Trinidad, Cuba
The very name speaks to the religious identity of this country, a religious identity I have been continuing to learn has much faded, especially compared to other countries in Latin America. Is it the influence of Communism that has led to this? That is my working hypothesis. Today, it seems, is centered around visiting the old churches in three famous, historic towns: Camaguey, where we woke up, Trinidad, where we are now, and Cienfuegos, our next stop. We will be in Havana for dinner.
On paper, we have not really done much, but he have had our share of adventures, and we were already four hours behind schedule by the time we got to our first stop. There was Dutch Time, a lot of it, and we had to get a late start due to our late arrival last night. Shit got pretty crazy last night, in no small part to the residual alcohol still entering my friend’s system, even after he had stopped drinking. Basically, from what I understand, your body can only process about two shots an hour, so if you do like four shots in a row, you will get steadily drunk for the next two hours, even without continuing to drink. He had six shots, so he was good until midnight. We woke early to a disappointing breakfast buffet and then headed down, where I bought a large supply of cigars. I had already lit up an El Credito, but I bought an assortment of five different brands of cigars. It was close to 9 AM, and Ernesto was nowhere to be found, so we headed back to the plaza to take our ceremonial pictures of the church.
We then went to the first gift shop, but the selection was lacking. We split up, and he headed back to the room. I found another gift shop, but it was locked. There were people inside. Apparently, they were understaffed, so they only let a few people in the shop at a time. “No comprendo,” I said. I understand the words, just not the concept. I saw Ernesto, and he explained we had car troubles. There was no AC, and the car was overheating. He could not get a replacement. His solution? Reparations. Apparently, that word means something in Spanish than English. I thought he meant we’d get some money back. He meant we had to stop at the Peugot dealership for repairs. We got to the dealership at 10 AM, and I figured we’d be lucky to get out of their by noon. I just cared that we got to Cienfuegos by dark, which looks quite doable now.
I sat down and ready my Hemmingway book while I smoked a Cohiba. Ernesto told me the Freon had run out. They would refill it. I lit a small Partagas, figuring they would not be able to refill it before the cigar was done. I was wrong, and they soon brought the car back. Oh, reader, did I mention we had to empty out the entire cigar and sit with our luggage for the two hours. It was 11:30 AM by the time we were on the road. My schedule said 8 AM on the road. We stopped for pizza for lunch after my cigar, which somehow took half an hour. Everything takes too long here, as there is no sense of urgency. No wonder Ernesto said my schedule was too ambitious. No wonder we are always behind schedule. It is not in service of their Lord that they are slow. Everything is slow because they have no incentive to be fast.
After lunch, I lit up an H. Upmann Magnum, and we headed towards Trinidad. The AC wasn’t working again. I figured that driving in the heat while we smoked for an hour with the windows opened killed it. We stopped at the Valley de los Ingenios for a ceremonial picture, where I lit up a Romeo y Julieta and admired the sugar fields. Reader, that was my last cigar brand, other than the Montecristo, which I am saving for “Cuba Complete.” I will have to duplicate a cigar brand for Cienfuegos, which does not make me happy.
Anyway, we soon found the spot for the inscription photo, which had two old churches in view. It seems like in every city here, just as in the rest of Latin America, the old church is the biggest, most beautiful, most iconic building. Life and cities used to be built around the church in this region. Here, it is no longer the case. I got some souvenirs, and it was raining by the time I finished in the shop, so I headed to an a patio with a view of the inscription photo, where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that we can head to Cienfuegos.
We then went to the first gift shop, but the selection was lacking. We split up, and he headed back to the room. I found another gift shop, but it was locked. There were people inside. Apparently, they were understaffed, so they only let a few people in the shop at a time. “No comprendo,” I said. I understand the words, just not the concept. I saw Ernesto, and he explained we had car troubles. There was no AC, and the car was overheating. He could not get a replacement. His solution? Reparations. Apparently, that word means something in Spanish than English. I thought he meant we’d get some money back. He meant we had to stop at the Peugot dealership for repairs. We got to the dealership at 10 AM, and I figured we’d be lucky to get out of their by noon. I just cared that we got to Cienfuegos by dark, which looks quite doable now.
After lunch, I lit up an H. Upmann Magnum, and we headed towards Trinidad. The AC wasn’t working again. I figured that driving in the heat while we smoked for an hour with the windows opened killed it. We stopped at the Valley de los Ingenios for a ceremonial picture, where I lit up a Romeo y Julieta and admired the sugar fields. Reader, that was my last cigar brand, other than the Montecristo, which I am saving for “Cuba Complete.” I will have to duplicate a cigar brand for Cienfuegos, which does not make me happy.
