Hard Core Lounging (Part 1)

From the Makers of "Fear and Clothing in Las Vegas" and "Fear and Clothing in Costa Rica", comes "Hard Core Lounging". The trip, 7 days in Varadero, Cuba, at the Riu Turquesa. The players, Mark and Cary. The Mission, hard core lounging. Sleep. Eat. Drink. Smoke cigars (if you're Cary). Drink some more. Get a tan. Drink some more. Eat. Drink. Another cigar. Hard core lounging. You get the idea.

Day 1: The flight for Varadero is scheduled for departure at 6:30 p.m. Sunday night, which means I have a chance to watch the early football games before leaving. After indulging myself and praying at the alter of the NFL, my beautiful girlfriend drove me and Cary to the airport. After picking up our tickets, we waited in line to check our bags and get seats. I asked for a seat by the window for Cary and a seat by the aisle for me. The idea being, no one wants a single seat in between two friends, so it would be the last seat taken on the plane, and if the plane wasn't full, we get three seats for two people. Well, this bitch continually said she could offer us either two together, aisle and middle, middle and window, or aisle and aisle. I know she's full of shit right here. Because, this is a scam I pulled with Jeff going to Las Vegas and with Sean to Costa Rica. And to add insult to injury, she was training someone as well. I guess when they named the airline SkyService, they meant the service the sky, not their passengers. I was pretty pissed. I asked for two seats, middle and aisle, and we got it near the back. She was pretty damn snarky. "Do you want seats near the back?" she asked. I told her that as long as it was on the plane it didn't make a difference.

Checking our bags and getting our tickets, we headed to where all good travelers should go before a flight, the bar. Sucking down a screwdriver numbed me a bit. Cary had a beer and a cigarette to calm him down. He was pretty stoked about this trip. We then headed to the arcade for some shoot-em-up action. Needless to say, the change machine ate my toonie. Damn machine! Also, I learned that I really suck at Lethal Enforcer. I can shoot well, but I tend to shoot the unarmed people as well. Robyn had to leave, because she wasn't thrilled at paying $17.50 a second for parking. We had a quick romp on the middle of the arcade, which quenched my massive sexual appetite for about 3 seconds, and she was off. Cary and I headed to the gate, ready for adventure. The adventure was finding a smoking lounge for Cary by the gate. In fact, the smoking area was four bar stools on the far side of the bar. No contained area, no fans, no open windows. Pretty stupid if you ask me. And that crack security staff really puts my fears to rest. One guy was trying to pick up his fellow security guard. Really nice.

The plane ride was hell. I can't explain it well enough. These three Russian guys (or maybe Ukranian) were talking so god damned loud, I couldn't hear myself think. If I could, I would be thinking, god damned, these guys are talking so fucking loud. At least we got three seats for the two of us. These A320 Airbuses were not meant for anyone taller than 6 feet. At 6'2", I can barely fit in. The pilot was some kind of bad standup comic. He said, there is no smoking on the flight and if someone lights up, he or she will be asked to leave. And there isn't any parachutes on the plane. A regular Shecky Green. Chuck Yeager on Yeagermeister. I only wish he paid as much attention to his flying as he did to his comedy. We flew through 1 hour of turbulence, and not the really bad Ray Liotta movie (although that was almost as bad). The movie was crap as well. It was that stupid movie with Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant, 4 Blow jobs and a Hooker. It was about hooker, Julia Roberts, blowing Hugh Grant in a car on Hollywood Boulevard and why he was so dumb to do that when he has Liz Hurley would is way hotter at home. Needless to say, I tried to sleep. Between the massive turbulence, the three commies behind us who were louder than a Boris Yeltsin burp after a kegger at the Kremlin, I was wide awake.

When we landed and entered the airport, I was amazed. You see, that last time I was in Cuba, I landed in Ciego De Avila. That airport was more decrepit than a hut built by Steve Hawkins and Christopher Reeves. This one was super-wicked awesome. Super cold air-conditioning, clean floors, no human feces. It was paradise. In fact, I thought the Varadero Airport was our resort. But in fact, it wasn't, much to my disappointment. I heard a rumor that our resort was even nicer, and had less jet fumes. After lining up and waiting for that crack Cuban customs staff to let us into their communist led country, we realized why the Russians revolted or held a coup or just gave up, or whatever the hell they did to get rid of those commies. They were sick of these damn lines. Cary and I got our luggage and Cary had his locks cut. It was pretty funny. Well, not really funny, but with 300 people on the plane, he was the only one who got his locks cut. I guess the frisbee and football looked too much like some sort of weapon through an x-ray.

The bus ride through Varadero was pretty uneventful. Varadero is a pretty crappy town, although it's considered one the nicer places in Cuba. I guess Cuba itself, is a pretty crappy country. When we got to the resort, the beautiful Riu Turquesa, we had to check in. After getting checked in, they gave us each a sandwich. Why? I don't know. I guess it's some sort of Cuban custom. Here kind sir, have a sandwich. I remembered from me previous trip to the land of Castro and cigars, that their sandwiches suck. Being a Jew from the suburbs of Toronto, a sandwich is an inch of meat, some mustard, fresh rye bread, maybe some lettuce or tomatoes. Cuban sandwiches are like their airport lines, pretty damned crappy. Two pieces of white bread. I slice of ham. Ugh! I slice of plastic cheese. I didn't know WASPs lived in Cuba. In fact, I would have assumed Cubans had a fair sense of taste. I was wrong. When we got to our room, Cary ate the sandwich, as he was famished. I left it alone. I think in the middle of the night, it moved from the garbage pail to the balcony. How it did that I'll never know. Here were some nice perks of the room, a stocked mini bar and a bottle of rum. Cheap rum, but perfect for a cuba libre. Cuba Libre: Spanish for drink that will fuck you up. Man, the rum and cokes in Cuba are a glass of rum and a splash of cola for color. Damn! After leaving the room, to search the grounds, we wanted to find a bar that was open to eat and drink. All the bars were closes, except one. Closing time was 12:00 a.m. for all the bars, but the one hold out bar still had people loitering, so we joined in the loitering. A few drinks later, Cary and I were severely fucked up. We stumbled back to the room, leaving trail of destruction in our wake. That's when we realized that the pillows in our room were thinner than Ally McBeal's waist. We had to fold our pillows to make them normal size. And even then, they were thin. Cranked our Canadian made air conditioner to 11, went to sleep with an eye to tomorrow, for our first day of Hard Core Lounging.

[ Home ] [ Up ] [ Site Map ] [ Contact ]