The Royal Route - Day 1 - An Old Friend, and a New One

9/5/15, “An Old Friend, and a New One”

Benito Juarez International Airport, Mexico (MEX)

One of the most common themes I present in this Travelogue is the idea of the unfamiliar within the familiar and the familiar within the unfamiliar.  Sitting here, in this very familiar concourse, I am embarking on the unfamiliar.  On each of my last two trips to Mexico, this concourse has meant that I was going home.  In fact, six months ago, I sat at this very gate, this very seat I think, as I prepared to board my flight back to New York.  Today, I am flying outbound to Guadalajara, the first of my Mexico WHS runs that was not based out of the Federal Disctrict.

I will have to take somewhere between 4 and 7 more trips to Mexico before I can say, “Mexico Complete.”  A lot more of them will involve a stop here, and others will be different entirely, as I continue to mix the familiar and the unfamiliar.  I am dead tired and just want to get on the plane, so I can sleep until I meet Enrique and can pass out in his car for the four hour drive that will begin our journey together.

After I closed last night, I got an overpriced ice cream and soda.  I then sat down to write a personal journal entry.  I was on my first sentence when I heard my name called.  They had managed to get me an exit row window seat, and, it turned out, the middle seat was empty.  I managed to quickly write my journal entry before I had to board.  It took me a while to fall asleep, but, as soon as I did, I felt like no time had passed before I woke up as we were making our descent.  As we landed, I checked my watch, and it said 5:20 AM.  Okay, just 10 minutes late, I thought, plenty of time to make my connection.

It took me a while to remember the time zone change.  We weren’t 10 minutes late.  We were 50 minutes early.  I’d have time to kill, lots of time to kill.  That wasn’t good.  I don’t like risking sleeping in an airport for a short period of time.  I’d rather have been asleep on the plane for that extra hour.  I then went towards border control, and something was different, well, two things, actually.  First, I was on the right side, not the left side as I had previously been.  Second, where was the long line?  There had always been a horribly long line to go through Immigration.  There were only a half dozen or so people in front of me.  When it was my turn, we went through the process without exchanging a single word, except maybe a thank you.  I picked up some cigars at duty-free, cleared customs, went back through security, and found some outlets.

Breakfast

No, this wouldn’t do.  There were three hours before my flight, and I was already airside.  I had over two hours to kill.  I wanted a cigar.  Could I smoke anywhere in the terminal?  Too tired and groggy to properly understand any Spanish or even speak it that well, I asked one of the security guards where I could smoke.  He appeared to be looking for a secluded area in the airport for me to hide and have a smoke, but then he told me I had to go outside.  I took a pass on that.  Instead, I got a couple more cigars and went to get breakfast, finding a French bistro where I could sit down and kill an hour or so.  I ordered something called a “Croque Madame,” basically grilled cheese with green eggs and ham, I mean, ham and a fried egg, like all in one sandwich.  It was really good, as was the coffee I got with it.  I soon proceeded to the gate, still two hours before my flight, where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can try to kill another hour before it’s time to board.

Zacatecas, Zacatecas, Mexico

I have decided to rename this trip.  Most of the WHS I visit this trip will be part of or be associated with the Royal Route or Camino Real.  It was a trade route focused predominantly on silver in the middle of the last millennium.  Here, in Zacatecas, I am at the heart of it, where much of the silver was mined.  It is a lovely city, and I am allowing myself some extra time, even though it will mean a later arrival at the hotel.

After I closed at Benito Juarez, I found a newly effective way to sleep at the airport, and it was soon time to board.  I think I slept through most of the flight, and I was soon in Guadalajara.  As soon as I left the airport, my old friend was waiting for me, and we greeted each other like old friends.  I told him the plan, and he hemmed and hawed, like he always does, before agreeing to the plan.  He had gifts for me, well, maybe not gifts since I have to pay for them, but he had ten cigars he picked up before he left the Federal District.

Lunch

Once we got on the highway, I lit up my traditional first cigar, the Davidoff Escurio, and blared Red.  Our first stop was a town called Encarnacion de Diaz, where my new friend had told me there was a WHS Plaque for the Royal Route.  I made this friend on Instagram, through our shared love a WHS sites.  He said it was right in the cemetery, so that was where I told Enrique to take me.  We got lunch first, pork sandwiches that took forever to make, and the cemetery was a block away.

Where the plaque was

I lit up an H. Upmann Epicure and headed to the cemetery.  No plaque.  The lady at the souvenir shop said it was at the municipal building, so we headed there.  The guards said there was no plaque there, nor could we find it, and my Instagram friend insisted it was at the cemetery, so we headed back there.  Long story short, the plaque had been taken down because they received word it was about to be stolen, and it was no inside the municipal building, which is closed on the weekend.

