CARL`S 80TH BIRTHDAY BASH - Varadero, Cuba March 2018

"Miss, you want cold beer. Six for $20."

Cervasus cold from the can in the midday heat on the macadam of the airport welcomes us to Cuba as we stand round the bus that will take us to our resort. The drive through Varadero is stunningly beautiful; red earth, aquamarine sea, golden sand, flowering plants and waving palms. The vintage vehicles we came to see parade by us, as well as horse and donkey carts and bikes of every kind, motorized and peddle. Nodding pump jacks draw crude from the ancient seabed, storing it in oil batteries that dot the arid plain, and at one point our guide points out the Cuban Eiffel Tower - an oil drilling rig. One hotel we stop at reminds me with its dark wood plantation shutters, cane furniture, inward opening library windows and lazily turning fans that this island inspired Ernest Hemingway's writings.

Our Caribbean-style hotel has an open air lobby with courtyard pools in which cichlid fish swim lazily and a night heron stalks small minnows. Mark, who was able to join us at the last minute and is first to get his room, comes striding through this vaulted ceiling area singing to a Latino tune in his rich baritone though he speaks not a word of Spanish. The first Spanish word we learn is 'hola' or hello, and the next two even more important, 'por favore' - please and 'gracias' - thank you. One of us takes the language lessons offered each day and we all practice during our suppers together, the staff very generous in acknowledging our attempts.

The wind is up, cooling our suites and driving the surf in on the sand, the throbbing pulse of the Caribbean sea threading its way round the buildings of the Paridisus Varadero complex. Everywhere, whether live or recorded, we listen and dance to jaunty Cuban music with its salsa three-beat tempo. Swim-up accommodation is my gift to myself as it is so difficult for me to cool myself if I become overheated. Even so, though I sit in the full shade but when I'm swimming, the reflection of sun from the water has left me much pinker than I should be. I am kept company on my lanai by motley crew of creatures. First a frilled lizard who basks and picks insects from the burgundy-leafed bushes edging the pool, then quick forays by a hummingbird to the pale lilac flowers. A yellow-rumped warbler jabs with its thin bill into the same flowers to extract insects hiding within while gray and white kingbirds flash through the shrubbery after larger insects. Overhead a single black frigate bird sails by, followed by a trio of brown pelicans all using the early day dihedral updrafts to ascend in the sky. In the midday heat, a thin female cat searches for anything she might take away for her kittens and as the day cools, mourning doves with their plaintive calls come to drink from our pool and tiny lizards scoot between our feet.

By happy hour at 5pm, a cheerful half of our group gathers poolside at our room to swim and sip pina coladas and wait for our evenings supper reservation at Fuego, a Latino restaurant. Our Cummins/Merrifield family has the unfortunate habit of discussing scatological matters at the dinner table, a behaviour Carl abhors. So there is considerable laughter at our end of the table when Sarah and Pierre warn us away from a certain open air buffet because starlings were seen dining at the salad bar. Mark chimes in, "Yah! Not just eating but taking a bath in the salad bowl. You know how birds do that - flapping their wings like this. And you know what they do after they bathe, they poop." Then he laughs and adds, "Good thing Jillian is keeping Carl's attention, eh? Here we go again!"

This is everything I wished for in this vacation - family and friends, sun and water, food and drink, and lots and lots of laughter

Buenos noches!

CUBA II:

A monarch butterfly drifts by, the black and orange wings in counterpoint against the umber stucco walls of our cottage, sunlight creating windows of the white spots in its wings.

The palms rattle their fronds in the trade winds, a different sound for each variety. The squat fan palms remind me of Egyptian wall murals, slaves attending to their royal charges. Royal palms, tall and stately, once the province of the island ruling classes only, sprout new shoots below their crowns to replace what was ripped away in the past hurricane season. Date palms wave nobby flower sprays below their crowns which will mature into fruit that will be harvested and dried. Coconut palm with their tall, often curved trunks, embrace clusters of fruit in all stages of ripeness, the colour of the husk indicating which is ready to be eaten. Both green coconut and dried coconut is a staple in the Cuban island culinary palette.

