A Cowgirl in Cuba

Hola possum-itas, I’m back in the saddle after an adventure on the commie Caribbean isle of Cuba. Like most Canadians, the bf and I booked in at a beach resort in Varadero, what I am now calling the 11th Province of Canada. Picture house boating on Shuswap without the boat...picture Ibiza without the Sangria...picture Cancun during spring break without the Americans and whoomp, there it is. A mecca of maple leaf tattoos and Bubba Keg mugs.

What’s a Bubba Keg you ask? I inquired with a few lads from Halifax, to which they explained ‘you get them at Canadian Tire, obviously’. Obviously indeedy. The Canadians can’t wait for the Cubans to pour a proper rum punch so they insist on having their Bubba Keg filled to the brim to avoid line ups at the bar. Offiside? Maybe. Efficient though, I’ll admit. O’ Canada.

The single saving grace of this otherwise Canadian town was Calle 62, an open air bar with $2 mojitos, live music, and a mix of Cubans and visitors all vying for a coveted seat. People end up spilling out onto the street and dancing til dawn; little kids and grand parents alike. Loved it.

In an endeavor to escape the crazed pubescents and cruise about Cuba, we took off to Havana for a few nights to break up the debauchery. While en route we discovered a fabulous little road side stand, in the middle of nowhere, latin music blazing, serving up the best pina coladas ever to be tasted by this senorita. Upon arrival in Havana, the city immediately blew me away. We set up camp in the Vedado at the Tryp Habana Libre, formally the Hilton and headquarters to Castro and his cronies during the revolution in 1959.

Kiddy corner to our hotel was the Coppelia Ice Cream Cathedral, perpetually surrounded by Cubans lining up for hours for a few scoops of the good stuff. We couldn’t figure out what the big deal was? Was the ice cream laced with a little something that made these loyal patrons come back for more? Turns out, most Cubans were not permitted in the high end ice cream parlors of pre-revolutionary Cuba so today, the ‘Cathedral’ is a gift from the government. Hence the commitment to stand in line for hours for a bit of ice cream because they now have the right to do so. Fight the power people.

Habana Vieja (The Old City) is chalk full of Spanish colonial architecture, horse drawn carriages and old American cars circa the 1950’s. A complete time warp to an era of glamour and corruption, wealth and seduction. I was certainly seduced by the insatiable energy, so intense and passionate you can’t help but feel inspired the moment you enter the city limits.

After strolling around the Capitlio and making a stop at the Partagas cigar factory to stock up on some Cuban stogies, we indulged in a lobster dinner at the famous El Floridito Restaurante. A favorite of Hemingway himself, complete with his favorite bar stool preserved with chain roping so no one else will ever assume his spot. As we sipped on our second bottle of vino tinto, I tried channeling the great writer's vibes. Some of the best literature ever written about Cuba is care of this American legend.

The following day we made our way to Plaza de la Revolucion to admire the gigantic Che Guevara mural and make a stop at Castro’s offices...you know, to drop by a fruit basket, as you do with most dictators. We spent our last night in Havana at the Hotel Nacional, a popular celebrity haunt back in the day and still every bit as glamorous as the last time Marlene Deitrich walked through their front doors. We took in a cabaret show, which was nothing short of spectacular, complete with a plethora of pasties and half naked latinas shaking their stuff for an enthusiastic crowd. On the way back to our hotel, we cruised along the city’s Malecon, which was a buzz with young people singing and dancing; lovers locking lips as the waves spilled over them. These are a passionate people.

Our last few days were spent on Varadero’s white sandy beaches, hiding under a palapa, hoping that time would stand still. But alas, we’re back in Vancity watching the NHL playoffs like the rest of the Cuban-Canadians.

Hasta leugo Cuba.

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl