Wander just a few blocks from Cuba’s Capitol Building in Havana and encounter the living remnants of a once-sumptuous past.
The Cuba of your mind’s eye is alive and well…sort of. Any visitor to this Caribbean island expecting to see gumball-colored Chevys and Pontiacs from the 50s, tin can Russian Ladas, and the fading pastel patina of art deco buildings will not be disappointed. A trip to Cuba is a virtual time-tunnel to a yesteryear that’s at once surreally familiar and enjoyably disorienting.
Like being cast in a Cuban version of Steven Spielberg’s American Graffiti, you walk down main drags and backstreet neighborhoods of Havana, Viñales, or Trinidad as American classics cruise by. Some have the sheen of a hot-off-the-factory-floor model while others look like they’re one shoddy spark plug away from the junkyard. It must be tough to keep these cars not just functional but well preserved.
Like a scene from American Graffitti, classic cars line the streets of Havana.
For more than 55 years (since 1960, following of Fidel Castro’s Cuban Revolution victory and the disintegration of relations with the United States), Cubans have suffered a commercial, economic, and financial embargo imposed by the U.S. And it’s created an equally beautiful and melancholic time warp that has shaped the esthetics (and work ethics) of this Communist country in lots of ways.
With no direct or legal access to goods from the U.S., Cuba could no longer import cars or the car parts needed to fix the ones they still had. So these days, under the hoods of Motor-City-vintage-automobiles-cum-Cuban-standard-vehicles, you’ll find parts cannibalized from Peugots, Hyundais, and anything else that Cubans can get their hands on. Cubans are nothing if not industrious, and they seem to find ways to make their cars (and country) run…or at least limp along.
With replacement parts impossible to come by, Cubans learn to find (or make) ingenious solutions to fixing their 50s automobiles.
While on a road trip from Havana to Trinidad, the battery in our Coca-Cola red-and-white Mercury gave up the ghost and refused to go one more kilometer. It took half an hour, but our driver was able to fix it with scavenged parts. Not two minutes later, his friend who was caravanning with us discovered that the battery on his Ford was kaput. How they managed to find a spare from someone in a small town on a national holiday is still a mystery to me.
If you want to go for a ride in a shiny American car in Havana, you’ll pay a premium.
Both the American and Russian vehicles are often used as taxis in Cuba. Awestruck travelers hop in the fancy American beauties and pay a premium. Savvy travelers go Russian-style. A 15-minute ride from the residential Miramar neighborhood to the touristic Havana Vieja (Old Havana) in a ’55 Dodge taxi can cost 15 CUC (Convertible Cuban Pesos) or about $15. That’s half the average monthly salary for a typical Cuban. The same ride in a Russian Lada taxi would be about 8 CUC.
Save money by going in a Russian Lada taxi.After ballet class, this young Cuban hails an inexpensive “taxi particular”. Just stick out your hand and an available car will eventually stop.
And if you’re clever enough to flag down a “civilian” driver willing to pick up a stray passenger, you can get that price down to just a few CUC. Like a Cuban private home run as a B&B is called a casa particular, a private car run as a temporary taxi is called a taxi particular. Just stick your hand out, point to the ground, and one will eventually come by.
Buildings that would be historic monuments practically anywhere in the US see little TLC in a country where money and resources are limited.
Another flashback side effect of the embargo—and of mal-governance on the part of the Cubans—is the state of their architecture, particularly in Havana. While not quite frozen in time, turn of the 20th-century structures and Art Deco buildings defiantly remain standing, all while they decay and wither from the climate, neglect, and lack of money. Edifices that would be considered historic monuments in the U.S. are left to decay, to decompose. Neither the residents, nor the owners, nor the government have the money to fix or preserve them. Even if they did, who knows if they actually would? And while paint has worked wonders on some of them, it’s not enough to heal the structural trauma on the inside.
Near Old Havana.
Still, there is something romantic, nostalgic, and charming about those old Easter egg-colored buildings. There’s a simplicity and elegance that manages to transcend the decades of dilapidation and disrepair. Like former beauty queens whose best days have long since past, the remnant dignity, poise, and grace of these venerable constructions still shine through.
Check out the gallery to see more antique cars and yesteryear buildings in beautiful and captivating Cuba. Click to enlarge and learn more.
20th-century car. 21st-century bike.
Near Callejón Hamel in Havana.
Jackie with our guide Rey and our “taxi” driver for the day.
Chrome.
Whether transporting people or produce, Cubans make smart use of the cars they have.
A proud Pontiac makes its way through the streets of Viñales.
1950s station wagon in Viñales.
A Lada gets lots of use as a personal car and as a “taxi particular” in Viñales.
Cruising in Cienfuegos.
Time for a new(ish) battery.
Detail: Tail light of a 1950s Ford.
The patina of historic buildings hint at days of former grandeur.
In Trinidad, time seems to move even slower than in Havana.
Life is lived inside, outside, and even on the railings of buildings that have seen their best days slip by.
Street art invades old walls of crumbling facades.
Easter egg-colored buildings in Havana.
There is a majestic quality to these buildings that, despite their years of neglect and decay, seem to come through.
Rick Steves and I have been getting so many requests regarding the logistics of our Cuba trip. And with travel restrictions slowly easing for Americans, we know more and more people will soon be heading to our neighbor in the Caribbean.
Airbnb
Our rental: Miramar Grand Terrace, can be rented as 2BR/2BA or 3BR/2BA, hosted by Ingrid & Alberto
Save $20 on your Airbnb rental through this link.
The next two listings can and should be booked directly with the owners. The hosts work “on your honor” and trust that you will be there when you promise to be, even if you cannot provide a deposit (which most Americans cannot). So be responsible about good communication. Viñales Casa Chuchi y Mamita, 2BR/2BA
Book direct: marjey@nauta.cu Photos
Trinidad
Hostal “El Ático”, 2BR/2BA (can rent rooms individually), hosted by Magnelis
Book direct: magnelismartha@nauta.cu Photos
Another good option is to go through TrinidadRent, a casa particular booking agency run by kind and helpful Maria; trinidadrent@yahoo.es.
For Americans traveling to Cuba, finding a place to stay can feel stressful. With few hotels and high demand, most resort to staying in a casa particular—a privately run B&B. But even that can prove difficult if you don’t know the ropes. Read about my family’s experience to help save yourself time and tension when you book your own Cuban casa particular. (Remember to click on the photos for more info.)
