Head West, Young Man, Head West
After a night’s rest and a weird ham sandwich for breakfast, we found that Baracoa came up shy of its glimmering recommendations so we pulled up stakes and headed back west for the small town of Holguin. Desperate for something, anything, to eat, we slowed the car in front of a woman dangling cones of an unknown make or origin from her fingers. For a nickel we found ourselves digging through dulce de coco, an indescribable paste of smoked coconut and palm sugar. After three finger scoops (we’d no spoons so it was God’s dining utensils for us), the cloyingly sweet mix sent me into a light diabetic coma lasting until the rumble of the pavement outside of Holguin shook me to.
Full of vigor, Holguin proved to be the Cuba I had always imagined; rife with grumbling old cars sputtering through the narrow streets and even older men squabbling through cigar stained mustaches over domino tables in the park. Even the nimble breezes from the Atlantic that tip-toed around crumbling corners seemed to whisper of happier times.
We quickly found a place to stay: two rooms in a local family’s home tucked neatly between the central park and the town’s almost ridiculously large baseball stadium.
Finding a tiny Spanish restaurant with a colonial era garden, we elbowed up to ceramic pots of nuclear-hot paella, crisp and vinegary cucumber salad and Cerveza Cristal bubbling lazily in jelly jars. I was slowly beginning to see that there is definitely good food to be had in Cuba. You just have to head off the beaten track and do some hunting to find it (and besides, chances are, you’ll be so hungry by the time you find it, it won’t matter if it’s all that great).
As our late lunch settled, we meandered through the vibrating streets while the Holguineros, in spite of our presence, went about their business. Back at home beneath an ancient ceiling fan slowly stirring the already cool afternoon air sleep wasn’t too far off, nor was a late night out on the town.
