Trinidad de Cuba. 🇨🇺
Cowboys and classic cars in a beautifully-preserved Spanish-colonial town.

The Autopista Nacional runs in an almost straight line from Havana towards Cienfuegos. Our driver races along the almost deserted three-lane highway, changing lanes to avoid rough patches in the asphalt, honking at his friends as we pass.
As we drive through Cienfuegos, the driver points out a billboard showing the fist of Cuba punching Uncle Sam. Given that Trump is to announce his Cuban policy at the end of the week, I wonder what resonance the billboard will (continue) to hold. It will turn out that every time I pass the billboard, it will be pointed out to me.
In Havana, I had been picked up first. From my casa, we drove around the city to pick up additional passengers: a woman from Ohio who was in Cuba to learn Spanish and a Spanish couple on holiday. As we circled Vedado and Habana Vieja looking for the various casas and hotels in which they stayed, Tony joked he was giving me a tour of the city.
It’s raining in Trinidad. The taxi leaves me at a single-story house set along a cobblestone street where I am greeted enthusiastically by the owner. The casa is full, but she tells me to sit tight. Her son is coming. He’s just opened a new casa and there’s plenty of room there.
The casa is newly renovated and the rooms are spacious. From the roof there are views over the city. When my host learns I’m from New York he tells me he was born in New Jersey but moved to Cuba when he was 3. He tells me to wait a moment. When he returns, he proudly shows me his American Passport. I ask him why his parents decided to return to Cuba; he demurs.
The rain abates and I make my way to the Plaza Mayor, where crowds of tourists are beginning to gather. I climb a hill and dine at the Vista Gourmet, scoring its second-best table. A couple sits at the corner table overlooking the town: the cobblestone streets washed fresh after the rain, dusk creeping up off the ocean.

The waiter sees me writing in my journal and asks if I’m a writer. No, I tell him. I dabble in photographer. He excitedly tells me about a local celebrity who has shot for National Geographic among other publications. He brings me a business card with the address of his casa. I tell him I’ll check it out.
At the Casa de la Musica, I watch as a couple in their 70s or 80s dances to a live salsa band. The crowd cheers their encouragement. They are the center of everyone’s attention; even the band appears to be giving them props. The band plays a few more songs and then cedes the stage. I take that as a cue to make my way back to the casa and turn in for the night.





The next morning the skies are clear. I eat breakfast at the casa and then return to the Plaza Major. The square is almost deserted. I check the map and then begin a walking tour of the town.
In the shade of the Convento de San Francisco de Asis a group of musicians rehearses, warming themselves up for the day. In a small schoolroom, the teacher tries to calm her students who have just gathered for the day. Down a side street, a man sells garlic door to door, calling out his wares. In one doorway, he makes a sale, then backtracks to where he’s heard another customer call to him.
Near a small park, a group of cowboys sit in the shade. Spotting me, they ask me if I want to ride horses. I smile and shake my head and move on.



I climb up out of the town towards the radio transmitter installed atop the 180m high Cerro de la VigÃa. Near the edge of town a man asks if I’d like a bottle of water. I tell him I’ll stop by on the way down.
As the town falls away I have uninhibited views around the valley, clear through to the sea. At the top, the gates to the facility are open and I walk in searching for a group of people I had seen walking ahead of me. They’re nowhere to be found.
There’s music coming from somewhere but I don’t see anyone. Alongside the main building a set of stairs lead to the roof. I climb to the top and from my vantage point I watch as birds float above the valley, hover in the air.

Back in town, I tour a few of the local museums, first the Museo Histórico Municipal for its views and then the GalerÃa de Arte, which proves to be my favorite. In the latter, a series of paintings based on popular comic book heroes hang in a corner. Against the faded paint of the museum, the bright colors leap from the wall.




I escape the heat of the afternoon and head to Playa Ancon. As we drive down the beach road, the taxi driver points to Trinidad in the distance. When we arrive, he parks under a tree and asks me how long I’ll be. Two, two-and-a-half hours. He nods and walks off to join a group of drivers waiting for their fares.
The beach is lined with seaweed. An offshore storm has stirred up the ocean and the leaves dry under the sun. I find a free parasol and read and nap and listen to the waves. Nearby, a group of Americans talk about this and that. I half-listen to them as the wind rustles the fronds of my beach umbrella.
As the afternoon wears on, two Cuban men wander by and ask if they can share my spot. The sun has dropped in the sky and the shade extends across the sand. I nod and they set up towels, open some beers, and make sure I’m ok with their music.
It’s getting late and I’m due to meet my driver. I leave reluctantly, waving to the Cubans who are now soaking in the sea. They smile and wave back and dive into the water.


At night I eat dinner under the large ceiba tree that gives the restaurant its name. I sample my first canchanchara, a honey and rum (of course) concoction born of Trinidad, served in terracotta cups. It is cold and sweet and perfectly offsets the warm humid evening.
The kitchen is located just below me and waiters call down to check on specials. Replies echo off the courtyard. The restaurant is quiet; a group has reserved the other half but they have yet to arrive and I savor the solitude. A short shower passes overhead; a few drops make their way through the leaves of the tree to my table.
I write a postcard: A— Trinidad is a beautiful town set between the mountains and the sea, boasting of cobblestone streets and colorful colonial buildings. Turning a corner you’re as apt to see a horse-drawn cart (or cowboy) as a classic American car. It’s easy to fall for its charms…
After dinner I pay one CUC to spend a last evening at the Casa de la Musica. Salsa rings through the square and caroms off the walls of the Iglesia Parroquial de la SantÃsima Trinidad. A group dances with their dance instructors, spinning beautifully and laughing as they lose a step or find their arms twisted in the wrong positions to complete a turn.
One band bleeds into the next; the styles mix and merge. Steps from the main square, the crowds thin; the music follows.
Near my casa, a man slices meat from a leg of pork. He lets me try a piece and I pay 2 CUC for a sandwich. He places the meat between two slices of potato bread and seasons it with a little spice and large grains of salt. It’s delicious. I eat my late-night snack and walk past the Central Park. It’s full of people, their faces bathed in the cool light of their devices.
It’ll become one of my favorite sights as I travel the country; in each town I’ll find myself in the city squares at night watching people live their private lives publicly. I sit on a bench and take my own device out of my pocket. I review the Glimpses I’ve been taking and meld into the crowd, becoming one of the many faces illuminated against the night. 🇨🇺