Emerging from the backseat of our 1955 Dodge taxi and onto the dimly lit street, I looked up to see the lights of our Havana casa particular. It was nearly midnight, yet even with little ambient light, I recognized the facade of the building from the photos we had seen on Point2Cuba—the Canadian-based agency we used to book our first three nights here. Being an hour delayed and having no cell service, we hadn’t been able to contact the owner, and I was stressed about having made him wait so long.
Truthfully, I was stressed about a lot of things: did they have our correct arrival information, what if no one arrives to meet us, can we pay the balance of the rental fee tomorrow since we weren’t able to change enough money at the airport, what if the casa particular isn’t as nice as on the website?
The enclosed yet airy terrace of our first casa particular in Havana.
It was easy to search for what we wanted (independent apartment with at least 2BR, 2BA) in the Havana neighborhood we wanted (Miramar or Vedado—opting out of the tourist center, Old Havana) in a reasonable price range ($35-50/person/night; $1 ? 1CUC or convertible Cuban peso)—$25-30/night is a solid value, but we aimed a little higher on the comfort scale. The challenge was trying to actually book it online.
Wifi is limited in Cuba. Agencies that list B&Bs—whether based in or out of the country) don’t necessarily have the most up-to-date information. Today your choice is listed as available, but yesterday someone booked it and the owner won’t be able to get online until two days from now to update the information. In our case, we had a low-tech, non-Wifi workaround: call the agency directly.
Our voucher to show to Cuban Immigration and our B&B host.
Our Point2Cuba booking agent, Jola, was an angel. After learning our preferences, she worked day and night (no lie: I was getting emails from her at 3am!) to quickly find just what we needed. We easily paid the deposit online (because the company is based in Canada rather than Cuba, there were no restrictions on us as Americans to pay this way), and Jola emailed us a voucher with the B&B address, owner’s contact info, and the balance due to the owner. We’d need it (just in case) for Immigration at Havana airport and to show the owner.
Rick feels right at home here, even while working.
Avelina, the owner, had seen us from the window and came out to greet us. Climbing all those stairs, I was grateful for having packed light. Entering the room, our tired eyes lit up–the place was beautiful, spacious, well-lit, clean, and comfortable. We had the whole place to ourselves, as Avelina and his wife lived in another part of the town. We felt welcome and at ease, and he reminded us, “Ésta es su casa. ¡Aprovéchenla!” This is your home. Make the most of it!
After filling out obligatory paperwork to inform the Cuban government of our visit (as all tourists must do regardless of where they stay) and making arrangements to pay our balance in two days, we got a solid night’s sleep in our temporary home away from home.
In a tranquil neighborhood near many of the embassies, we found a penthouse apartment we called home for a few days in Havana.
Andy was the key master for our B&B.
Jackie and Rick enjoy some breakfast and each other’s company in our dining room.
Avelina generously offered us gifts of cigars, rum, and music.
After a long drive on a bus, we were delighted to finally arrive at Mamita’s and Chuchi’s B&B.
Our B&B in Viñales was equally comfortable and welcoming, and our hosts Mamita and Chuchi were a delight. In this town, practically every building is a casa particular. The entire town lives off of tourists who stay in these humble dwellings. Air-conditioning was a Godsend during this unusually hot and humid December, and it helped keep the mosquitos at bay.
Mogotes–or limestone “haystacks”–as seen from the rooftop of our casa particular.Rick and I were always the first ones to breakfast. We couldn’t wait to enjoy the view and the meal!
Each morning on the rooftop of Casa Chuchi y Mamita, we had a breakfast feast (5 CUC pp). With dramatically jungly, limestone mountains (or mogotes, literally “haystacks”) to our west and crayola-colored houses to our sun-rising east, there was no better place to be. If all we had was bread and water, our eyes would’ve filled us up with enough gorgeous scenery to be satiate us. Thankfully, our hosts fed us well with excellent eggs, hot ham and cheese sandwiches, tropical fruits, cornbread, and plenty of coffee.
Relaxing in our living room.
Even the bedding makes you feel appreciated here.
You certainly don’t go hungry at Casa Chuchi y Mamita.
Along with our guide Rey (center), we thoroughly enjoyed the hospitality of our B&B hosts.
Chuchi and Mamita provided quite the banquet for our final dinner in Viñales.
On our last night, Chuchi and Mamita served up a bonanza of pollo asado (roasted chicken), tostones (fried plantains), tropical fruit, rice, and bean soup. A special guest joined us: a frog that jumped into my bowl…luckily it was before I had served myself the piping hot soup. Chuchi promptly brought me a new bowl, and we enjoyed our scrumptious, starlit dinner on the village rooftop of our countryside B&B.
This little guy thought he’d join us for dinner. Thankfully he didn’t stay.At Hostal “El Ático,” the family works as a team.
Farther east in Trinidad, we stayed with Magnelis, her husband, and her mother. What a team they are! While Magnelis runs the B&B business, Gerardo cooks and fixes things, and Mamá cooks and cleans. The property has been family-owned for generations and is modernized with every comfort. While the family’s rooms were downstairs, ours were upstairs and included a rooftop patio, where we enjoyed the birthday cake given to me by the aforementioned Avelina. You could stay up there from sunrise to sunset and just gaze at the town, the nearby Escambray mountains, and glimpses of the Caribbean.
Our Havana B&B host gave me a birthday that we devoured at our Trinidad B&B.
Whether suntanning, reading, or staring at the surrounding view, guests make great use of this rooftop patio.
Breakfast at Magnelis’s place. Is smoothie an official food group yet?
Like at our previous casa particular, our B&B hosts indulged us with hearty breakfasts of eggs, fruit, and hot sandwiches. We became addicted to Mamá’s fresh guava smoothies, which she always served with a proud smile. We were thankful to have a host like Magnelis who really loved chatting with us about America and her life in Cuba; gave us wonderful advice on activities, eateries, and money-changing; and arranged our 4-hour taxi ride back to Havana. Not only did we feel at home here, we felt like part of the family.
Gerardo, Magnelis (with Floppy), and Mamátook great care of us in Trinidad.Winding up out Cuban vacation at this Miramar, Havana B&B
We spent our final nights back in the capital—this time at an AirBnB casa particular. I use AirBnB whenever and wherever I can and have always had good experiences. This time was no exception in terms of our rental and our hosts. But it’s only fair to let you know that as with the first rental agency I mentioned (and likely with any rental agency you’ll use), the process isn’t as smooth with Cuban B&Bs as with U.S. or European equivalents.