As Lent draws to a close and Palm Sunday approaches, my appreciation of this tree common to the Biblical account of Jesus triumphant ride into Jerusalem increases. I had hoped to attend the mass in Varadero, but missed my connection with the taxi and instead spent time walking among the trees singing my childhood favourite hymn, "waving the branch of the palm tree high in my hand."

"Hola!" a cheerful greeting from one of the groundskeepers breaks into my reverie. All the staff here enjoy the opportunity to practice their English and usually begin by asking where we are from. On hearing I am from Canada, Jose Luis says, "Una momento". He steps over to a palm tree and carefully selects a single frond. While I watch, using tiny scissors he carries attached to his belt, he snips then folds and braids the palm into a tiny hummingbird which he presents to me on a stem of grass which he has threaded through a hibiscus blossom. I try to tell him how much his gift of palm means to me on this Palm Sunday when I have not been to church, but our language skills don't extend that far. As he saunters away, I am left with an overwhelming sense of gratitude that God knows the desires of my heart and provides not only for my needs, but often those small things that bring joy to each day.

Our concierge, Liset, concerned to find me abed after a sleepless night, goes off and reappears with strong Cuban coffee, tropical fruit and a selection of delicious local farm cheeses. She and her evening counterpart smooth out the tiny wrinkles in our vacation and graciously allow us to practice our Spanish speaking skills. While the others make a day of seeing Habana, Marie and I weave our way past overcooked tourists to the shaded area where a luncheon buffet is laid out for us. Cuban food is simple and delicious, the portions reasonable and the presentation lovely. Everything we eat is a product of Cuba and most fresh fruits and vegetables, pickled vegetables, smoked and cured meats and fish, are produced on local farms rather than in large factories.

At sunset, Marie and I wend our way along cobblestone paths and past pools reflecting the silhouettes of palms against the evening sky as it deepens from baby boy blue to pink to violet to navy blue, the sun an orange ball that drops from the sky into the horizon with inexorable speed.

Tonight is Mark's birthdate and so we combine that celebration with the purpose of our visit, Carl's 80th Birthday Bash, and despite being seated at two tables, the staff have arranged a wonderful party. As we scramble to sort out seating at our two tables, the chairs screech as they slide on the tile floor. It is the exact tone of fingernails on a chalks board and we cringe each time someone moves, finally dissolving in laughter as Mark, hands over his ears, cries out "Lift the chairs, pleeeease!" The menu is Tex Mex cuban-style and since none of us can pronounce our choices, we scramble once the food is served to grab the dish we intended to have, and beyond that we just help ourselves to the choice bits from each other's plates. Fortunately, the waiters seemed to appreciate our hijinks and laughter, bringing forth a delicious two layer cake birthday cake with candle and serenaded us with happy birthday accompanied by flashing lights. All families have inside jokes and Carl telling Mark that together they are 107 years old will be added to our stock of 'remember when' stories.