Encarnacion de Diaz

However, it was still part of a WHS, so I got my souvenirs and took the ceremonial pictures.  We then headed to Zacatecas, and I messaged back and forth my Instagram friend, who had now become a Facebook friend.  We made plans to do a WHS run together on a future trip to Mexico.  As we got into Zacatecas, where there were alleged to be two plaques, including one for the Royal Route, we drove through downtown, and I saw the first plaque.

Zacatecas

The inscription photo was of the Cathedral, so we drove past the plaque and continued to the Cathedral.  I got my souvenirs, lit up a Romeo y Julieta, and then took my ceremonial pictures in front of the Cathedral.  There was a coffee shop with outdoor seating in view of the Cathedral, so I sat down there, where I proceeded to write this entry and order a coffee.  I will now close so that I can finish exploring the city.

Jalpan de Sierra, Queretaro, Mexico

Just as I have decided to rename this trip, I am also renaming the day’s entry.  I had initially named it “My Old Friend” in reference to reuniting with Enrique.  However, I think I might have spent more time interacting with my new Facebook friend than I did with Enrique, so I would be remiss not to rename the entry.  It is almost 2 AM local time, and I am dead tired, so I will summarize as much as possible.

The thing about Mexico and their plaques is that most WHS in Mexico are located in or simply are a famous historic city, and, like in Cuba, every famous, historic city has a famous, historic church with a big plaza in front.  More often than not, that is where the plaque is.  That is where I am sitting right now in the appropriately named UNESCO Plaza.  Mexico and Canada respect their plaques in a way that the United States never does.  I can’t think of one US Plaque that is displayed in good location.  Parking lots, bathrooms, secluded areas of the VC, or even storage closets.  That is where the US puts their plaques.  Canada finds the most scenic vista in the entire WHS that is easily accessible and puts the Plaque right there.  Mexico, as I described, in the main plaza of the town, such as the one where I am sitting right now.

Zacatecas plaque

After I closed, I walked back to find my plaque in Zacatecas, took some ceremonial pictures, failed to find the other one, and headed back to find Enrique.  We drove to the other plaque, but it was just a duplicate of the first.  I knew there to be a Royal Route plaque in San Luis Potosi, thanks to my new friend, so I suggested we go there for dinner.  We were there before dark, and I got some ice cream to tide me over.  Enrique parked about 100m from the plaza that had the plaque, and I had to walk down a little pedestrian street with vendors hawking their wares, just as they probably have for 500 years.

Camino Real plaque

This city was the heart of the Royal Route.  I found my plaque, lit up an H. Upmann, much to my dismay, so I had previously smoked an H. Upmann Epicure at the first Royal Route stop, but I liked the symmetry, so I let it go, and the cigars are sufficiently different, purchased in different countries even.  I didn’t even buy the Epicure, as it was part of the package Enrique gave me.  I took my ceremonial pictures and headed back to the van.

Dinner

My new friend had given me a restaurant with his highest recommendation, so we headed there.  It was fancy and looked pricey, but we were celebrating.  The trip was off to a great start.  I ordered goat tacos, chiles en nogadas, and a beer.  Enrique got a hamburger and some kind of soda.  I could not believe how cheap the total bill was.  Like, when I get Chinese food for dinner at my favorite place on 28^th Street, which I do once a week, I spend more at that restaurant than I did tonight for the two of us for dinner.  The meal was delicious, and I was able to finish my cigar while we waited for the food, as we sat outside.

I was going to finish off the day with an OpusX, but we needed gas, and I wanted to wait until after we gassed up to light up the cigar.  We found a gas station, which also had an Oxxo (Mexican 7-11/Wawa).  I got an absurd amount of snacks, drinks, and desserts for an insanely low price.  I then lit up the OpusX, or I tried to.  My lighter was out of gas, and I lost my last matches to the wind.  I got a new plastic lighter and lit up the OpusX, announcing, “Day 1 Complete.”  I will not bore my reader with details of the drive, but I tried to sleep as soon as I finished the OpusX, unsuccessfully, though I did rest my eyes for the whole drive, which helped.

Jalpan de Serra plaque at night

We were soon at the hotel, which was literally across the street from the plaque.  I had a hard arrival at the room of 1 AM.  I had thought we’d be here by 8 PM.  Enrique was a great sport.  He always is, despite his initial hemming and hawing.  I settled into my room, charged my electronics a bit, and changed into my pajamas before heading out to the plaza, where I lit up a Montecristo, took some ceremonial pictures in the dark, and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can publish and get to sleep at a somewhat reasonable hour.  The clock has just struck 2.  Literally, like the bell from the church just rang twice.

