HAVANA, CUBA


Upon landing, my first stop is the information booth after baggage claim. I know my preference is to stay at a Casa Particular – the string of private homes the Cuban government allows to be rented out to foreigners particularly, in return for half the cash – that are really the best option if one wants a full Cuban experience. The tender there made nearly ten calls for me, largely from a guide section found in Lonely Planet (but also from his own black book of locations). The prices are generally $20 to $40 nightly. This is more than I am used to paying say for South America, but a reasonable fee in these parts.

While negotiating, a confused gay Danish woman comes up to listen in. I seem to know what I am doing, and she gradually latches on. “Ask them while you are calling if they have two rooms available,” she says in decent English. Most places are full. Cuba is popular just now, given its perfect winter weather. After half an hour of patient inquiries, a place is secured with THE host supposedly being one of Havana’s leading actresses. I am careful to specify that passable English must be spoken at this location, and that they have access to the internet or Wi-Fi.

Having secured two rooms for two nights, we retire to the airport bar to celebrate our accomplishment. Anetta and I introduce ourselves and sip two excellent local beers, Cristal. It reminds me of Heinekin. She is from Copenhagen, and returning to Cuba after a 14 year absence. I run upstairs to the cash machine, to find none of them work for me in Cuba, either. A temporary setback, I assume. Surely the National Hotel in Havana or one of the many cambia houses will serve out the necessary CUC or Cuban convertibles that tourists use for currency here. After all, Rene (the airport magician who so cleverly escorted me through all the ticketing steps in Cancun), said this would be so (between furtive looks at his watch and rapid, behind the back gestures to his assistants).

Anetta and I share a cab. The cost is $20 CUC into the city. The first thing you notice going into Havana from Jose Marti International Airport 25 kilometers away is la brisa – the air. At this time of year, it is perfect. The next is the lack of traffic. No jams or congestion. The ride is smooth all the way. The next is how wonderfully decrepit Havana is. It is old and new and busy and quiet all at once, and all things confounding. It is nothing if not a bizarre series of contrasts. I fall in love with the place immediately.

We arrive at the home of Sr. Alberto Ruiz Jiminez. A grizzled fellow who looks like a retired Marine drill instructor. Apparently not the house of a famous actress. How could the phone wires have been switched? There is no internet. He doesn’t speak English. What English is useful, is learned from me as we proceed along slowly in my passable Spanish. Conditions are negotiated one word or short phrase at a time. I chuckle to myself once again. Predictable. Right on target. Par for the course.

I am on the third floor (which the Cubans call the second). My room is colonial style, with large louvered shutter enclosures. The room empties to a central catwalk which in turn looks over a large atrium four stories high. It is mindful of what I have seen of New Orleans, except with much more clutter and disarray. The interior ceilings are about 11 to 12 feet. It is clean and colorful, if a little worn about the edges. And I have my own bathroom. A clean one. Halfway modern. Dinner is taken after a short gander, five blocks down the street. On the corner of Aguila street and Havana’s famous coastal drive and walkway, The Malecon.

I order the grilled fish plate, for ten CUC. The food is remarkable. Tender, flavorful, adorned with a local butter-based sauce, accompanied by salad, and some of the best rice I have ever tasted. Along with the Cuban national drink, The Mojito. Rum, crushed mint, and sugar. Having had dozens of these treats, I note it doesn’t taste any different or better here. Breakfast (desayuno) is not the usual continental affair, but eggs cooked over hard, puerco (pork), rolls with cinnamon flavored marmalade, coffee, grapefruit juice, tomatoes, and fruit. Anetta offers up a treat of her own, a bit of imported Danish aquavit liquor mixed in with honey. It is delightful.

Even this early. An hour later -- Christmas Eve day -- the two of us decide to explore a bit together and hit the streets with no particular objective in mind. At least, I had none. She however is dead set on visiting the writing room of Ernest Hemingway on the 5th floor of the Hotel Ambos Mundos. I agree, but only after getting a sense of the streets. No taxi. We will walk. We start crisscrossing through Havana Central, and encounter a flea market. I have only Yankee dollars and keep to myself. Anetta buys the nearly mandatory Che Guevara revolutionary beret, named after the Argentine doctor who helped Fidel Castro run the military portion of the Cuban revolution nearly 53 years previous.

