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Saturday was our penultimate day in Cuba. L really wanted to go dancing. After some hemming and hawing, I eventually decided to go with her. I wasn't planning on dancing myself mind you, because I've never salsa-danced, and I was on an island with several million salsa-dancers.
The club in the resort catered to the tourists (and their teenage kids) so it was mostly modern music. Allegedly it had salsa dancing occasionally, but we saw no evidence of it. The closest we got was Friday night when the lounge band hit that magical combination of music, talent, audience and moment. They were on and several people in the audience responded with spontaneous dancing.
Anyway, I told L that I would join her, but I wanted to do a few things in Varadero too. Specifically I wanted to check out the public market and I wanted to have a meal in an honest-to-goodness Cuban restaurant. We aimed to get into Varadero around 4 pm because I had this vague idea that the market closed at 5 and it would be of equivalent size to the one in Havana. Wrong on both counts it turns out.
First, the market closed at 7, so we could have hung around the resort somewhat longer. Also it was much smaller, and also much more subdued then the one in Havana. In Havana the sellers got into your face - every stall someone tried to push their wares on you - they weren't necessarily pushy mind you, they did take "no" for an answer. In Varadero it was more like walking down the midway in the Stampede - the sellers would be happy to sell you stuff, but you had to approach them first. Not sure why the difference exists. I suspect it has a little to do with tourism being Varadero's bread and butter. You don't really need to be pushy when there are less sellers and the market segment is so much closer. On the other hand, annoying the tourists might get you in trouble with the authorities.
I ended up buying my new shooting shirt (a red Che Guevara shirt sans sleeves - perfect for wearing around a bunch of bow hunters) and a model motorcycle made out of old Coke cans. We spent about an hour just wandering around the shops.
Well now it was 5 pm and the dance club didn't open until 10:30, which left us with a bit of a dillema, what to do with our time. First we chatted with some Toronto tourists and "Mister Cuba" at a sidewalk cafe. The tourists consisted of two buddies who were slightly drunk. Buddy number one (who's name I don't remember) was a car dealer. Buddy number two was named Bruce, a fact I only remember because of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thebrucie. Things I learned about them:
This killed another hour, by which time we were growing hungry. We decided to walk to the restaurant I had in mind, which was halfway between the public market and the dance club.
Varadero is a strange little city geographically. Given its position on a very long, thin peninsula, it has four avenues and seventy streets. It was literally a four (short) block walk from the north beach to the south beach. The walk from the public market, on the other hand, was about 30 blocks. Again, these were pretty short and both L and I jog, so we weren't going to get tired.
We were half a block from the restaurant when L wiped out. There was a pothole in the sidewalk and it was "repaired" with a slab of concrete that stuck up about four inches. My first indication of an accident was when L's camera went bouncing down the street - I then turned to see her flat on the pavement. From L's perspective, she tripped, then gravity in her local area increased by a factor of ten so that she hit terminal velocity a split second after stumbling, then she hit the pavement hard.
A local woman and I were each down at her side trying to determine what was wrong, but L had winded herself making speech impossible for the first few moments. Eventually we discovered that her injuries included:
Cuban convenience stores are different from Canadian ones. There is a counter and you ask the store clerk for things. He fetches them and brings them to the counter where you then pay for them. There is no browsing.
I get to the store and ask the clerk for band-aids. He doesn't speak any English and I don't speak any Spanish. I pantomime putting a band-aid on my hand. He fetches me a bottle of sun screen. Good guess given my skin tone, but still wrong. Next I pantomime writing. This message was received clearly and I was handed a pad and pen. I draw a hand with a band-aid on it. he shakes his head "no".
Well it was worth a shot.
At this point I determine that personal first-aid was not possible. Either we head back to the resort, or find a local doctor to look at the injury. At the very least, I felt that the toe gash would require stitches. Dancing was right out.
A cab ride back to L followed by a cab ride back to the resort and we're back in our suite. The resort's nurse is gone for the day so L opts to just clean the wound up as best she could and wrap the hell out of it. Copious first aid supplies provided bystephtopia and garething as well as drugs provided by our own personal pharmacist H, quickly inundate L.
As L put it, the most painful injury was the ribds (which bothered her the rest of the trip), but the most visible injury was the toe (which she claimed hurt the least).
We decided that this shouldn't be viewed as a lost opportunity so much as another reason to come back to Cuba.
Still, it's too bad for L. Me? I was starting to warm to the idea of watching people dance.
The club in the resort catered to the tourists (and their teenage kids) so it was mostly modern music. Allegedly it had salsa dancing occasionally, but we saw no evidence of it. The closest we got was Friday night when the lounge band hit that magical combination of music, talent, audience and moment. They were on and several people in the audience responded with spontaneous dancing.