Particularly, with Airbnb Cuban rentals (currently only rentable by Americans), for each request you make, you must verify that you and each of your travel partners have (or will have) a proper “General License” for travel to Cuba or your request will be cancelled. Then you’ll wait up to 72 hours to find out if the location is truly available for your requested dates. If nay, then—and only then—can you request a new location and go through the same process.
Up on the roof…
For us, it was well worth the effort. We found a 3BR, 2BA apartment with (you guessed it) a rooftop patio overlooking our Miramar neighborhood. Ingrid and Alberto charmed us from moment one. They’ve been renting this second-floor apartment for years (they own the building and live on the ground floor), but they were proud to claim us as their first Airbnb guests ever (Airbnb has only been in Cuba since early 2015). With hugs that made us feel like long-lost relatives, they welcomed us into this charming and grand home that Alberto’s father had built back in the day.
While not over-the-top expensive, this was a money-well-spent choice.
Beyond the living room where you see Rick in the previous photo is another comfortable sanctuary.
As we head out for sightseeing, our guardian wishes us a wonderful day.
Our hosts proudly employed two maids who rotated work days and three or four guardians who welcomed us at the front gate at any hour we chose to leave or return, not because they were rich or were in an unsafe neighborhood. Rather they had sufficient income to provide steady employment to help contribute to the livelihoods of as many people as they could–even if that meant having guardians instead of house keys.
Alberto and Ingrid share some of their life stories with us.
The most memorable moments for us were our frank and insightful conversations with our hosts about his experience as a visiting professor of Cuban History at Notre Dame and the University of Chicago; their daughter who is earning her PhD in The States; how miserably bleak the “Special Period” was for all Cubans after the fall of the Soviet Union—compounded by the U.S. Embargo, when people had so little food that they looked like walking skeletons and fuel supplies were cut off so there were absolutely no vehicles on the road; and their eagerness to learn more about the people of America and how we as individuals are not one-in-the-same as our policies.
We’ll always cherish our time in Cuba in delightful homes with thoughtful hosts.
With each casa particular, we felt well cared-for, safe, appreciated, and even pampered. And what made this more than a vacation, more than a touristic visit, and more than what you’d experience staying in some hob-nob snobby hotel was meeting and staying with locals who truly wanted to get to know us and for whom we came to care a great deal by the end of each stay.
Check out the specifics of our Cuban B&Bs below. Be sure to leave comments about your own personal experiences in casas particulares,questions you might have, or suggestions for other Travelphilers.
Airbnb: www.airbnb.com
Our rental: Miramar Grand Terrace, can be rented as 2BR/2BA or 3BR/2BA, hosted by Ingrid & Alberto
https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/5941306
The next two listings can and should be booked directly with the owners. The hosts work “on your honor” and trust that you will be there when you promise to be, even if you cannot provide a deposit (which most Americans cannot). So be responsible about good communication. VIÑALES Casa Chuchi y Mamita, 2BR/2BA
For photos: http://www.bbinnvinales.com/bedandbreakfastrentweb/?676,casa-chuchi-y-mamita-(vinales)-4-
Book direct: marjey@nauta.cu
With passports, visas, and guidebook in hand, Rick and I are ready for some Cuban adventures.
Weary from 14 hours of travel (in the middle seat of three different airplanes from Seattle to Mexico City to Havana), my body longed for a simple bed to sleep in, but my mind was awhirl with anticipation of a trip of a lifetime. Rick, his son Andy, his daughter Jackie, and I were Cuba-bound, and we were eager to explore this Communist island-nation that none of us had ever been to.
The trip was several months in the planning. We did everything by the book: filling out the proper documents for our “General License”, paying for our Mexico-Cuba plane tickets through the appropriate channels, arranging our casasparticulares (private bed & breakfasts) through legitimate companies (we used Point2Cuba and AirBnB), and arranging much of our sight-seeing and educational travel through the Center for Global Education and their Cuba affiliate, The Martin Luther King, Jr. Center. And we prepared ourselves well with smart guidebooks and educational materials like documentaries and books on Cuban history that provided perspectives we hadn’t been accustomed to hearing as Americans (You’ll find a list of some of our most-appreciated resources following this article).
Jackie and Andy travel to their second communist country in 6 months. You can learn all about their earlier adventures in Vietnam on Rick’s website at http://blog.ricksteves.com/jackie/
Seemingly with only the stars of an 11pm sky to illuminate the airport runway, our plane landed smoothly on the nearly pitch black Havana tarmac. Right away, I knew that everything from here on out would be much different that what we were accustomed to in the States.
The United States requires all U.S. citizens traveling to Cuba to choose one of 12 approved General Licenses for legal entry. We each legitimately chose “Professional Research.”
Passing through customs put me a little on edge—not because it should have but because my inner worrywart reared its ugly head. Did I fill out the paperwork right? Did my Cuban visa that I got at the Mexico City airport fall out of my passport? Should Rick and I go to the customs agent together or as individuals? Do I have proof that I’m really traveling to Cuba for “Professional Research” should they grill me about that? So many questions swirled in my brain. Even after the agent took my sweaty-faced picture (dripping with the tropical humidity) to make sure the Cuban government officially knew I was here and what I’d be doing, and even after he waved me through with a smile and an adiós, I could feel my heart pulse and seize until Rick was waved through, too, and reached for my hand.
Our guide Rey greets Rick when we arrive at the Havana airport.
It was relief to be met by Rey, our guide and representative from the MLK Center. His wide, toothy smile, and his warm, sincere welcome were comforting. Don’t get me wrong–I wasn’t scared or truly nervous about being here, but there was so much I didn’t know and was ignorant of regarding Cuba. I needed reassurance that all was and would be well. As I would learn quickly as the trip progressed, this is a safe, friendly, engaging, and thought-provoking place to visit.
Visitors to Cuba wait in long lines to change their money to Cuban Convertible Pesos or CUC.
With Rey’s help, we did what all tourists need to do when first getting to Cuba: change money. We came prepared with a mix of large and small bills (in hindsight, we should have had more of the small ones) and accepted the notion of waiting and waiting and waiting in line—something most tourists to Cuba need to get used to and something that all Cubans live with on a daily basis.
Knowing how tired we were from our day’s journey, Rey helped us get to our casa particular in the Miramar neighborhood of Havana, so we could get a full night’s rest before hitting the ground the next morning.