They say travel is about experiences, and the experiences of the past few days, the past few hours especially, are experiences we will remember the rest of our lives. It has just turned midnight, which means Havana has turned 500 years old, but, for the purposes of this Travelogue, it is still August 24th, since I will not be implementing the New Year’s protocol, in no small part to the fact that no one is celebrating this momentous occasion, other than these two Americans who have come to study the 500 years of culture and religion in Cuba. You can really tell that each and every century left its own mark, from the architecture to the culture to the various churches, nowhere else in the world is so well preserved this progression of half a millennium. Sitting here in the famous, historic Plaza de Armas, in view of another wonderful church, we might as well be in 1515 as 2015. Only my laptop and the electric lights put pay to that illusion.
After I closed in Trinidad, my friend told me he found someone who was selling cigars. We followed a bit of a distance to a secluded house, where they had a few boxes of cigars, with the holographic stickers unattached. It was clear to me they were either fake or stolen, and I could not tell which. The bands on the Cohibas were clearly fake, the others harder to tell. I looked at a box of Montecristo. The guy said I could smoke one and try it. I cleared out my mouth with some water and lit up the cigar. Maybe it was real, but it was plugged and tasted like shit. I put the cigar down and walked away, trying to get back to the car as quickly as possible. The rain quickly started to get much worse as we made our way to Cienfuegos, getting a little lost on the way.
The inscription photo was taken in Parque Jose Marti, and the rain almost stopped by the time we got there. Almost as soon as we got out the car, I was accosted a kid who demanded, not asked for, demanded I give him a small amount of money. I completely ignored him, didn’t even look at him. We were soon surrounded by other kids, and I just ignored them as we took our ceremonial pictures. The inscription photo was not of a church, but there were many churches to be found around the city. This city was founded in the 18th Century by ethnic French immigrants, very different than the other cities, which explains the different layout. We got some more water and were on the road after a bit. We wanted to get to Havana in time for dinner.
The rain was on and off as we drove, and it has now fully stopped. My friend and I also discussed his newfound religious observation and how his upcoming nuptials affected it. The conversation was slightly south of pleasant, but it was not altogether unpleasant. I smoked a Davidoff and drank rum straight from the bottle as we drove. We soon found ourselves in Havana, and Ernesto had some difficulty finding the hotel, in no small part due to the roads under maintenance. We got to the hotel, and I checked in and changed money. We found out that there was a good restaurant, a private restaurant, near our hotel. Reader, if you had to say what was meant by a private restaurant, you would think one that was member’s only club, yes?
That is not what it means in Cuba. It means that it is owned privately, rather than by the government. The food is much better, and the prices are double or more. We got settled into our room, very excited about riding up in the same antique elevator Hemingway used. We went down and had mojitos in the lobby, just like Hemingway did. We headed out to the restaurant, Cuba Moneda, where I quickly ordered a deconstructed diet Cuba Libre (a diet cola and a glass of aged Havana Club rum). I got the mixed grill for my dish, and I was slowly getting more and more toasted.
I excitedly texted my sister, realizing that my texts would not go through until I got back to Miami on Wednesday. I didn’t care. Of all the people in my phone whom I might text, other than her husband (my regular readers will catch the irony of that wording), she is the one I love most, by far. I told my friend, slightly tongue in cheek that it was funny I only text my sister when I’m toasted, but her husband only texts me when he’s toasted. To my non-regular readers, the joke is this. Her husband is my brother, and she is only my sister by law, not by blood, though I consider her to be my sibling every bit as much as I do my brother.
After dinner and coffee and dessert, I lit up another El Credito, intending to finish at in another plaza in view of a church, as I wrote, just as I have each of the previous two nights. I had brought another one for my friend, but he opted for a Romeo y Julieta. It soon became clear to me there was zero chance of finishing this entry before I finished that cigar, so I reclaimed the El Credito from my friend. We walked around, finding a couple of plazas, and, in the end, I decided the famous, historic Plaza de Armas, which was the closest one to our hotel would do quite fine.
When we got back to the hotel, we were greeted by our friend, who brought us up to the hotel. He told us he had original cigars to sell us. The prices were too good to be true. They were either fake or stolen. We went to the room, and he soon joined us with a sizeable suitcase. It was filled with boxes of cigars. I was like a kid in a candy store. The Cohibas had obviously fake bands, but I was able to determine a few boxes were legit. I chose two for myself, and my friend chose one, as well. It literally felt like we were doing a drugs or arms deal. We negotiated an even cheaper price, like 10% off the already cheap price.
We all went downstairs, and I used my first cigar to light a second El Credito. I had a glass of rum with me, and we walked to the Plaza de Armas, where we walked around to find the perfect spot, with the best view of the church. We then sat down in the center, where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that we can begin celebrating the 500th Anniversary of Havana and get some sleep before we do it up right tomorrow. This is just such an amazing place to be, and I will now close, but I want first reiterate what I have observed today. There is 500 years of culture here, and you can absolutely tell, from Columbus to Marti to Hemmingway to Castro, from the Conquistadors to the Communists, they have all left their mark, be it through religion or revolution. On that note, I close.
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