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.
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