A woman comes up to me with her small child. She raises him up to kiss me. I stand still momentarily for what seems like a photo op. But there is no camera. Then the broken language pleading begins in earnest. “Please, Senor, I don’t want money. I just want milk for my baby.” I agree. What harm can this cause, or what dent can it possibly put in my wallet? She has me lift the child, and we amble what I thought would be about fifty feet. But no, Mama turns the corner. I nearly lose her. We begin to get separated by crowds. Anetta pauses, gestures at me as if I am a lunatic, and indicates she is going straight to Ambos Mundos. No explanation, just a signoff. I barely catch up to Mama.

She has stopped in at a government run food store, and slapped down four large bags of milk for her child. She strokes my hand and tells me how grateful she is. Her demonstration and gratitude draws a crowd. I am trying to put the child down, but she won’t let me. I ask the clerk what the cost of the goods are? Thirty CUC, I am told. I indicate no, and ask what the cost of one bag or possibly two would be, assuming there might be a quantity discount with volume. It doesn’t matter. I have greenbacks only, which are not accepted here (openly at least), and the store won’t take my credit cards. Neither will the cambio office across the street.

I am forced to take my leave, with the woman wailing and putting on as if I have left her at the altar. There is little I can do. Working my way to Ambos Mundos is a thrilling experience. I take the cross cutting Obispo Calle, which is open to pedestrians only. Many inquiries have to be made along the way for course correction. I am roughly navigating the center of Old Havana, with its remodeled Colonial style hotels anchoring the corners of public squares, seemingly out of place amongst all the decay one sees as the norm here.

I see street hustlers, women offering “companionship,” throngs playfully just walking – the poverty here ensures they have nothing else to do – tourists confused as to their next destination, well-dressed gentlemen ushering the landed gentry into hotel lobbies, and a constant procession of characters speaking with hand cupped over mouth offering me either private taxis or cigars.

Tourists taking a break line numerous shaded sidewalk cafes. The heat is moderate, but sweating continuous. The pulse of the street along Obispo Calle is infectious. Music from numerous sidewalk or café quartets first beckons and then blasts about every 50 yards or so. La Gente (the people) don’t just walk. They glide. They skip. They strut, if well dressed. They pulsate to the music, and some unseen driver moving them in mysterious ways. They bob heads, and chat excitedly. They sing to themselves, and each other.  Always. This is La Vida – “The Life.” It is a force of nature here. You can’t avoid it, and it thankfully never leaves. If you are breathing and can fog a mirror still, this Life Force invests in you very quickly.

The animated local pedestrians playfully veer at you so you have to change course. With a smile, of course. Women particularly, make intense and sustained eye contact from a fair distance away. One never knows if they are offering services, are curious, or just have La Vida in them. One of them gives me a fetching look and then deliberately shoves her girlfriend into me. She laughs at the collision. Free entertainment for them. And no wonder. The average salary here in Cuba is between $8 and $32 CUC per month (even for doctors). A CUC is worth about 96 US cents, currently. I am sport for them. Yet don’t mind at all though.

Once at Ambos Mundos – a beautifully restored rust colored six story hotel with a delightful full-floor bar in the lobby – I proceed straight to Hemingway’s apartment on the 5th floor. No Anetta. No worries. Rudeness should not be immediately rewarded. But once again, my credit and debit cards won’t allow entry. I am advised by the very helpful and agreeable multi-lingual guide/attendant to go to a cambio house and exchange my greenbacks for CUC. Which I do. For about $45 CUC. Giving me a very limited budget. Most of my cash resrves planned for Cuba, went into the plane ticket on Air Cubana.

Back at Papa’s writing loft, Francesca the guide is pleased to see me again. She gladly explains that most of the exhibits here are taken from Hemingway’s Hotel, about 21 kilometers away, and this month’s exhibit has to do largely with the Pulitzer Prize winning author of “The Old Man and The Sea” and his drinking. There are recipes for his favorites in print throughout the one-room stage. Along with copies of his books in different languages. Such as “The Sun Also Rises,” and “For Whom The Bell Tolls,” and “Islands in The Stream” and “To Have and To Have Not.”

