It started at 9:00 this morning when my guía (guide) picked me up and took me to our horses for an old fashioned tour of the countryside. As I was mounting my horse, Taquito, my guía grabbed me. "Momento," he said knowingly. A second later Taquito unleashed the urinary equivalent of a truckload. "All clear," he nodded and I jumped into the saddle.
It took just one horse step for me to realize that a horseback ride was a mistake. Taquito's gallop was bouncy and his back was hard as a rock -- riding him was like driving down the worst road in Cuba in the worst car in Cuba, but the wheels are made of concrete and your seat is a tree trunk and all the other passengers, even the driver, are all rubbing you with sandpaper. My guía pushed our pace by jingling some bells, bells Taquito seemed to fear (... I wonder if Taquito thought the bells meant he was about to get whipped or if he just understood that the bells mean "faster"...). Taquito grew bouncier and more powerful as he picked up speed in response to the bells. By the end of the ride I, like the beast, feared the bells and what they meant for my bottom. Taquito and I were in it together.
We made a few stops en route to our final destination, the watering hole. The first was a sugarcane plantation that served fresh-pressed cane juice with lime juice and rum. (... What's the difference between a farm and a plantation? Is my mom's vegetable patch a plantation? Pepperidge Plantations has a nice ring to it...)
The second stop was a coffee outpost that was grinding and serving coffee from beans grown on the nearby mountain. I got two cups, one for me and one for my guía. It was good. On the way out the coffeeman shouted to me. "Amigo!" He tossed me a cigar, "A present, for taking care of your guía."
"Cuidado," I answered, not knowing the Spanish word for "respect".
More Speedo's. We had definitely arrived at the watering hole. I knew the drill.
I stared into the water and it stared back -- it gave me a menacing look and I wasn't having it. I climbed to the highest point in the nearby rocks and prepared to give the water the whooping it was asking for. "Sayonara" I didn't mutter. I engaged my karate stance and leapt, attacking the water below. My training took over as I soared gracefully down towards my enemy. I gave a double kick outwards, prepared to disarm any airborne foes. None came. I turned my attention back to the water now 15 feet beneath me. With one mighty yelp, I shifted all of my weight into my palms and karate chopped the crap out of the water.
I plummeted half a league into the water and when I beached the surface for air, a small crowd had gathered. They stared, puzzled, silent. I nodded as I waded to shore, then sat on a rock by myself.
The horseride back to town was brutal. Battered and tender, I walked to a restaurant next to the Casa de la Musica. I was determined not to let a sore rump get me down, and gave praise. "The sun is shining on me!" I exclaimed.
I hadn't seen my waiter approach from behind. "Te gusta el sol, eh?" he said, cautiously.
Later, at a shop downtown, I bought a painting of that restaurant. Something to remember the waiter by, I told myself.
Both the Old Man and the Sea kept me company for the evening. I sat on the steps of the Plaza Mayor, book in one hand, beer in the other. Couples danced romantically on the landing below. The sun set. I ordered a Cafe Erotico. The bartender did a double take. "Como?" she asked. I showed her the menu. She examined it closely. She furrowed her brow. She shrugged and began making the drink. It came with more sugar than coffee. It wasn't much good.
That night, returning home, I ran into my first American -- Jess Levy. Hi Jess!
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