Ready to go at 8am, Rey picks us up at our casa particular in an AmericanA stoic statue of Cuba poet and activist José Marti points accusingly at the U.S. Embassy, about 300 yards that-a-way.
Sooner than we thought, 8 am had sprung on us, and Rey showed up with our personal American Classic Car/Cuban taxi for the day. With daylight rather than middle-of-the-night darkness as our backdrop, the 15-minute ride into the old town, or Havana Vieja, was the perfect “Cuba for Beginners” visual introduction into this Caribbean port town. Imposing statues, gas stations, cotton candy-colored buildings, smiling locals, and the myriad forms of transportation that lined and traversed the main drag (a waterfront roadway-esplanade-seawall called the Malecón) provided ample eye-catching targets for our cameras.
Smiling habanerasride by cotton candy-colored buildings along the Malecón.Structures from the Spanish colonial era are ubiquitous in Havana.
Sightseeing Old Havana on foot, we explored the most touristy part of the city. From its Spanish colonial beginnings to contemporary public art, history and culture permeated every space. Luckily for us, the cruise ship travelers had not yet arrived that day, so we toured the area in relative, if temporary, peace and learned about the Then and Now of religion in Cuba, wages and social benefits, Hemingway’s haunts, and habaneros or Havana locals.
Now open to visitors and worshippers, the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary stands proudly in the center of Havana Vieja.
Despite Fidel Castro’s revolutionary ideal of allowing for “freedom of religion,” in actuality, religion had, up until recent years, been strongly restricted. Catholicism in particular—which was generally seen as supporting the oppressive dictatorial, elite-class, U.S.-supported government that was run by General Fulgencio Batista and was overthrown by Castro and his (generally) working-class, poorer, non-white Hispanic (read as: Afro-Cuban or mulatto) comrades—took the brunt of the limitations. Churches had been closed, displays of religion in public had been forbidden, and even celebrating Christmas was a no-no. But now, under the leadership of Fidel’s brother Raúl and with the visit of three popes since 1998 (first by Pope John Paul II, then Pope Benedict and most recently by Pope Francis), Cuba has seen an easing of religious restrictions and a growing population of practicing Catholics.
Havana children pal around outside of their school.
Rey reminded us that the average monthly salary for Cubans is 30 pesos or the equivalent of $30 US. He also gently reminded us that homelessness is essentially non-existent and housing is highly subsidized (although the quality, safety, and comfort level vary greatly within the society). Healthcare is free and available to everyone, including twice yearly house calls (but access to medicines and medical equipment are severely limited because of the strict U.S.-enforced embargo). Education from ages 6-16 is free and compulsory and is free through PhD level to anyone who wishes to pursue that route (Cuba’s literacy rate is 99.7%).
This employee awaits her next customer to dole out their portion of eggs.
And no one goes without food. Everyone is given a libreta or ration card that provides $2 worth of food each month (about 12% of the true cash value). This “food basket”, supplied by state-run food stores, provides every Cuban with half a bottle of cooking oil, small rations of cooking gas, white and brown sugar, as well as spaghetti. They also receive some eggs, beans, chicken or fish, along with one piece of bread per day, and seven pounds of rice. There are special provisions for children, diabetics, special occasion items like birthday cakes or rum and beer for weddings, in addition to school uniforms and supplies. Cubans who can afford it supplement their diet with food purchased from local vendors, farmers markets or supermarkets, but in Cuba it’s said, “No one can live on the booklet, but there are many who cannot live without it.”
On the Plaza Vieja in Old Havana, the tourists all flock to same cafe.El Floridity’s claims to fame: Ernest Hemingway and daiquiris.
As we passed by a tourist-crowded café on the popular Plaza Vieja, I wondered how many tourists were getting as deep of a look at Cuban society during the length of their trip as we were getting in these first few hours. And popping into the hotel where Ernest Hemingway stayed and bar where he drank his supposedly “favorite” daiquiris in Havana (both places were packed with tourists), I wondered if this was really what enchanted most visitors.
These two hardworking ladies took time to chat in Spanish and pose for this grateful American visitor.Wherever we went, locals gave us all a warm welcome.
The people we met around town were, without exception, friendly and curious about us. As translator for our family, it was a joy to be speaking Spanish again, and I found myself adapting to the Cuban tendency towards quick words and dropped letters and syllables. Locals asked things like “¿D(e) (d)ónde so(n) u(s)tede(s)?” (Where are you from?) “¿Po(r) qué ha(n) veni(d)o a Cuba?” (Why did we come to Cuba?) They all wanted to know. Answers of “We’re from America” and “We want to learn about your history, your culture, and your people” were met with exclamations of joyful surprise and gleeful welcome. These individuals enchanted us, each in their own unique way, and they enlivened us to meet more of their compatriots.
For more photos of our first day in Cuba, click on the tiles below:
Che Guevara is venerated all over town as a key player in the Cuban Revolution,
Happy children in Havana.
The Malecón is a 5-mile long waterfront roadway that stretches from Old Havana to the Vedado neighborhood (seen here).
Fitness buffs find a perfect place to run along the Malecón.
Wandering the streets of Havana Vieja or Old Havana.
Public art on the Plaza Vieja.
We encountered friendly characters, willing to pose with us…for a peso.
Enamored with this sculpture, Rick tries to talk to the subjects of this piece called “The Conversation”.
Stay tuned for more reports from Cuba.
And if you’re interested to visiting our Caribbean neighbors, consider these resources:
BOOKS
Lonely Planet Cuba Cuba for the Misinformed: Facts from the Forbidden Island by Mick Winter
Real Havana: Explore Cuba Like a Local and Save by Mario Rizzi
Cuba as Never Before: The Absolutely Positively Unauthorized Guide by Louis Nevaer
One of my favorite “side gigs” as a Rick Steves’ guide is promoting our tours at the Travel & Adventure Show every winter. This 2-day event happens in a different major city almost every weekend from January to March. Thousands flock to the city’s convention center, which is jammed aisle after aisle with travel booths featuring everything from photo safari trips in Kenya to South American rainforest getaways and quaint East Coast B&Bs to pickpocket-proof pants. The energy is palpable and buzzes with electrified dreams of travel.
Team Chicago: Dave, Keith, Rick and I love coming to Chicago for the Travel and Adventure Show.
When Rick’s the featured speaker (usually giving his European Travel Skills talk to more than 800 of those attendees), we have a Rick Steves’ Europe booth, where my colleagues and I engage with people one-on-one, answering questions about our 45 different European itineraries, independent travel using our guidebooks, and European travel in general. It’s thrilling to hear about people’s previous travel experiences and plans for future journeys. And it’s fun to get to know the people of the city we’re working in. Next month I’ll be at the L.A. event, and in March I’ll work at the Bay Area show.