CUBA III I stand knee deep in the azure sea as the surf sucks the sand from beneath my feet. It is the turn of the tide and the intertidal zone is barely covered. Here the sea teems with life. Limpets cling to coral crevasses and tiny hermit crabs resist the pull of the waves as they comb the mossy surfaces for a meal. Holding these minute shells up to the light with patience produces six tiny blue legs tipped with carmine and a pair of miniature claws. When too large for the present home, this crustacean hauls his present shell near to his next residence and quickly scuttles from one shell to the other. Cuba is the most stunningly beautiful place. The colour of the sea is an ever-changing palette of blues and greens that I cannot even put names to. Like the facets of a gem, both the sun and the depth of water vary the shades until finally as the suns drops below the horizon, the surface fades from aluminum to steel grey, from charcoal to midnight black. Sunset on the coral shore is a time when the heat dissipates, so we quickly assume a rhythm of waiting to eat our evening meal until we have watched the sun-ball drop into the sea. Each evening is different; once haze from a brush fire obscured the horizon and twice clouds gave the light a focal point. The coral of the shore is living rock even once out of the water. The sea enlarges natural declivities in the beach shelf and the water moving through these passages sounds like the breathing of a behemoth. When the ocean is roughened by wind, the waves rush into these tunnels and burst out through holes on the surface in geysers of spray. The local people fish from the shore and I watch enchanted as a man, in a graceful piscine ballet, carries line and hook baited with a rectangle of some flesh. In the golden light of the setting sun, he raises his arm above his head and twirls the line like a lasso in ever widening circles before releasing it to fly out over the sea. The line is then passed over a twig set upright in a coral hole and coiled on the ground beside the reel. This he repeats seven times as family members tend the lines already set. Unfortunately, darkness descends before any of the lines produce a catch. Once the sky is dark, we retire to the day's choice of eatery to spend time together. The a la carte restaurants pale after the first few days and in the end we all agree that our favourite restaurant is the Family Concierge buffet, Gabi. Our waiter, noticing Marie's accent addresses her in French, telling us that he speaks five languages all learned from patrons during his many years of service. Some meals the switching from French to Spanish to English is so rapid that I lose track of the gist of the conversation. Eugenio always greets us like long lost family, keeping our wine glasses filled and bussing us ladies on both cheeks as we leave. By the time we finish our meal, the evening's entertainment has begun. One night we are serenaded by six beautiful Cuban women dressed in red and white and black swing dresses with black strappy heels. The instruments are two cellos, three violins and a clarinet, and with these they played an amazing selection of Cuban cafe music; upbeat and classy. More often the music is disco style, heavy on the bass. As we leave the young people one night, the throbbing beat of YMCA follows us out through the dark. CUBA IV By far, my favourite music is the tunes of the sweetly singing birds that trill from the shrubs in the resort compound in the mornings and from the madrone trees that line the shore in the evening. Though I brought my binoculars, I have had no success identifying the singers. I spend most days lounging in the shade of the patio at the bungalow looking out at the colours of the sea and revelling in the warm breeze. I am kept company by the resident house lizard, an interesting fellow whose sensory organs must be in his banded tail. The Cuban curly-tailed lizard (Leiocephalus carinatus labrossytus) carries this appendage curled upon his back like a scorpion and feathers it from side to side when he pauses. In contrast, his rough, pebbled hide is dull coloured, an excellent camouflage as he searches for insects. As I sit on the rough grass above the beach, a young man with dashing topknot of shining black hair and winning smile approaches me. "What are you doing?" He looks pensive when I answer that I am just enjoying the sunset. He next asks my name and where I'm from, and inquires how old I am and what my occupation is. Satisfied with my answers, he sits down beside me, and just as I am wondering what might happen next, the beach security guard appears and after a brief conversation shoos my romeo off. He wishes me buenos noches and wanders away. Imagine...me....a cougar! The security guard then engages me in a animated discussion of the Beijing Olympics, using skiing and figure skating charades to fill in where words fail him. The Cuban people are eager to practice speaking English as the more language skills they have the better the job opportunities, and almost all the young people hope for a future away from the privations of their island home. The prosperity doctrine of the western world is so infectious and they long for the lifestyle they see from afar. The sad truth is that many Cubans, most of whom are well educated, face menial jobs and manual labour whether the stay in Cuba or emigrate. The resort industry is a huge employer, 1000 staff persons at Paridisus Varadero, but the wages barely support one person let alone a family, and everyone relies on their tips to augment their income. To compensate, people often work as many hours as possible, usually from 6am to 6pm or as late as 11pm, then face a 1-2 hour bus ride home. Though no one goes hungry in Cuba nor is there any begging, the standard of living is far below Canada, yet health care and education are free to all. The bottom line is, if you travel to any of the Caribbean islands, please take a suitcase of personal hygiene products, school supplies and clothing. Our final evening begins sedately with an almost alcohol-free meal in the Gabi buffet and a couple of hours lounging in our room talking over the highlights of Carl's 80th Birthday Bash in Cuba. Remembering our first evening's meal conversation topic, it seems fitting that we are all battling Montezuma's Revenge. Though we have six suites for the nine of us, and eight toilets if you include the two a quick walk across the pool deck, panic ensues on a quite regular basis in the post-prandial hours as one or another excuses themselves to dash for their dwelling. This comedy is enhanced by the fact that all our rooms open with identical white unmarked plastic cards, so the plea of "Do you have my room key?" causes those of us not stricken at the moment to laugh uproariously. And so our time in Cuba ends as it began with love and jokes and lots of laughter.

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