The Royal Route - Day 0 - A Familiar Departure

“The Royal Route”

9/4/15, “A Familiar Departure”

John F. Kennedy International Airport, New York

Six months ago, in this very concourse, waiting to take this very flight, I wrote about how much had changed in my life in the two years since I had previously taken this flight.  On the surface, almost nothing since I wrote from here six months ago.  However, inside, everything has changed.  I was a broken wreck back then, on the verge of collapse.  I will not detail what has changed, as I have already written more than enough on those changes.  I am happy with my life right now, very happy, and that is a good thing.

I will not be going anywhere near exotic as Iran, one of the many destinations I have visited from this terminal, nor will it be as epic as an adventure as my World War I trip to Yugoslavia, Austria-Hungary, and Turkey.  No, this will be relatively tame by comparison.  I will soon board the familiar Aeromexico flight 401, for the third time now.  What will be different is that I will connect to Guadalajara once I land in Mexico City, and my regular tour guide, Enrique, will be meeting me there.  Just as this is my third time aboard AM 401, this is my third time with Enrique.  The previous trips I mentioned, we have based out of Mexico City, returning there each night, with Enrique returning to his hotel room.

This time, we are doing something different.  We will be overnighting in a different city each night, rooming together, making our way back to Guadalajara on Monday, whence I will fly home at night.  The nice thing about this flight is that the flight is so late that I have time to pack and get ready after work before I head to the airport.

Day 0 was another familiar experience.  One of my friends had slept over, as we went to the midnight release of the Star Wars toys for the new movie, not getting home until 2 AM.  He was gone before I woke up, and I got to work on time.  We were let out at 3:30 PM, but I had wound up staying until 5 PM, finishing up some last minute stuff.

I had my pre-departure lunch from Hop Won and got my beard sheared off before heading to the cigar store for an Avo.  I figured that I didn’t want to come back through US border control from Mexico with a big thick beard.  After work, I headed to cigar to finish my Avo, followed by a new cigar, La Imperiosa.  (Technically these cigars do not count towards my Day 0 cigars, as I went home to change before departing.  The trip didn’t begin until I put on my travelling suit.)  My friend and I went to CPK for dinner, and I then went to pick my suit and laundry, telling him I’d meet him back at my place.  When I got back, I lit up a new OpusX, packed, showered, finished shaving, and got dressed.  I then got a taxi and headed to the airport.

It was such a familiar process once I got to the airport, having taken this very flight twice before.  When I got to security, the machine detected something in that exact same spot on my leg it always does, just like it does every time I where my freshly pressed suit.  I laughed about with the TSA officer as he perfunctorily patted my leg.  Freshly shaved and showered in my suit, I probably looked a lot less suspicious than I would have with my thick beard.  It’s a good thing I shaved.  I then headed to the gate, where I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can get something to eat or drink.

Cuba - Day 5 - Homeward Bound

8/26/15, “Homeward Bound”
José Martí International Airport, Cuba (HAV)

It was a familiar request that Ernesto made as we pulled into the airport, one everyone always makes when they drop me off at the airport.  He wanted me to come back to his country.  Each time, if I have said “Complete”, I politely decline or make some non-committal answer, not willing to lie but also knowing full well I’d not return, not at least for a very long time.  This time it was different.  Yesterday, I realized how much I loved this city, how disappointed I was that my program did not allow me to fully explore every nook and cranny of the city, how we could have stayed in the Hotel Nacional or an upmarket hotel by the Capitol for a different experience.  I knew I wanted to come back.

Before the borders closed, people would come to Havana for the weekend the same way they might go to Vegas or Miami.  Why not?  The flight was just as easy.  That what I wanted.  “As soon it becomes legal for tourism, I’ll be on the next flight back to Havana,” I promised, or some such formulation.  This was my first time in Havana.  It will not be my last.  I’m sure my reader has noticed by now how my writing style is influenced by my favorite writers.  I can now add another luminary to that list: Hemingway.  Most of what happened after I closed last night is unprintable, but I will do my best to include what I can.  We went back to the hotel and relaxed.  I lit up my Ardor, my very best pipe, poured myself a diet Cuba Libre, and read a chapter of Hemingway.  We then packed and got ready for our big night, dressing ourselves up in our best attire.

Our religious studies program completed, we opted to choose this night, the 500^th Anniversary of Havana, to celebrate my friend’s bachelor party.  It was going to be epic.  We looked like were balling.  We did not look like we were on a very tight budget, counting every last peso until we could once again access the American banking system in Miami.  Hyman Roth would have been proud.  We went straight to Floridita, Hemingway’s favorite restaurant.  How many times did the man himself make that walk from the hotel to the restaurant?  Hundreds?  We got to the restaurant and ordered a couple of daiquiris, Hemingway’s favorite drink.