Rick shares European travel skills with an eager audience.
This past weekend marked my fifth time working the Chicago show, but despite annual visits to the Windy City, I never get to explore the city: it’s fly in Friday night, work all day Saturday, work all day Sunday, and fly back to Seattle to (fingers crossed) be in my own bed by midnight. The same’s true for Rick, of course—whether working at a travel show or a doing pledge drive for Public Television, he rarely gets to be a tourist in the city he’s visiting. It’s just work, work, work. So this year, Rick and I decided to extend our stay in Chicago to celebrate his daughter Jackie’s birthday (she teaches at a Catholic all-girls school in the city) and to finally get to know this Midwest metropolis.
As a modern, with-it urbanite, Jackie knows such interesting places to eat and cool things to do in town. On Sunday night we popped into Dawali, a cozy Middle Eastern eatery, for some light but tasty fare (we were still detoxing from our previous night’s gut bombs from a foodie burger mecca that shall remain nameless here). Then we took in some comedy at the iO (Improv Olympic) Theater, where legendary comedians like Chris Farley, Amy Poehler, Tina Fey, and Mike Myers got their start. With a combo of seasoned veterans of the venue and comedy newbies, there was a combo of some funny hits and flat-line misses, but we were impressed by the guts and wits of everyone on stage.
Monday morning, while Jackie was at work, Rick and I met up with our friend and colleague Amanda Scotese, an RS guide in Italy and founder of Chicago Detours. We hopped on her Chicago Architectural tour to discover intimate secrets and the complicated past of the historical downtown area called The Loop.
Amanda Scotese, founder of Chicago Detours
The tour lasted about two hours, staying within a ½ mile radius of the Chase building, and every moment was filled with engaging tales, impressive structures, and mesmerizing design and décor. Amanda expertly incorporated historic photos and useful videos on iPads (I got to be one of three iPad operators for our group of 11) that truly enhanced our learning.
From the humble (like the Village’s tiny and historic building) to the dominating (like the many glass and steel structures that pepper the city), Chicago blossoms with architectural fascinations wherever you look.Pablo Picasso designed Chicago’s first commissioned public art. Once controversial, most locals can hardly imagine their city without it now.
You could hardly walk 20 yards without seeing something historical, cultural, or political. I’m accustomed to seeing that kind of side-by-side and layer-upon-layer visual chronicle in Europe, but to experience that in such a relatively young city as Chicago was surprising and intriguing to me. It made me want to learn more about this vibrant place and come back for more. From the monumental to the intimate, I was thankful that Amanda was a thoughtful and methodical curator of sights and information so that we could get a profound yet not overwhelming look at Chi-Town.
We all learned so much from Amanda on her Chicago Detours Architectural Tour of Chicago.
We finished the tour under the Tiffany glass dome of the Chicago Cultural Center, former home to the Chicago Public Library, Central Building. Amanda asked each of us to reflect on what struck us the most during the tour. Every tour member had a different response: learning how the city smartly uses the vast network of underground pedways to relieve sidewalk congestion above ground and to provide commercial space, seeing how civic-sponsored—and formerly controversial—art by Pablo Picasso could help revitalize what was once a depressed part of town, learning how the department store Marshall Field’s and its forward-thinking, eponymous owner were instrumental in shaping American society in the early 1880s by being the first to employ women rather than men as sales clerks, and realizing how architecture (both on the exterior and interior) can be designed to elicit particular emotions and even behaviors of the people who engage in the space. Two hours on the right tour with the right guide in Chicago can teach you so much.
Under the Tiffany glass dome of the Chicago Cultural CenterThe iconic Bean (or Cloud Gate) of Chicago
With three hours before Jackie’s birthday dinner, Rick and I strolled through Millennium Park, had photo-ops at The Bean, and ventured through the vast and elegantly designed Chicago Art Institute. Ever since watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off in 1986 (OMG, was that 30 years ago already?), I’ve longed for a chance to come to this world-class museum. Its well laid out collection spans continents, centuries, styles, and forms that let you behold and immerse yourself in the artistic history of the world.
Visiting the Chicago Art Institute, I finally got to fulfill one of my dreams: seeing Chagall’s America Windows.
To finally be inches from Marc Chagall’s America Windows, Georges Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, Grant Wood’s American Gothic, and Nighthawks by Andrew Hopper—let alone the countless other works by Pablo Picasso, Joan Mirò, René Magritte, Mary Cassatt, Claude Monet—made me unexpectedly emotional. I tried to keep my cool around Rick, but my brain and my heart were doing tandem flip-flops for these truly iconic artists and their creations. And in between the big name oohs and ahhs, small name (and even no name) works from ancient times to recent times wowed us both.
George Seurat’s Sunday on the Island of La Grande Jatte (click to enlarge and to see the amazing pointillism detail).Happy Birthday, dear Jackie! Happy Birthday to you!
We met up with Jackie for birthday sushi at Momotaro—replete with Japanese candy confetti pocky sticks and a birthday candle—but the real highlight for all three of us was Guthrie’s Tavern. 80s music played softly in the background, the tables were filled with hipsters and other cool kids who didn’t try as hard to look cool, and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase offered a plethora of board games to entertain us and test our smarts. There were so many options from old classics like Monopoly, Risk, and Trivial Pursuit to newer party games like Wikipedia (yes, they have a game), Buzzword, and Go Mental. Cards Against Humanity went really well with our beers, and by the time we got to Scattergories, our brains were feeling fancy free, if a bit foggy.
Board games galore!Good times and a whirlwind weekend in The Windy City!
Since it was a school (work) night for Jackie, we called it quits by 10:30, but not before capping the night with waffle cone ice creams at Jeni’s—the perfect way to round off Jackie’s birthday and our visit to charming Chicago.
Tiny beads of sweat tickled my dusty brow. The grease accumulating in my hair could have fueled an SUV. The metallic grind of the engine drowned out all conversations on the jostling bus as we made our way from the airport to Cabo San Lucas. I had neglected to book a shuttle, and forking over $70 for a taxi seemed ridiculous beyond words. So, taking the Information counter agent’s advice, I hopped on the gloriously purple and orange Ruta del Desierto (Desert Route) bus and joined the locals on a $6 (90 Mexican pesos) public transportation adventure. And it was the best thing I could have done.
