a circular frame.

I had a list of criteria for the desired runner: rectangular, short-but not too short, beige-not white, and with blue thread. With the many stalls selling these cloths, I felt bound to find the One. Actually having these specifications continued to be helpful as I told several disappointed would-be sellers, "Sorry but my wife has specificiations." (Sorry Whitney for kinda throwing you under the bus!) Eventually I did find a beautiful runner that will adorn our table and eventually have grape juice spilled on it. Hopefully beige hides the stains.

I spent the rest of the day in even lower gear, first at their Spanish Steps. Around 4pm, the band started playing and the pack of dogs arrived. These dogs that Id noticed at night very placably lounge about with the sitting folks. However the moment a scooter zips by, they go into guard dog mode and jump to barking attention. The path of the scooters are bottle-necked by the corner of a building jutting close to the steps, so the driver has to slow down to navigate. This gives the dogs more time to yap at their wheels, creating a humorous sight of the driver trying not to get tripped up on the cobblestones nor hitting the barking dogs.

I walked away from the tourist steps and meandered through the streets, at one point passing an elementary school and hearing through the open windows the teacher and students reciting together. My german friends later told me that they passed a school (perhaps the same one?) Where the kids studied for a while and then carted out cots for a siesta.

For dinner I ventured even further away from the tourist center, and felt very excited when I saw a menu all in Spanish, with prices--and this was a first for me--in monesa national, or CUPs! This was sure to be authentic, local food. I ordered a chicken filet with pineapple, and then casually asked the waitress if more of the clients are tourists or Trinaderos. Without skipping a beat, she responded "Oh, tourists." Dang. Well, the dessert I got must have been authentic, because it certainly wasn't what Ive aeen in the US: called Dulce Casero ("Sweet Home"?), it feautured a dish of guyaba sauce like a loose jelly with thin slices of a hard cheese.

I spent the rest of the night trying to dip my toe into the busy current of going-ons in the US. The Spanish Steps wifi was hopelessly jammed by the many tourists, but I found success after numerous tries at the more Trinadero-populated Etecsa wifi hotspot. At least I could be authentic in that way?

Day 6. Surf and turf

Today I woke and thought to myself, "Wow, my skin is so very white, the level of whiteness that can be achieved only from sitting in a fab for many hours. I should see if I can blend into the white beach sand!" Unfortunately I hadn't packed any sun block, but no problem: I would rest under the shade of a palm-leaved umbrella.

Next item: what to wear en route... one thing ive noticed is the Cuban affinity for wearing the American flag on hats, bandanas, shirts, tank tops, shorts, skirts, pants. I think they refrain from the flag on shoes out of respect. Up to noon on Tuesday (this post is about Monday), i saw 42 iterations of us flag, and multiple other "USA", "NYC", etc paraphernalia--and this was with spending 9 hours away from Cubans! This surprised me a bit considering the US imposed sanctions,  but my hosts explained to me that they "love the American life." I suppose it makes sense that they would desire the lifestyle America affords. Im just surprised that desire would overrule any tension they harbor.

All of this is to say that i felt very authentic donning my patriotic benny Oregon State shirt. Im bound to fit in better!

I rented a bicycle from host's downstairs neighbor, a vintage racing bike with good enough brakes, solid handlebar, and unforgiving seat. I jaunted over to the Etecsa store to buy more wifi and was surised to see a large group waiting outside the door. It was a swarm of 30-40 bees, each person shouting their business  justification plea to enter the limiting door to the beehive. I enjoyed receiving my fly (/bee)-on-the-wall experience of observing locals in daily experiences. It seemed that the mob clustered outside the door for a few purposes: buying wifi, paying a cell phone bill, buying a new cell phone, and others. When a new person arrived, they'd shout "Última?" To find the end of the line. A credit to the people, I didn't observe efforts to cut in line, especially in front of the clueless foreigners. Speakinh of which, I saw the fellow behind me nervously paging through a dictionary. I asked where he was from, and he hailed from France... and spoke about two Spanish words. I offered to help him, and when it was my turn to enter the hive, I declared his association and pulled him through
A few minutes later we had our delicious wifi cards. Although I would have been happy to help otherwise, after our interaction I remembered how an older French lady had helped a hapless American couple find their way outside the Paris train station. Whitney and I were very thankful.

I hopped on my borrowed steed and rode against the traffic for a few blocks before getting onto the correct street. I exited town on a more rugged road, passing uniformed schoolchildren, a flower merchant selling what looked like freesia out of a bucket, and a street butcher hacking into a huge hunk of meat--the blood dripping down the table legs and around the cobblestones.

Soon I was out of town on quieter roads,  headed south. Brownish fields ran along the road and lowly vegetated mountains filled the background. Somewhere blossoms filled yhe air with the smell of honeycomb. Horse-drawn carts passed me occasionally.

At the fishing town of La Boca, I paused to take a photo of the ocean before turning west to enter the Ancón peninsula. The path alternately passed along an empty peaceful coastline where I had the view to myself, and through sparse groves of trees with dried seed pods drooping from the branches.

Finally I arrived at the stretch of alabaster sand yhat ran parallel to strips of turquoise, dark blue, and sapphire water. I claimed a vacant palm parasol and tried unsuccessfully to become engrossed in Catch-22. The German couple next to me were much more interesting.

He was a physist at a German institution and she a banker. Our conversation drifted from the use of accelerated protons for therapeutics uses  (his research) to of course politics. I really enjoyed exchanging ideas with a fellow scientist, and gaining politucal perspective from a non-American. Like Rick Steves says, "Travel is a political act."

I remembered partway through the day day that although the umbrella shielded me from direct sun, I received indirect radiation from reflection off sand or water. Well, it looked like I would get to tak an extra souvenir home!

Slowly the shadow of the umbrella slid across the sand, and I tried again to get into my book. I read for quite a while, inching my feet back into shadowed security every so often as the sun encroached on my sitting leisure. I capped off the day with a virgin piña colada, the sugary crystals crunching between my teeth as my toes wriggled in the sand.

The wind had picked up to quite the gale in the early afternoon which was nice: strong enough to keep us cool; week enough to not whip sand in our faces. On my ride back, the wind buffetted me from the side and worked up the water to form magificent scenes of waves crashing against rocks, perfect for the album cover to a Beethoven symphony. The wind rattled the seeds in their dried pods to create a shimmering, cacophonous tunnel.

At La Boca I headed north and enjoyed briefly the sail-like effects of a tail wind. I soon discovered that i hadnt noticed the 10-mile downhill grade that morning, and that I got the opportunity to practice repeated positive affirmations to myself. I arrived at Trinidad sweaty and crusty, and with seat bones that would never forgive me.

After an invigorating shower--the power had been out for electrical repairs so the hot water was scant--I visited the restaurant from the previous night. The two ladies played and sang, and I ordered a lobster dish. I figured that if I was going to be lobster-like on the outside, I should be so on the inside too.