I polished off my drink, since it was cold, and I was thirsty, getting another one.  We noticed people were smoking and drinking all over the restaurant.  I noticed no one was eating.  “Tiene comida?”  No, they didn’t, not tonight.  Hmm, what would we do?  We opted on going to Hotel Parque Central, which we were told would have a good restaurant.  It was right in the heart of old town, by the Capitol.  We took a bicycle taxi, and he quoted me a price.  When we got there, he asked for double, saying the price was for each of us.  In surprisingly good Spanish, I shot him down, saying he never said that and that I would only give him the original price.

There was a huge smoking lounge with music, but we wanted food, and more rum, first.  We opted for the steakhouse, which also had fish.  It was a very good restaurant, but we were the only people there at that hour.  They brought us each out a glass of champagne with the menus.  I ordered the steak, very rare, along with the onions and a ham croquette appetizer.  My friend got the salmon, along with grilled vegetables and a French onion soup appetizer.  I ordered us each a glass of aged rum and a Coke to share.  During dinner, I shared all of my stories with my friend, about girls we knew from grade school, about my college experience, basically the dark age in our friendship.

The details are unprintable.  Reader, I learned that word from Hemmingway, it’s going to appear in this entry a lot.  They brought out his soup, and then I remembered that it is usually made with meat stock, which means it’s not kosher.  I remembered this after he took his first bite.  He sent it back.  My meat was overcooked, medium at best.  I sent it back.  They then brought me another piece, even bigger, that was quite rare.  It tasted oddly cold.  I turned it over.  The other side was completely raw, not rare, raw, like they only cooked it on one side.  I told them to cook the other side for a minute.  It was perfect.

I tried my American debit card.  No dice.  I paid in pesos.  I calculated we had enough for one last round or two at Floridita before we went back to the hotel.  We lit up our Churchills and walked around the lounge, finding a place to sit, where I made fast friends with someone from Germany, who was in Cuba for 17 days.  I told him about my 18-day trip to Germany.  I kept wanting to talk to him in Spanish, out of custom, but I realized his English was much better than his Spanish.  It was actually a common occurrence this trip that I would have a conversation with a local, me talking in Spanish, him talking in English, including frequently with Ernesto.

We headed out, where we were met by an Italian named Mario, who showed us how to get to Floridita.  He wanted us to go to a night club, maybe such as the Casa de la Musica, which my sister had recommended, but it sounded too crowded and expensive.  Floridita was closed, it being close to midnight, so he took us to a bar that was borderline nightclub, called Bar Asturia, and I handed him a small banknote as a tip, but he wouldn’t have it.  He wanted us to buy him a drink instead.  The money I had tipped him was the cover charge for the bar, which included two drinks.  I paid the same for me friend and me.  This would be it for the night.  We’d finish here and go back to the hotel.

Needless to say, that did not happen.  We made our way back to the hotel, on foot, with the rest of our cigars, and I finished my stories, my navigation skills not being affected by my inebriation.  We went upstairs, and my friend said I needed to stop harping on the past.  I said that what’s past is prologue, that it contributes to who I am.  Instead, I invited him to share his stories with me.  We had some more rum, and he reluctantly shared his stories with me.  Obviously, what he said was unprintable, but they were stories we never shared with each other, and it helped us better understand one another.

I then lit up my Avo, and we headed back out, to the river, the Marceon, where we did something that was unprintable but very Official.  We relaxed a bit by the Marecon for a bit, though it was past 3 AM, and we had to be be up at 6:30 AM in order to make our flight.  It was a good thing we had already packed.  We were UAR at that point, but this was my best friend’s bachelor party.  We had to make it count.  As we walked back, I asked him if we did it up right.  He said that we did.  It was close to 5 AM by the time we fell asleep.

We woke up much too soon, and finished getting ready before meeting Ernesto who took us to the airport.  We gave him the agreed fee and took some ceremonial pictures.  He then chased us down, saying he forgot the gas money to Holguin, his hometown.  I told him we didn’t have it.  He told us how much we had to give him, and we reserved that for him.  We didn’t have anything left.  Besides, we gave him a lot for him to keep, due to the extra driving, more than enough to cover the gas.  We checked in and then headed outside, where I lit up a Viñales and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close.  I have written about these triumphant airport entries, at airports in the Caribbean named after national heroes.  This is definitely one, and I believe it is my ninth.  I just have two more left, DR and Haiti.

Aboard DL 379, En route MIA-LGA

Now that I am back in the land of the free, I can write what I would not have wanted to be on my computer in case of a search of Cuban Aduana.  Contrary to appearances, Fidel Castro is not seen by the pueblo as the beloved savior the road signs make him out to be.  He is much hated, and with good reason.  Communism does not work, despite whatever catchy phrase Fidel might wish to have printed on those road signs we saw throughout the country.  Any economic system depends on two things, basic laws of supply and demand and motivation for increased production.  Communism provides neither.  The government artificially regulates the supply and the demand, which means that prices are inevitably either too high or too low, which leads to either people being unable to afford goods in the former case or shortages that cause people to be unable to find goods in the latter case.

