Walking Cuba: El Camino del Cimarron

Ciego Montero — Palmira

The next morning the young woman who signed me in the night before is still on duty.

“You live here, or what?” I say, putting my backpack down by the front desk. The entire front of the building is made of glass so I can see down the long driveway all the way to the road. No sign of my ride; no lights slicing through the darkness yet and it is almost 6 a.m. A stray dog sleeps curled up right outside the glass doors.

“Seems that way,” she says. “Going home today. Twenty-four-hour shifts. Want some coffee?”

“Always,” I say. She disappears into the dark hallway and returns with some delicious black morning gold.

Carbajal and the driver arrive before I started my predictable, introspective pissed-off rant about Cubans always being late.

“Just in time,” I smile, when they roll up parallel to the curb. I throw my backpack into the trunk and we are off.

Six members of the original welcoming committee wait to see me off from the Casona. Carbajal’s mother consumes me in a bear-like hug.

“You have your house here. Whenever you want.” she says. “Don’t forget us.”

Carbajal hugs me too. “We appreciate what you’re doing,” he says. “I wanted to give you a CD full of…