From my back-of-the-bus perch, I get wonderful scenic views and incredible people-watching.
Counting on an hour’s ride, I used my time wisely to indulge in the scenic surroundings and to people-watch. Cacti cast long statuesque shadows, and peek-a-boo views of a sapphire sea occasionally appeared in my periphery. Sunset would soon be upon us, and the magic hour light stretched itself across the rugged Baja Californian terrain. From my elevated seat in the back, I watched the people whose seats faced rearward. Two friends spoke animatedly and laughed as they showed each other something on their phones. A couple sat silently and ignored each other until they reached their bus stop, holding hands as they exited. A young family entertained their young daughter. I couldn’t see her face but her pink hair ribbons danced with the rhythm and rumble of the bus. I wondered if she was as eager as I was to buy a fluffy cloud of spun sugar from the cotton candy vendor across the aisle from her.
Roadside dirt patches, an unsigned wooden post, a narrow bench whose paint had all but peeled away, and the occasional house or business functioned as makeshift bus stops. While few waited in the warm twilight to catch a ride, our bus became less full at every stop. As darkness fell and my destination grew closer, it occurred to me to wonder where exactly would my bus stop be and how would I know when to get out. I tried opening my phone’s GPS map so I could see that ever-so-helpful blinking blue dot indicating where I was and how much farther to the hotel. Disappointingly—despite T-Mobile guaranteeing that the significant sum I pay to them every month included coverage in Mexico—I had no service. Mild panic set in, my body stiffened, and I’m pretty sure my faced paled.
The Latino gentleman across the aisle from me must have noticed because he tapped my shoulder and asked (in impeccable English), “Do you need help figuring out where to go?” I felt my face soften into a smile, and (wanting to practice my rusting skills) I explained to him in Spanish, “Yes, please. I’m staying at the Riu Palace Hotel. They said I’d see it from the road and would know where to stop, but as dark as it is, I’m getting a little nervous.”
He looked around, scanned the environment outside, and told me that I still had about 20 minutes to go. He assured me that he’d help me get out at the correct stop.
If not for Óscar, who knows where I would have ended up on that bus.
Those 20 minutes flew by as we chatted. He told me his name was Óscar, and he shared how he had grown up in a small town outside of Puerto Vallarta and decided to move to Los Cabos for better opportunities. He worked at an all-inclusive hotel and told me that where I’d be staying was a perfect location. I learned that he often visited family in Los Angeles and Phoenix and that he loved to watch Game of Thrones. I had to tell him to change topics for fear that he’d reveal what happened in season 5—my GOT binge-watching had only caught me up through season 4.
Instead we talked about Hurricane Odile, which blasted Los Cabos about a year ago, and about how recovery was coming along. “Slowly but surely,” he said optimistically. “There’s lots of reconstruction but big projects that were waiting to be completed even before the hurricane are still waiting.” But he added that most tourists, especially if it was their first visit like mine, wouldn’t even know that there had been so much destruction. “We worked hard to make things better really fast. We need the tourism, and if there’s nothing for tourists to enjoy, there goes everyone’s livelihood.”
Óscar wondered why I had taken the bus. “You never see tourists on these. Wouldn’t it have been easier to take a shuttle or a cab?” I told him my situation. He laughed.
“There’s your hotel. You made it! You’ll get out at the next stop, cross the street and you’ll got straight to your hotel.” I thanked him profusely as I shuffled off the bus and into the darkness. As I got my belongings in order, I looked around for a cross walk, a signal light, or even a stop sign—someplace safe for me to cross. There was nothing but four lanes of fast-flying traffic and the neon red sign of my hotel so far off in the distance I could barely read it. All I could think was, “Umm…what now?”
Three teenage-looking girls fidgeted next to me at the bus stop. “Discúlpenme. ¿Saben ustedes dónde se puede cruzar la autopista? Necesito llegar al Hotel Riu.” Excuse me. Do you know where I can cross the highway? I need to get to Hotel Riu.
“Aquí,” they chimed in unison.
“What do you mean ‘here?’” I was supposed to cross four lanes of traffic? With luggage?
With the light of oncoming traffic, they must have seen my distressed face. Two of the girls told me to come with them. Adiosing their companion, my two new Mexican crossing guard friends led me from one dark side of the highway to the other. We didn’t bother to assume that cars would slow down for us, let alone even see us until it was too late. When a big enough gap opened up between the approaching cars, we scampered like Frogger across the potholed road. I felt sweat beads forming on my brow again, and this time it wasn’t from the heat.
Shockingly to me, we didn’t die. Once on the other side and at the start of a long, unlighted street that led to the hotel, I thanked the helpful locals and was about to say goodbye, but they exclaimed, “¡Venga!” and motioned for me to keep following them. We walked another 5 minutes or so together, past the hotel security gate guard and winding up the long driveway to the resort. They asked about my hometown, and they giggled about their mutual crush on Justin Bieber. They also told me that they had worked about 10 hours today. I felt incredible guilt for having to be accompanied by them. But they eased my worries with their warm smiles, genuine goodbye hugs, and a reassurance that a different bus would be passing by the guard’s gate soon. My little angels waved goodbye and disappeared back into the darkness.
More adventures and memories await in Cabo San Lucas.
Within two hours of landing in Los Cabos, I had more intimate and real connections with locals than most tourists experience down here in a week. And I’m pretty sure that the hospitality and compassion of three total strangers will be amongst my favorite and enduring souvenirs from this getaway to Mexico–all for the best six bucks I spent on this trip.
Reposted and re-edited (with text and new photos) from a Friday, November 13, 2015 post on The Travelphile Facebook page:
My Paris friends Nicolas Paradis and Olivier Magny just before the grand opening of their newest wine venture, Les Caves du Louvre.
My heart breaks for the people of France. I think of dear friends and colleagues who live there and hope they are OK. I worry about those who have yet to be “marked safe” on Facebook and those who cannot reach out to anyone because cell service is interrupted. My prayers are for those who have died or have been injured, their loved ones who grieve, the first responders, those entrusted to investigate these heinous acts of cowardly violence, and all those who will bear the continuing responsibility of protecting the French people.
With heightened security, touristic sites like The Louvre are well guarded.
But I understand that despite the growing number of fatalities, Paris is a city of more than 2 million people who are still safe and sound. Security is obviously heightened. And the French are a resilient people who do not cower to terrorism easily, as we all witnessed with their powerful show of solidarity after the Charlie Hebdo attacks.