With confiscatory taxes on even the lowliest of workers and almost all businesses owned by the government, there is no incentive for increased means of production.  While the purpose of my program was to discover the religious identity of Cuba, it was impossible to miss the clear evidence of how communism has failed as a system.  I could theorize about ow strong religious backgrounds either increase or decrease productivity, but that was not my interest.  Cuba is a country with more natural resources than any other island in the entire Antilles, but, due to this failed economic system, it is the poorest of them all.  I believe that no argument can be presented in favor of communism in view of that evidence.

It is such a beautiful country, and its 500 years of history are not to be missed, but it is so unfortunate that the borders are closed to American tourists.  In due time, Cuba will be open to tourists and Baghdad and Beirut will be safe again.  There are so many wonderful cities that are closed off due to stupidity on the part of the government or in the name of religion.  With Cuba, it is clear that religion plays no part in the daily life of Cubans.  When I closed, I was celebrating the successful completion of my trip, but there was still much to be done and few pesos with which to do it.  First, we had to clear Cuban emigration, which was no problem.  Then we had to go to duty-free, where I wanted to get a high-end bottle of rum, and my friend wanted a bottle for his father-in-law.  I also wanted some coffee and a last ditch at a better flag pin.  We got it all, with not a peso to spare.

We were soon boarding our flight, and we had the whole three-seater to ourselves.  I read another chapter of Hemmingway en route, and we soon landed.  With my Global Entry, I was able to breeze through MIA’s famously long border lines, and I wasn’t even questioned at Customs.  She didn’t ask what I was doing in Cuba, nor if I was bringing anything back.  It was just like any other country.  I didn’t even have to hand in my form.  I caught up on my notifications, and my friend soon joined me.  I checked in and checked my bag, rushing to make my flight at this point, as my friend was taking a much later flight.

We said our goodbyes, had a little tiff about the lunch arrangements, which continued over text before we finally made up in the end and agreed once more how Epic the trip was.  I went to Nathan’s right by my gate and got way too much food: a corn dog, five chicken tenders, a hot dog with bacon, mushrooms, and onions, and French fries with bacon and ranch, along with a large Coke Zero.  It was now 1:30 PM, and I hadn’t eaten anything since like 11 PM last night.  I was starving, and I finished it all before we took off.  I napped quite a bit, getting more sleep on the flight, I think, than I did in bed last night.  I sifted through my work emails, and none of them required my immediate attention.

I will be heading to the office after I land, so I can sort all the emails out tonight and hit the ground running tomorrow morning.  I’m sure I will need to work both days this weekend, too.  After my naps, I proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close as we are now “making our final approach into LaGuardia” and need to turn off our laptops.  I will also now close out this epic and Official trip.  Next stop: Guadalajara.  There’s a great joke from “Friends” about LaGuardia and Guadalajara, so it’s funny to see those two words so close in my Travelogue.

Cuba - Day 4 - 500 Years of History

8/25/15, “500 Years of History”

Havana, Cuba

“Soy escritor,” I announced to the kids who had gathered to find out who I was and why I was sitting down on the streets of Old Havana with a laptop.  It was not the whole truth, but it was not a lie, either.  Nonetheless, it was probably the most interesting thing they had seen all week.  They are now reading over my shoulders, but I doubt their ability to read English.  Maybe I’m wrong.  A very European-looking tourist just asked me in broken English a much more pragmatic question.  Was I using the internet?  No.  My new friends asked what kind of writer I was, and I said that I was a travel writer.  It is not a lie.  For the purposes of this religious studies trip, I certainly am a travel writer.

They are now standing around the corner, hiding as if I might not see them.  I don’t care.  I just want to write.  This is literally the best spot to write my entry.  I am in the heart of Old Havana, sitting in front of an old church, with a view of the Capitol not too far down the road.  My new friends said that Cuba had a lot of history.  “Cinco cien años de historia,” I offered in broken Spanish.

That is why we chose this week for our religious studies trip.  Today marks the 500^th Anniversary of Havana.  Our religious studies is now at an end, and we will enjoy our last night in Cuba, celebrating the 500^th Anniversary properly, as no one else seems to be aware of it, before we head home.  My new friends have asked for money and water.  Money I refused them, but I gladly offered them half of my water if they found a cup for it.

