We wake and take an antique taxi to the Viazul bus station where we run into Peter and the uncomfortable notion that we can't be guaranteed a spot on the bus to Varadero. Hawkers abound so when we get a good price, we add Peter into the mix and give a tentative yes. but cash is required; we are running low. rob does the exchange while I spy a proper grocery store and investigate (turns out it's just more of the same, as in 8 shelves of tomato sauce instead of 2).
The taxi takes us directly to our casa but our room is not ready so we wander the main street and eat heaven-sent pizzas at Palador (private) Nona Tina. and yes, it is not lost on me that if we had followed thru on my on-the-cheap plans, we would still be at the bus station, worrying about seats.
Our room is beautiful, immaculately clean and well positioned, steps away from parque josone
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday
In proper tourist mode now, our days run into each other. We walk the main street, shop at the artisan stalls, and visit the grocery store numerous times for water, beer, and pringles. We laze at the beach, read our books and stop for drinks until our money gives out.
We eat excellent and cheap italien meals at Casa Miel, and moderately priced meals at other Italien places: Dante's in the park where we have a charming waiter and dinner, and Castel Nuovo, where the helpings are so large, we should have shared. Intrigued by the menu's offering of a 'cold glass of milk', I make sure it is from a cow and not goat, but I neglect to inquire if it's powdered. oh well, I stop before I hit the sludge at the bottom.
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i drank this entire bottle   |
One of the days, we ride the Beach tour bus up to the eastern tip of the peninsula, passing the character-less resorts along the way. at the very tip, the marina gaviota is closed off, with gated enclaves for the tourists' timeshares, and a merciless sun beating down on us.
We visit the park numerous times, hooping, strolling and exploring. There's a shortcut to Todo en Uno and the fried chicken there is amazing, leading us to wonder why cubans insist on making chicken according to western standards (and failing so miserably).
All good things must come to an end...
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