I knew I was flying south, toward blissfully warm weather, when I looked out of the airplane window and saw cotton-candy cloud formations, the kind you see in Canada during the summer months.
My wife and I were heading to Varadero, Cuba, having booked a one-week all-inclusive package at the Melia Marina Hotel.
The fluffy clouds began appearing as we flew over the coastline of southern Florida, where I would spend anywhere from 10 days to three weeks during a typical winter. As we passed the Florida Keys, to which I’ve driven several times from Miami Beach over the course of three decades, Cuba beckoned even more insistently.
We were glad to leave Toronto behind, if only temporarily. Although it was unseasonably mild for mid-December, the skies were grey and dull. We longed for the elixir of constant sunshine, and we got it after reaching Varadero, a three-hour flight from Toronto.
Varadero, a narrow peninsula jutting into the Atlantic Ocean, is Cuba’s premiere tourist destination, dotted with a profusion of hotels that cater mainly to sun-starved Canadians and Europeans at this dismal time of the year.
It will not be long before Americans descend on Varadero in droves. With Cuba and the United States having reestablished diplomatic relations, American tourists will soon flood into Varadero, pushing up the price of vacations. With this in mind, we booked our holiday, knowing this might be our last truly affordable vacation in Cuba, the least expensive island in the Caribbean.
The Melia Marina, a five-star hotel by Cuban standards, hadn’t changed a bit since our first stay in January 2014. The marbled lobby was bright and airy. The bar in the lobby was rich with the tantalizing aroma of strong coffee.
We felt at home, 2,000 kilometres from home.
Our room on the second floor, just steps away from the buzz of the lobby, was spacious and clean. The balcony overlooked the immense swimming pool complex.
Since we did not venture from the hotel, our routine for the next seven days hardly varied.
In the morning, shortly after breakfast, we settled into lounge chairs adjacent to the large swimming pool. We chatted, read and contemplated our navels. Occasionally, I waded into the pool.
After lunch, I went to the beach for the rest of the afternoon. Thankfully, the sandy beach was bereft of tar deposits or jelly fish. Depending on the angle of the light, the color of the ocean ranged from turquoise and aquamarine to deep blue. The water was warm and inviting. I didn’t go out too far, letting the waves smack rhythmically into my chest or back.
Back on shore, I watched the surf rolling in or gazed at sail boats, paragliders and surfboarders in the distance. I ambled along the shore, happily absorbing the rays of the sun. Once, as I returned to my lounge chair, I walked past a pelican in repose, its webbed feet planted firmly on the sand and its small, beady eyes glancing sideways.
On another day, I donned a life jacket and enjoyed a 15-minute ride on a catamaran, revelling in the open sea and the big cloudless sky.
The nightly entertainment program, which unfolded near the marina, tended to be loud and exuberant. I watched raptly as three singers in tight clothes, backed up by a 12-piece band, belted out classic Cuban songs, or as performers in flimsy costumes danced up a storm.
One of the pleasures of our trip was unexpected. On our second or third day at the resort, we met Joe and Michelle, a Canadian couple from Belleville, a two hour drive from Toronto. We spent many hours with them and enjoyed their company.
Some comments about the food:
We usually arrived for breakfast around 8:15 a.m., reserving a table for two in the big, sunlit dining room. The buffet tables were laden with everything conceivable. Breads, rolls, bread sticks and croissants. Scrambled, sunny side-up and hard-boiled eggs. Sliced cheese and jam. Milk and yogurt. Lox and sardines. Cold cuts and bacon. Olives and pickled onions. Fresh fruit and tropical fruit drinks. Fresh-brewed coffee and tea. At special stations, you could order omelettes.
Breakfast was my favourite meal, but lunch could be a hit-and-miss affair. I tried a cream of tomato soup and it was watery and tasteless. The fried calamari was rubbery and virtually unpalatable. The spaghetti in tomato sauce was hopelessly bland. But the rice and noodle dishes were fine enough.
Supper was infinitely better. I particularly liked the red snapper, the roast turkey, the Cuban-style rice and beans and the boiled pumpkin and sweet potatoes. The elongated red and green peppers added a fiery touch to a meal. I usually washed down the food with cold and refreshing Cuban beer.
The sweet table was excellent, reminding me of weddings past. Cakes of all shapes and sizes, with or without icing. Creme caramel. Bread pudding. Cookies.
With reservations in hand, we dined at the French and Italian restaurants, where the decor was more elegant, the service fancier and the food more refined.
And at all hours of the day and night, we repaired to various bars to drink cold and warm beverages. Invariably, I opted for pina coladas with a dash of white Cuban rum, or frothy cafe con leches and cappuccinos.
If I had to rate the overall quality of the food, I’d give it a six-and-a-half to seven out of 10. With a few tweaks, the score could easily be eight or higher.
A general observation:
Since the vast majority of Cubans, including hotel employees, earn only about $30 per month, they invariably seek to supplement their paltry incomes. So tips in convertible Cuban pesos or foreign currencies are expected.
Sometimes, though, Cubans take this tipping business too far. Much to our surprise, the attendant at the ticket counter in Varadero airport asked for $40 to confirm our aisle seats for the return trip to Toronto. “I’ll help you,” she said soothingly. We resisted her demand, but it made us uncomfortable.
We would have preferred to leave Cuba on a more upbeat note.