They need our sympathy, and they need our support. But they DO NOT need us to give in to fear, to become paranoid, to abandon our travel travel plans, to cast anger broadly, or to act strictly in vengeance. To do so would be to give in to the terrorists and be counterproductive.
Tours members on one of Rick Steves’ Europe Paris and the Heart of France tours receive France-USA pins as gifts to remember the memorable connections they made with the French culture and people.Don’t let fear keep you from traveling and connecting with cultures around the world.
If anything, let this be a reminder to us all to cherish our loved ones, to value the time we can spend with them, to reach out to others with friendship rather than to withdraw in fear. Let’s continue traveling so we can better sympathize with the pain of others, to work for understanding, healing, and peace with those who feel hurt or marginalized, and to find solutions to the underlying problems that precipitate the kind of anger and hatred that fuel the fires of terrorism.
Parisians and tourists alike gather on the Champ de Mars to picnic, be with loved ones, and enjoy the most iconic structure of Paris.
Even if you have never been to France, I’m sure you share in their sorrow, as I do. Let’s honor these victims–and the countless others in our world who suffer–by doing the hard labor of working for a peaceful world where this kind of event never happens again.
I hope that if you share these sentiments, you’ll share this with your friends.
p.s. Thank you for reading this and thank you in advance for your thoughtful and productive responses of compassion, not anger.
Too often when we travel, we frantically fill our schedules with seeing all the major sights, checking things off our bucket lists, and always go-go-going until we’re too exhausted to do much else. Even having a meal is often underappreciated because we rush through it in order to not miss the next thing on our agenda.
But as with anything in life, if you want to get to know a culture better, it’s essential to get beyond superficial sightseeing and enhance your cultural understanding with tangible, experiential encounters. On our Rick Steves Venice-Florence-Rome tour, we get to do just that with our tour members. With three nights in each of these three major Italian cities, we have time to linger longer and enjoy engaging experiences.
In Florence, we test our skills as would-be chefs in a Tuscan cooking class with the chef-teachers of In Tavola. Tucked away on a narrow street in the Oltrarno neighborhood of Florence, this cooking school taught us how to make bruschetta, fresh pasta, a Tuscan chicken dish, and tiramisu. I hate to think of the calorie count on these dishes, but I like the notion that calories don’t exist when you travel and that you can squeeze out calories from meals if you make it by hand.
Besides teaching us how to create our own Italian feast, our chef-teachers shared insightful information about Italian agriculture, government regulatory systems for food quality oversight, Florentine food traditions, and of course, cooking techniques and even knife skills. Sharing in this experience together as a group gave us a new perspective on Tuscan cuisine, how food is made and where it comes from, and heightened our appreciation of the very fine meal we created ourselves.
The bonus: Rick happened to be in town doing research, so I asked him to join us in the class. He accepted and got to share in the all the fun of making (and eating) a delicious, homemade Tuscan lunch.
Check out these photos and share in our joy of cooking (hover over for captions, or click to enlarge):
Rick joins our Venice/Florence/Rome tour for our cooking class.
Francesco teaches his group the proper way to make fresh pasta.
Our tour members earn this meal by preparing it themselves.
Paula whips up so good stuff for our lunch.
Dave whisks together marscapone and eggs to make the creamy base of our tiramisu.
I tried to convince Francesco that these tiramisu (which translates as “pull me up”) would all be for me.
Walter instructs his group on the fine points of tomatoes.
Rick can slice and dice with the best of them.
Rick–Master Chef
Fabrizio and Rick expertly peel tomatoes.
I can’t wait for Rick to make fresh pasta at home.
Julia is already an expert at using the pasta machine.
We made this!
A well-fed group is a happy group, and a group that can learn about Italian culture by cooking their own Tuscan feast is an enlightened group.
As we finished our mini-bus tour of the island of St. Kitts, our local guide informed us that it was the final day of the Carnival celebration– it started at Christmas, and that there would be a huge parade through the center of town, Basseterre. While confused about the timing (this was January 2nd after all; Carnival is usually associated with pre-Lent festivities and usually takes place in late February or early March), we were excited to be a part of the local merriment and beelined it to the historic center.
It was like nothing I’d ever witnessed. Perhaps like me, when you think of Carnival, you think of colorful parades in Rio de Janeiro, Mardi Gras bead-throwing in New Orleans, or elegantly dressed masqueraders in Venice. This was a little bit of all of that, sans the elegance, but also disturbingly more.
A Moko-Jumbi stilt-walker dances and parades his way through the streets of Basseterre.
The Carnival parade, or Sugar Mas (Sugar, ostensibly because of the importance of sugar cane as a resource, and Mas, which is short for masquerade) seemed endless. It began about 3pm and continued non-stop until midnight. Clowns hid their faces behind elaborately painted masks and stilt-walkers called Moko-Jumbies lumbered through the downtown streets. Floats carrying string, steel, and brass bands and their mammoth speakers blasted incessant cacophonies of thumping, screeching, bumping, booty-shaking beats. And booties in the parade and on the sidelines were certainly doing their fair share of shaking.
Interspersed amongst the parade-walkers, massive trucks carrying musicians blasted bumpin’ and thumpin’ beats.Feathers and glitter and (smart) shoes, oh my!
Many participants in the parade –male and female–dressed in ornate costumes, accentuated with feathers, tropical-colored and rhinestoned garments, and hastily plastered body glitter. A significant number were scantily clad, leaving little to the imagination. Most donned sensible shoes (wise move considering how much walking they’d do in the parade).
Public displays of “affection” were ubiquitous in this lively and colorful celebration.
My senses were bombarded from every direction and in every manner. It was nearly too much: the raucous cheering, the deafening music, the dizzying array of colors, the mélange of food stall smells, the free-flowing alcohol (full disclosure: I did not imbibe), the bare skin, and the twerking–gawd, the twerking! I’m no prude, but excess can be oppressive, and sensory claustrophobia set in on me as this celebratory scene enveloped every available space around me.
As a visitor from somewhere that doesn’t have street parties like this, I tried to make sense of it all. It wasn’t Lent yet, so why Carnival? If it’s related to religion, why the brazen lack of clothing? What does this celebrate? What do the costumes signify? Why are the masks scary? How can you party like this for 10 nights in a row? What is this all about really?
Rick jumps right into the middle of the party.These women could be mothers, teachers, optometrists, or perhaps–as the writing on their legs states–bankers.
