A master chef. A group of 10 of her childhood friends from Ensenada, Mexico. A PBS Frontline producer and his wife. Me and my wife and our hosts, Antonio Arelle and Pepe Homs. All sitting around a table on the patio, under the stars, of the hosts' apartment.
In the words of Jackson Browne, "All good things, gotta come to an end."
This is an ending, of sorts. But it is a beginning, too. New challenges. New opportunities. New ways of seeing, and being seen.
There is usually no easy explanation for the why and how one reaches a moment in time, a decision, a fork in the road. A spouse who argued for sooner rather than later. Some unfulfilled dreams. A clear sense that wheels need to turn, and past successes should never engender current complacency.
When was the last time you were on a trip, with a travel humidor or cigar sleeve packed with your favorite smokes and, too late, you realized you were in an antismoking city like Boston or St. Louis or Chicago and had no familiar place to smoke? Usually that happens around 10 o'clock at night when you have just finished a great meal that has doubled as an important business negotiation, and you're flat out of luck finding a place. You not only feel bad, but you worry that it might make you look bad since you promised your new partner a great smoke to end the night.
When I smoke a great cigar, and give it an extremely high rating, I almost always have a seed of doubt that my impressions were formed by something other than just the cigar. The setting. The company. The time of day. What I had for lunch, or dinner. The beverage I was drinking along with the cigar. When it is one of our Connoisseur’s Corner offerings, it’s often doubly worrisome because we do not smoke them blind and my objectivity just can’t be the same as smoking a cigar with the band removed.
So many cigars. So little time.
At the end of my first full day here in Havana, I sat down to write a blog about what I had smoked, and I couldn't remember how many, or which cigars, I had enjoyed that day. It may have been the medicinal effect of Cuban rum, or the accumulation of caffeine in numerous Cuban coffees. Whatever.
The soft, magical lighting bathed the circular entrance to Club Habana, a former yacht club in the Miramar section of Havana. The guests entered through a phalanx of costumed dancers with headdresses, receiving elegant black packages of the two cigars spotlighted on the evening: the Hoyo de Monterrey Le Hoyo de San Juan and the Partagás Serie D No. 6. There were bars serving Cuban rum and Spanish Cava, and canapés were passed through the crowd. It was the gala opening dinner for the 16th annual Festival del Habanos, Cuba's yearly extravaganza celebrating one of the country's principal products: cigars.
Dr. Alejandro Martinez Cuenca pointed up at the pock-marked brick facade of the Joya de Nicaragua factory, outlined with mustard-yellow pillars up to the peak of the roof. When they removed layers of paint, the bricks revealed the damage done by mortar fire, and probably .50 caliber machine gun fire, during the Sandinista uprising in Estelí in 1978. Dr. Martinez Cuenca, himself a former Sandinista presidential candidate and the owner of Joya de Nicaragua today, said they had decided to leave the evidence of war as a reminder to everyone how far the country had come.
Jorge Padrón stood in the damp furrow between rows of tobacco planted just five weeks before. He fondled the velvety leaves, already nearly waist high, between his fingers, and said, "Isn't this beautiful?" It was; a field of luminescent-green tobacco stretched several football fields away, with the leaves moving seductively in the light morning breeze under the brilliant tropical sunshine.
If you were born as part of the post-World War II baby boom, you remember where you were on November 22, 1963. This year, the events of 50 years ago—maybe more so than ever before—strike me as so surreal that they should be part of a fantasy, or a bad nightmare.
The best moment came as my wife and I drove down the Taconic State Parkway on a fall Sunday afternoon. We came up over the crest of a hill with a lookout that has a panoramic view of the Hudson Valley west to the Catskill Mountains. I glimpsed a row of vintage Corvettes with their drivers standing next to the cars, chatting. I honked, and as I drove by it was like a ZZ Top video—the entire line-up of six drivers turned in unison and waved.
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