Five hundred years of history, and we have experienced evidence of culture and religion from every century and nationality that has contributed to Cuba’s immense history.  It has been the trip of a lifetime, and I am glad that I took this different approach, even if it was necessitated by my government’s regulations.  It has been a crazy day, and the night will be an even crazier way to end this crazy trip.

We woke up, late as always, and headed up to breakfast, late as always.  The spread was quite impressive, for Cuban standards, and my friend ignored the fact that they were cooking ham omelets on the same grill they cooked the eggs he wanted to pretend were kosher.  I suppose that if I was not so preoccupied with writing this entry, I would be more interested in the questions my new friends have for me.  As it is, they are just a minor annoyance, and a story for my writing.  After breakfast, we got ready and headed downstairs.  They bulk of the day would be spent in Havana, especially Old Havana.  My friend wanted to visit the oldest synagogue in Cuba, dating from 1914, about 350 years younger than the one in Barbados.  I believe my new friends have been called to dinner, so I can write my entry in peace.

Other than Old Havana, which had stayed in last night, even if I was not yet prepared to Officially count it as a WHS visit, we just had one WHS left, the flag pin, and the Capitol.  I would save the Capitol for last, announce “Cuba Complete,” and light up my Montecristo No. 2.  Then we could visit as many synagogues as my friend wanted to see, as his religious studies were focusing on a different aspect than mine.

That last WHS was Viñales Valley, the tobacco fields.    This was a region built purely around an agriculture economy, and not one of religious origin, like so many others we have seen.  As we drove, I realized that Ernesto probably thought I wanted to see the town of Viñales, not the tobacco fields.  I was right, but I quickly explained our destination.  We got there, and it was just as beautiful as I expected.  Viñales is the opposite end of the island from Baracoa, but that did not stop me from lighting up an El Credito cigar.

We then headed down to the tobacco plantation, where they had plenty of fresh cigars for sale, and they guy in the tobacco house even rolled a fresh for me in front of me.  I started to light it, but he told me it needed to dry out for five days first.  Oops.  After we were done there, we got back in the car, and Ernesto continued down the hill.  I told him I wanted to go the American Embassy in Havana.  As I predicted, he thought I wanted to see the town of Viñales.  We turned around and headed straight back to Havana, and it rained on and off as we drove, pouring buckets at times.  At one point, I thought we’d skid off the road.

As we approached the Embassy, I suggested instead we first to lunch at the Hotel Nacional, which is right nearby and is, by far, Cuba’s most famous and iconic hotel.  Such luminaries as Sean Penn, Steven Spielberg, and Pierce Brosnan have all stayed there.  We opted for the restaurant with Cuban food.  I got two Cuban rum drinks (a daiquiri and a Cuba Bella), an appetizer of fried Cuban specialties, rice and beans, and, of course, ropa vieja.  I could not leave Cuba without eating ropa vieja.  My religious studies were done at that point, so I would be able to focus on the cultural aspects of Cuba for the rest of my time.  Remember, 500 years of history.

The hour or so we allotted to the Hotel Nacional and the Embassy focused on what epitomized the past 100 years, up until last week when the Embassy was reopened.  While we waited for our food, I found a gift shop at the hotel.  I estimated it at a one in three shot if they’d have the flag pins.  They had them, but they were safety pins, not push pins.  Good enough.  Well, not really, but close.  Worst comes to worse, it would suffice.  The meal was delicious, and it was as Cuban as Cuban food gets.  Afterwards, I lit up one of the new cigars and walked around the grounds, even finding an exhibit on the Cuban Missile Crisis.

It was clear this was the upscale, tourist resort hotel.  I had considered staying here, and it would have been a very different experience than staying down the hall from Ernest Hemmingway’s old room.  I’m glad with the choice I made.  We then went to the Embassy.  This was the one place where I could openly flash an American passport and not have to worry about it.  This was my country’s building.  I could take as many pictures as I wanted.  The passport did not, in the end, get me through security, as it’s not opened to visitors, even American citizens.

We then headed to Old Havana, to the Capitol, which was where everything we wanted was.  The inscription photo was there, the souvenir shops, and, of course, the Capitol.  I took my ceremonial picture for Old Havana before ditching the cigar.  We then walked around the souvenir shops, finding a smaller upscale marketplace where I got most of my souvenirs.  We then found a huge souvenir market with much cheaper prices.  We were watching our pesos at that point, but we finished our souvenir shopping there.  It was immense, possibly unlike anything I had ever seen.

By the time they started to close, we were ready to leave, and I was very thirsty, in much need of a diet cola, which is very hard to find in Cuba.  We walked back to Ernesto, and I asked to join us for a photo.  It had started to rain at this point, the rain getting steadily worse, threatening to ruin my picture.  Wouldn’t that be ironic?  Five days of intense travel and “Cuba Complete” ruined by a little fall of rain. We hurried to take the photo, and I lit up the Montecristo.  “Cuba completo.”  Ernesto could not believe we saw the whole island in four days.  It had to be a record, he said.  I could not have done it without him.  We found the diet cola and took some more ceremonial pictures, including the inscription photo, which was directly across the street from the Capitol.

