. . . Our first journey out into Havana was moderately successful. We understood there was a kiosk within a couple blocks to buy rum, but we had no idea what a kiosk looked like and were soon lured to a government store where they only sold bulk ingredients and, oddly, peppermint schnapps (licor de menta). Perplexing. We wandered away and noticed a really cool Don Quixote sculpture by Sergio Martinez, the style of which was almost shockingly arabesque. It was immediately apparent to me that Cuba would be a place of art in a way that the United States was not: deeply respectful of art and appreciative. . . .
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. . . We were completely controlled by the weather. The wind howled outside. It rained. It snowed. We commented about the changes in the type of precipitation falling, “Now it's raining, now it's snowing. Now it's raining again.” We bundled up occasionally to go into the tiny touristy village, to pick up groceries or sit in the lobby of La Aldea, write or paint, treat ourselves to dinner at La Braseria. We sat around, dreaming about long approaches, steep passes and slopes, river crossings, and navigation across glaciers. Miles and miles (no one ever seemed to know or care how many) and thousands of feet of elevation gain. We dreamed about climbing, succeeding or failing, to reach a summit of something, anything, then rappelling and turning around. Back. Back down the passes, over the rivers and glaciers, back to the luxury of the kitchen in El Chaltén, to do the whole thing over again. Do it again and again, for as many wonderful days as we’d managed to eke out from our normal existence. . . .
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