Trinidad - and not the one with Carnival

Trinidad!

Readers, all seven of you, I present to you, Trinidad, Cuba. If this town had been by a river and just a tad more opulent, I could absolutely see Florentino Ariza writing mournfully long poems in a cobblestreet-side cafe to his beloved Fermina Daza, minus the cholera.

I felt excellently adventured back to 1893 (randomly chosen date), with many a scruffy looking vendor selling fruit or insufficiently sweetened/moistened pastries from carts, 90% of the population on rusty bicycles, and the remaining 10% bouncing low in 1960s automotive gems (as seen above)...

Amid the galleries and the craft markets stood centuries old churches, guitar-playing old men (soon to come) and blissfully ignorant school children. While Viñales had been oh soooo sleepy, Trinidad moved equally as slow as molasses, but it had a certain charm that made that negligible. For the list of charming items, read on....

Juliet-worthy balconies? Check.

Rennaissance churches à la (Pollo) Tropical? Check.

Adorable seaside cottages on the way to the beach? Check.

Gar-ge-ous (as my friend says) views of the island sloping around the bend? Check.

Cloud-ruffled sky, perfect for pics? Check.

                                                                                                             

A trio of characters to form the triumvirate of people-watching perfection? Check.

Trinidad was superfragilistic awesomeness. Just don't do what I did, which is take a long-ass 7-hour bus ride from Viñales, arrive starving, tired and psycho-killer delirious, get fed-up with the home-stay options immediately presented and then let gut-wrenching hunger and ennui lure you into the otherwise obvious trap set by home-stay proprietor, Carlo, whose name has been changed for security purposes.

Here is a summation of the experience staying with Carlo: 

"You have breakfast tomorrow?" No, Carlo, thanks, we go out.

Next morning, Carlo makes breakfast anyway.

"Carlo, we told you we didn't want breakfast. Oh, you thought psychological tricks could work, i.e. we see breakfast, we eat? Negative." 

"You want bicycle, I have berry good bicycle."

Apparently, "good bicycle" in Carlo-speak means bad brakes, hardly a seat, no gears, and airless tyres. I would scan the chiropractic bill, but I'm having technical difficulties.

On our last night in town, Carlo went out and got drunk and brought home a lady-friend. Thereth endeth the description. I sayeth no more.

Except that Trinidad is the bomb.