We then got in the car in search of the old Synagogue.  As we drove, I confessed to my friend that I couldn’t believe we were successful in our mission.  I was sure something was going to go wrong.  In fact, I put it at two to one odds we’d fail.  We got to the block where the synagogue was supposed to be, but no one had heard of it.  We couldn’t find it.  We asked everyone.  We kept driving and soon found the Orthodox synagogue.  We took some ceremonial pictures and looked around inside.  It turned that there are only 120 Jewish families in all of Cuba.  We joked that we increased the Jewish population of Havana by 10% by the two of us visiting.  We both blew the shofar, Rosh Hashanah coming up within the month.  We also took a group picture with the congregation.

We then made our way to the hotel, stopping along the waterfront for some pictures of the fortifications, before heading to the hotel.  Ernesto dropped us off by the hotel, agreeing to meet back at 7 AM.  We calculated how much I owed him, and I went back to the hotel with my friend.  When we got to the hotel, we added up all of our money, dollars and pesos, and calculated we had just enough to pay, have dinner tonight, and some rum and coffee at duty-free, with just a tiny bit leftover, just in case.

Once we get to MIA, I can use my cards again or go to an ATM.  We then planned the rest of our evening and headed out.  I lit up my Partagas, and we found this perfect spot, where I proceeded to write this entry, while my friend went in search of a final souvenir.  I have recounted the experiences of what happened as I wrote, so I will now close so that we can get on with our evening.  I have decided I will give them the lucky banknote I keep in my wallet.

Cuba - Day 3 - Old Churches

8/24/15, “Old Churches”

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.

Havana, Cuba

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 24^th, 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 18^th 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 500^th 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.

Cuba - Day 2 - The Lord's Day

8/23/15, “The Lord’s Day”

Cabo Cruz, Cuba (Desembarco de Granma National Park)

While yesterday was the Jewish Sabbath, today, in Catholicism, is the Lord’s Day.  I expected most of the island to be shut down, as I have experienced spending many Sundays in the Caribbean and Central America, even a couple of Easter Sundays.  A few places were closed, but the island was as bustling as it was yesterday.  It further supports my observations that Cuba does it not as deeply influenced by religion as other islands in the Caribbean are.  Is this a result of communism?

Most communist countries do not have traditional religions.  Atheism was the state religion of Soviet Russia, and Red China does not have much in the way of religion, either.  Is Cuba starting to follow suit?  Surely Fidel’s revolution, which began in this very spot, where he disembarked (hence the name of the NP), was not motivated by religion.  It was motivated by his desire to be free from American influence.  It had nothing to do with gold, God, or glory.  It was about freedom, or so he claimed.  What happened next is a different story.

As for this story, I have barely done anything, but the past 9 hours (has it really been that long), seem like a busy blur.  I overslept a little, raced to get ready and have a disappointing breakfast, and we hit the road, soon arriving at Holguin, where we picked up a modern car.  We were going to get cigars there, too, but that was a fail.  I paid a large sum for the rental car, in cash, but that served as most of my fee for the entirety of the trip, since I no longer had to pay for the use of Ernesto’s old Chevy.  I got some rum and snacks at the liquor store, having to wait too long on line.  Is this how people spend the Lord’s Day?  Grocery shopping?  I thought everyone would still be in church at 11 AM.

We then went to Ernesto’s house, well his girlfriend’s house, where I waited while he showered and his “mother-in-law” made us coffee.  We were soon on the road, and I was ready to start the trip anew with a new car.  I lit up a Davidoff Escurio, rolled down the window, and blared the Red album.  With the familiar sound of “State of Grace,” I was ready.  I felt ready to take on the world.  That’s exactly what we did.

Three hours later, we stopped for lunch in Manzanillo, a process that somehow took an hour, but meals in this region are always slow.  I got fried plantains and fried chicken, along with a beer.  It was delicious.  I lit up a a Cabaiguan, and, another hour later, we saw the entrance sign for the National Park, where I lit up another El Credito.  The inscription photo showed a waterfall, and we soon learned the waterfall was on the opposite end of the park, but the page talked about rocky cliffs in Cabo Cruz.

We soon found those rocky cliffs.  I have seen lots of waterfalls, but I have never quite seen rocky cliffs like this, with this kind of coloration.  We took some ceremonial pictures and headed to the beach, where I enjoyed the views of the cliff and proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that we can finish up in the park and make our way to the hotel in Camaguey, where my friend awaits us.