Anyway, I told L that I would join her, but I wanted to do a few things in Varadero too. Specifically I wanted to check out the public market and I wanted to have a meal in an honest-to-goodness Cuban restaurant. We aimed to get into Varadero around 4 pm because I had this vague idea that the market closed at 5 and it would be of equivalent size to the one in Havana. Wrong on both counts it turns out.
First, the market closed at 7, so we could have hung around the resort somewhat longer. Also it was much smaller, and also much more subdued then the one in Havana. In Havana the sellers got into your face - every stall someone tried to push their wares on you - they weren't necessarily pushy mind you, they did take "no" for an answer. In Varadero it was more like walking down the midway in the Stampede - the sellers would be happy to sell you stuff, but you had to approach them first. Not sure why the difference exists. I suspect it has a little to do with tourism being Varadero's bread and butter. You don't really need to be pushy when there are less sellers and the market segment is so much closer. On the other hand, annoying the tourists might get you in trouble with the authorities.
I ended up buying my new shooting shirt (a red Che Guevara shirt sans sleeves - perfect for wearing around a bunch of bow hunters) and a model motorcycle made out of old Coke cans. We spent about an hour just wandering around the shops.
Well now it was 5 pm and the dance club didn't open until 10:30, which left us with a bit of a dillema, what to do with our time. First we chatted with some Toronto tourists and "Mister Cuba" at a sidewalk cafe. The tourists consisted of two buddies who were slightly drunk. Buddy number one (who's name I don't remember) was a car dealer. Buddy number two was named Bruce, a fact I only remember because of
thebrucie. Things I learned about them:- They were each married.
- Car dealer's wife was, in his words, "smoking hot". He felt that she was too hot for a guy like him. i can't really address that except to say that I hope for that sort of luck someday.
- It was hot wife's birthday.
- The two of them were out drinking without their wives, on hot wife's birthday and were therefore "in trouble" when they got back.
- Other-Bruce felt that car dealer was overstating things and that they weren't actually in any sort of trouble.
- car dealer bought a classic car (for himself) that was the equal of any of the ones we were watching drive by in Varadero (which is an astonishing claim).
This killed another hour, by which time we were growing hungry. We decided to walk to the restaurant I had in mind, which was halfway between the public market and the dance club.
Varadero is a strange little city geographically. Given its position on a very long, thin peninsula, it has four avenues and seventy streets. It was literally a four (short) block walk from the north beach to the south beach. The walk from the public market, on the other hand, was about 30 blocks. Again, these were pretty short and both L and I jog, so we weren't going to get tired.
We were half a block from the restaurant when L wiped out. There was a pothole in the sidewalk and it was "repaired" with a slab of concrete that stuck up about four inches. My first indication of an accident was when L's camera went bouncing down the street - I then turned to see her flat on the pavement. From L's perspective, she tripped, then gravity in her local area increased by a factor of ten so that she hit terminal velocity a split second after stumbling, then she hit the pavement hard.
A local woman and I were each down at her side trying to determine what was wrong, but L had winded herself making speech impossible for the first few moments. Eventually we discovered that her injuries included:
- A bruise to the ribs.
- Scraped knee and thigh.
- a rather deep gash to the big toe.
Cuban convenience stores are different from Canadian ones. There is a counter and you ask the store clerk for things. He fetches them and brings them to the counter where you then pay for them. There is no browsing.
I get to the store and ask the clerk for band-aids. He doesn't speak any English and I don't speak any Spanish. I pantomime putting a band-aid on my hand. He fetches me a bottle of sun screen. Good guess given my skin tone, but still wrong. Next I pantomime writing. This message was received clearly and I was handed a pad and pen. I draw a hand with a band-aid on it. he shakes his head "no".
Well it was worth a shot.
At this point I determine that personal first-aid was not possible. Either we head back to the resort, or find a local doctor to look at the injury. At the very least, I felt that the toe gash would require stitches. Dancing was right out.
A cab ride back to L followed by a cab ride back to the resort and we're back in our suite. The resort's nurse is gone for the day so L opts to just clean the wound up as best she could and wrap the hell out of it. Copious first aid supplies provided by
stephtopia and garething as well as drugs provided by our own personal pharmacist H, quickly inundate L.As L put it, the most painful injury was the ribds (which bothered her the rest of the trip), but the most visible injury was the toe (which she claimed hurt the least).
We decided that this shouldn't be viewed as a lost opportunity so much as another reason to come back to Cuba.
Still, it's too bad for L. Me? I was starting to warm to the idea of watching people dance.