The hardest thing to grapple with was how the women were portraying themselves. I assumed, because of all the kids participating and spectating, that this was meant to be a family-friendly event. Yet seeing women of all shapes, sizes, and ages in revealing attire, grinding against men and other women, and simulating intercourse on the pavement in the name of “dancing” made me question that. These women (who conceivably may have been everything ranging from waitresses, mothers, veterinarians, entrepreneurs, and hotel staff to grandmothers, hairstylists, secretaries, scuba instructors, nursery school teachers, and computer engineers) were choosing to be ogled at, fondled, and catcalled…publically, in all their sparkly and befeathered glory. Not only that, they were often the initiators of the bump-and-grind action, hauling men up on the backs of floats so that they could be better seen by their adoring crowd. What was I not understanding about this?
I was grateful to witness this festival, even if I struggled to understand it.
Don’t get me wrong. I was grateful to be a witness to this. Like the other parade-goers, I was caught up in the spirited nature of the parade, mesmerized by the pageantry of colors, delighted by the richness of the costumes, and moved by the festiveness that moved through both participants and onlookers. But my mind could not wrap itself around–what seemed to be–the self-degradation of these vivacious, strong, complex women. The images of them haunted me throughout the rest of the day and early evening as we explored the rest of the town.
Andy and Jackie follow the crowds away from the parade to find even more reveling.
The partying was not confined to the parade route. Throughout the web of streets were food vendors selling gut-bombs of every variety, drink vendors who seemed to purvey only “the hard stuff”, carts hocking balloons and plastic toys, and parents buying them for their wide-eyed children. Everyone was in a good mood. It was a party, after all.
We found a quieter area of town and came upon Independence Square (former site of the slave market). While no monument to the emancipation of the island’s slaves adorns the park, residents need no reminder that the oppression suffered by their ancestors shaped the history of this island. It’s inescapably woven into their heritage and informs their present. But the same is true of independence in practice. How does one choose to live: enslaved to the ghosts of the past, or embracing freedom in the here and now?
As we headed back to our ship, we saw many locals stealing a quiet moment from the excitement of the festival, enjoying quality time with friends, family, and lovers. Rick–being the bolder of the two of us–really wanted to know more about the celebration and asked several people about it along the way. Most everyone basically said, “It’s a party. It’s Carnival. We always do this after Christmas.” No other explanation given, even when prodded.
Finally we encountered a man who proudly told us, “This is part of our story of emancipation.” I was confused because Emancipation was given on August 1, 1834. I asked him about that. He said, “Yes, that’s true, but this time of year was historically when slaves were not working in the fields. It was their ‘time off,’ the time when they could celebrate their long-held cultural traditions in relative freedom from their oppressors. ”
With a little insight into the history of this cultural celebration, I can see these proud and bold women with a better nuanced perspective.
And then a light bulb went on for me. If what he said was true–and I want to believe that it is–then perhaps the audacious behavior of the men and women in the parade was about more than being lewd in public. Maybe it’s a form of cultural freedom. Perhaps they make their own societal rules about what is appropriate and what is empowering. Couldn’t it be that these women define for themselves how they want to look, what they believe is beautiful and valued, and what they can do with their own bodies? And that certainly is something to celebrate.
And maybe I, as a traveler, can learn to better withhold judgment. Perhaps I can learn to not impose my societal values on another’s culture. I don’t know the answers, and I’m not sure I’m even asking the right questions when I consider all this, but I think that accepting the fact that I don’t know opens the door to learning more about the cultures I encounter in my travels.St
The Captain woke us up at 7am. His Italian accent came in loud and clear of the P.A. system, and from his heavy tone, we instantly knew he was not the bearer of good news. For the second time on this cruise, we would be unable to weigh anchor and take tenders, or shuttle boats, ashore because of dangerously strong winds and choppy waters. A visit to St. Barts would not be in the cards, but like any good captain (and employee of a good cruise line), he had a plan B. We headed to St. Kitts instead.
Driving through the countryside of St. Kitts, we encounter an old Anglican church, a reminder of British Colonial influence on the island.With the Caribbean on one side and the Atlantic on the other, this seemed the perfect spot to get tropical and savor coconut juice and sugar cane.
Once on land, we boarded a mini-bus for a three-hour tour of the island. Driving from the port to the outskirts, we passed through the high-roller neighborhoods, as well as humble (and sometimes ramshackle) villages. We got out for some hilltop views gave us a better understanding of the lay of the land and made us understand why people thought of St. Kitts as a Caribbean paradise. We savored refreshing baby coconut juice and fresh-cut sugar cane and gazed out in wonder to see where the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean kissed the shores of the island.
Rick, Andy, and Jackie take a moment to admire a lush and ancient tree on St. Kitts.Tourists visit this former plantation home, admiring the decor and, hopefully, learning about its complicated past.
As a former colony of Spain, then of Britain, then both, then alternately of France and Britain, St. Kitts had plenty of lingering remnants of its conquerors and of those who were conquered–some in dilapidated condition, others well preserved as historic landmarks. We toured a former plantation, where despite the beautiful facade and pristine antique furniture displays, it was hard not to think of the slave labor that had long suffered to maintain and run this place.
The advantages of building a fortress on the highest point of an island: easy to spot approaching enemies, perfect for admiring the stunning views around you.This virtually impenetrable fortress was built by the British, fought over by the French, and maintained with slave labor.
A highpoint–literally and figuratively–was the Brimstone Hill Fortress. Aptly named, it perched on the highest hill, dominating the island with its massive stone structure. It was designed to be difficult to access with hairpin-turn roads that forced you to slow down and await an attack, impenetrable and virtually un-scalable stone walls, and cannons everywhere, pointing at any enemy ship who would dare to conquer this island. Nowadays, the only invaders on this island our tourists and cannons are now fodder for the visitors taking silly photos. The fortress merited awe with its spectacular views, its impressive design, and its imposing construction. And remembering that it was built by those who would lay claim to what was not theirs to begin with and who would enslave the native population to secure their interests demands thoughtful consideration. What a country will do to defend its procured land, if not the people who naturally inhabit it, is something, I think, we still grapple with today all around the world.
These landmark remnants are more than shadows of St. Kitts’ past, more than antique structures, and more than tourist sites. As with any country, this island nation’s history informs its present, and I wanted to understand that more. And understanding for us as visitors would come in the form of a raucous parade through the capital of the county.
For more on this, stay tuned for the next post, Part II of this story on St. Kitts.