Camaguey, Cuba

Well, here we are in famous, historic Camaguey.  I am in a plaza next to my hotel, smoking an El Credito, writing my entry, much like last night.  I am in view of the main church of Camaguey, which forms the inscription photo for the WHS.  I actually don’t have much to write, which is just as well, since we went to enjoy our time in Camaguey and get to bed early tonight.  I am in one of the biggest cities of Cuba, and I can see stars looking up.  Trying do that in Chicago or Seattle.  I truly feel like I have been transported to another era.  If I was not again being accosted by beggars, it would the perfect scene, though our new friend is doing her best to chase them away.  It is quite an interesting scene, and it is clear that they are no longer celebrating the Lord’s Day.

After I closed, we headed to a spot where I was able to take a few more pictures of the rocky coast and made it Official, announcing “Day 2 Complete.”  I then fished in my pocket for my largest banknote to offer to my driver as a bonus tip for all the driving of past two days.  We headed to the monument of the disembarkation point, and I asked my driver about Castro’s religion.  His answered further confirmed what I had been observing.  Fidel and Raul were raised Catholic, but, after the revolution, they no longer practiced their religion, though the new Pope is attempting to bring them back to the fold.

When we got back in the car, I figured we could be at the hotel around 9 PM, and I handed him the tip.  At first he was confused, but I explained it was a bonus for him for all the extra driving, in addition to the regular fees.  He was very grateful.  We stopped for gas, and I lit up a My Father when I switched to the Taylor Swift (2006) album.  When I bought cigars for the trip, everyone made fun of me, saying I was going to Cuba, implying that it was like bringing coal to Newcastle.  Well, other than the El Credito cigars, I have not found any cigars I trusted.

We soon stopped for coffee and then drove straight through to the hotel.  My hotel was in the heart of downtown Camaguey, and my room even had a view of the very church from the inscription photo.  I insisted that Ernesto join us for dinner at my treat.  I checked in, but it turned out my friend had already gone up to the room.  Wait, why did they allow that?  His name wasn’t on the reservation.  I was actually a little upset they were so lax with security.  We went up to the room, but the key wouldn’t work.  I tried knocking on the door.  They tried a new key.  Apparently the magnetic card reader was broken.  They brought the physical master key and let me in, telling me to come down after dinner to get a new key.  My friend’s stuff was in the room, but he was nowhere to be found.  I settled in and left him a note.

We then went up to dinner.  Dinner was a buffet, and I opted for a table by the window, with a view of the city, including the church.  They had all sorts of traditional items, such as fish, plantain chips, chicken, and a beef or pork stew.  I got a Cristal beer to go with it.  My friend was still nowhere to be found.  Ernesto asked him if I was done with his services for the night.  We agreed we’d meet at 9 AM tomorrow morning.  I headed down to get a new key, and my friend showed up, quite obviously toasted and handed me some rum.  It was an outrageously cheap price for a half-size bottle of good quality rum.

One of the hotel staff was to accompany us to the room to make sure we could it, and Sokol made fast friends with her, insisting she take a swig of the rum.  We headed up to the room, and the magnetic keys were still not working, so she gave us the master key.  We talked about our days, and my friend made me a Cuba Libre.  We were both pretty toasted at this point.  I poured myself a shot from my 7-year rum, and my friend was done drinking for the night.

We headed out to the plaza and found a table, where I proceeded to write this entry.  We lit up a couple of El Credito cigars and were soon approached by a very old-looking woman, whom my friend, for some reason, invited to sit down with us.  She was an interesting character.  She asked for water, but I was not about to let her drink from my water bottle.  I handed my friend a banknote, asking my friend to go find some water.  She then said she hadn’t eaten in two days and asked for money for food.  I felt a little sorry for her, but I have strict policy against giving money to beggars.  However, this was different, her company for the time being was providing entertainment value, and she even tried to chase away some more aggressive beggars.

When my friend handed me the change, I gave her the larger of the banknotes, definitely enough for her to get some food.  We were wondering how old she was.  He thought she was a hundred.  I guessed ninety.  We asked her.  She didn’t speak a word of English, so we were talking about her right in front of her in English, which I suppose wasn’t exactly polite, while conversing with her in broken Spanish.  “Cuantos años tienes?”  “Cinquenta y seis.”  No, I must be mistranslating.  She could not possibly be 56.  She was.  My mother is older.  She looked at least thirty years older than my mother, maybe forty years older.

My friend told me about the Wi-Fi card, but I’ve decided against it.  I’ll be off the grid until I get back to Miami.  It truly feels like we are out of different era here.  If it were not for the chirp of the phone of the person sitting at the table next to us, I would feel like we are still in the 1960s.  On that note, I’ll close so that we can head up to the room and get to sleep.