Hard Core Lounging (Part 2)

After a long sleep, caused by excessive consumption of rum, it was time to enjoy our first day in the Cuban sun. Our room had dropped below the freezing point. I know this because my urine had turned to ice before it hit the toilet. I was looking forward to some heat. We opened the door and it felt like someone hit me in the face with a tennis racket, and I do know what that feels like. We went to the restaurant for our first breakfast. Although it wasn't a trough of freedom like in Las Vegas, it was a big ass buffet. Cary and I had some albino eggs. The eggs in Cuba had an almost white yolk. I don't know why, but I think the chickens are albinos. We had a full breakfast with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, some weird juice hybrid (lime and banana, I think), potatoes, bread, coffee, and more coffee. This was the first time we met the egg chef. We had scrambled eggs all week, so he came to recognize us. I don't know his name, but by the end of the week, I think he was coming on to Cary. I'm not too sure, but he was a bit too friendly if you know what I mean. I think he wanted to butter Cary's buns, or stuff his sausage, if you catch my drift. Sitting at the table eating our breakfast, we met Pedro. We were told the night before during the check-in procedure, that we had to make reservations with Pedro, whether we wanted the early sitting, 6:45 p.m. to 8:30 p.m. or the late sitting, starting at 9:00 p.m. Pedro asked what we wanted, and we decided on an early dinner. No big deal right? That's when we first notices the odd way Pedro wrote.

Cary and I left the restaurant, got our towels, by putting down two semen samples, our left nut and a stupid towel card, as collateral. Then we headed to the beach. Ah, Cuban beaches. They are perfect. The water is blue. The sand is white. The people are white. Until a week later, then they are red, like Cary. We chose a spot to the far north of the resort, away from most prying eyes. I didn't need people to laugh at my pasty white physique. Ok, Cary was pasty white. I was more, vanilla white. After absorbing some nasty cancer causing sun rays, Cary and I decided to throw around the football. We had to leave our resort to find a clear piece of beach where we could throw a ball more than five feet. There we met our first Fence Monkeys (named by Cary because they waited by the fence and during their conversation to Cary used the word monkey, either directed at themselves or Cary, he didn't know. I couldn't understand them either.) Two walked up to Cary, while a third walked up to me. I'm used to those annoying Mexican kids who walk up to you on the beach and stand over you, block out your sun, and yell "CHICLETS!" Like I want a stupid Chiclet. Hey, idiot! I was lying here, trying to sleep, enjoying the heat. I didn't want to be bothered by some annoying kid selling overpriced candy. Well, these Fence Monkeys were nothing like those Mexican hucksters. My experience was different that Cary's and that's because he was double teamed. This guy couldn't speak English. He basically spoke in single words praying I understood. From what I could make of his speech, it was that he had Cohiba cigars still in its original plastic that he wanted to sell to me at a lower cost than in a government store. Here's how it sounded "I have Cohiba. In glass. Less. No go to store. Looky. Looky for me. Looky, me. Looky. Cohiba. Glass. Good." He kept making motions like he was smoking a cigar. He then wrote in the sand me to "looky for him" at 1:00 p.m. When he came walking towards me, from the trees just outside the resort, I assumed he wanted to sell me a cheap T-shirt or for my hat or trade for my sunglasses. I was kind of shocked. I wasn't going to buy cigars from this Fence Monkey. First off, my father put in an order of 100 cigars. So I was going to be reimbursed. No matter where I buy them in Cuba, it still is one quarter the price than in Toronto. The cigars I was going to buy had better be real, or Father Freedman would kick my ass. Second, I don't smoke, so I didn't really have any need for my own cigars to smoke in Cuba. After he made his attempt at a sales, pitch, which took the longest two minutes of my life, I started backing away from him, hoping he'd walk away. I started towards the resort, figuring he wasn't allow in. Cary was still in deep conversation with his two Fence Monkeys. After they left, Cary told me that they tried to do the same thing. Except their English skills were even worse than my guy. Cary told me they tried to sell him cigars and wanted his hat. He was wearing a Molson Canadian baseball hat that Cary and I eat got at the Buddy Guy/Jonny Lang concert last year.

After having our first experience with a Fence Monkey (which Cary named soon thereafter), we headed towards the pool, where there is less riff-raff, unless you count the few kids who were running around. The pool is super nice. More sunning. More reading. More drinking. It was glorious. It was around this time, I realized that I was going to finish all my books before I left. I was reading more than 200 pages a day, taking my time. I was worried! We ate lunch, which consisted of more starch than a Chinese laundry. Rice, pasta, bread, pizza (which I guess it bread), some small fish type food, beef or pork (I couldn't tell) and a lot of other fried stuff. Most of the food was fried. No barbecues. Go figure. You'd think a third-world country would know how to cook raw meat over fire. But I guess somewhere in the Karl Marx doctrine, food must be prepared on a griddle and not over the open flame. All men are equal when food is fried. The day finished off quickly. More sun. More rum. It's easy to speak Spanish when the only words you have to say is "Dos Cuba Libre por favor!" After about an hour in the room, Cary and I realized that an early dinner was, well, too early. Around 8:00 p.m., we headed to the restaurant to graze. Wearing some natty summer duds (golf shirts and shorts), we entered the restaurant. We were stopped by a member of the armed guards of the shitty restaurant (aka a waiter) that we had to wear pants. I didn't remember reading this anywhere. Nor did Cary. But it seems everyone else had known about this, as no one was wearing shorts. A quick walk back to the room and a change into pants (I'm glad I brought two pairs of linen pants, who knew I'd need them), we headed back to the restaurant. Again, we were stopped. I was getting hungry. When I get hungry I get pissed off. This time Pedro, the king bee of this hive, stopped us. I thought, what the hell! I paid my money. I want to eat. If I had to rip off this guy's arm and cook it over a counterfeit Cohiba, and eat it, I was ready to do it. Pedro had said to us that it was getting late. Late for who? It was 8:10 p.m. I was hungry. Cary was hungry. I saw him eating sugar packets whole, paper plates and even a small Cuban who was playing a guitar. Pedro told us that we should come back for the 9:00 p.m. sitting. Damn, I was pissed. We could have eaten within that time frame. Pedro was totally giving us attitude when he said, "you could come for the later sitting, if I space for you." I'm thinking, the resort is half full, I could take three tables and no one would know, or care for that matter.

9:00 p.m. Cary and I went to dinner. Ate some mediocre food. Impressed with the pizza. Not impressed because all the food was fried. A quick exit and headed to the bar. Cary and I drank. What else is there to do in Cuba? We turned in early, because we were tired, bored and drunk. Not a bad way to spend day 1 in Cuba.

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