The room is Spartan. There is not even a bathroom present. That is down the hall. Just shuttered windows, a small bed, a writing stand, and numerous bookshelves. He utilized the location for its view. Due to injuries received near World War 1, Hemingway had severe back problems, and was forced to write standing up. There is abundant evidence of his hard drinking in photos on all the walls of Papa with celebrities from all over the world. And his four ex wives.

I am directed to two of Hemingway’s favorite bars, the nearby Paris Café, and The Floridita (his favorite). Along the way, I run into Anetta again. She decides to buy me lunch, to make up for her sudden departure near the flea market. We retreat once again to Ambos Mundos, but this time the flawless sixth-floor “Plaza de Armas” Restaurant. The view is the best in the city. Across the Bahia de la Habana entry to the city’s large bay, lie massive twin forts built by the Spanish to keep privateers and foreign navies from invading their shores and capturing treasure ships bound for Spain. Both are included in the Habana Viejo (old Havana) Unesco World Heritage Site.

The Castillo de los Tres Santos Reyes Magnos del Morro was built at the direct harbor mouth between 1589 and 1630. With deep moats, three meter-thick walls, and a polygonal shape, it is a classic example of Military Renaissance construction. For 100 years, the forth withstood many attempts by pirates and foreign navies to take her by force. But the British – as was their hobby – finally took the fort by siege after a 44-day siege with a 14,000man force in 1762. Their subterfuge was to attack from the landward side. The castle’s famous lighthouse was added in 1844.

Immediately after the departure of the British, the neighboring Citadel of Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabana was constructed, and completed in 1774 on the ridge which the British had taken advantage of to subdue The Castillo do los Tres Santos. At over 700 meters in length and covering a whopping 10 hectares, the fort is the largest ever constructed by the Spanish in the New World.

My seafood lunch is, once again, absolutely delicious. Cuban food is remarkable not in its variety – there is little of that – but in the variety of ways the same meal can be cooked. I think the secret is in the sauces. The basic dishes are rich, warm, spicy and yet not too much so, generous in the portions, and always it seems accompanied by a generous portion of side dishes including variations on the proverbial rice and beans and house salad.

After lunch, I chase money once again. And I finally learn the whole picture. I am an American. We are culturally and etc at war with Cuba. At least our governments are. So our credit cards and debit cards don’t work here. At all. Not even traveler’s checks in most places. The guidebooks don’t tell you that. If you are an American, only cash will speak. And best if it is not dollars. Then it gets converted to CUCs at a 13% minimum commission rate. A Canadian or European issued credit card will also work.

Accessing the internet via paid card an hour later at the richly appointed Hotel Central, I find myself in good company. At least half a dozen of us are momentarily stranded, wondering “What The Hell Do We Do Now?” And we can’t go to the US Embassy. That is truly for dire emergencies only. Your passport will get lifted immediately upon visiting that court of last resort. So, for the first time in my life, I had to write (thank God for the internet) my sons back in Seattle and ask them for money. It is an ironic turn. Perhaps it is payback for putting them through a collective eight years of private college and an excellent, Critical Path Jesuit Education at Gonzaga University.

My message is fairly terse: Please get over to Western Union immediately and transfer money to an office in Central Havana. Luckily, they are not like me. They do not hold me hostage and negotiate extortion level daily interest rates. Both Larry & Sean are of the new generation, attuned and wired in at all times. Their response is immediate, and generous. “Now, about that trip you were going to take to Africa, Dad … you think the three of us can make it to that Game Reserve in Kenya? I hear your credit cards have lots of room on them now.”

Christmas Eve Dinner on my first full night in Havana is with Alberto and his family. It was exquisite. I am startled. Was frankly expecting a modest affair, rich with trapping and ceremony but short on calories. Oh no! We start with hors ‘d oeuvres. Then beer. Then potatoes, the usual rice but with a killer black bean and lentil based sauce over the top. Then chicken and pork. The Cubans really have the manual on pork, in the same way the Portugese make the finest chicken and the Spaniards the finest ham (or jamon). White wine, red wine, salad, and more beer punctuate the meal. I am full halfway through. They try to force feed me. I politely decline.

My intention is to wait out the arrival of Christmas writing in my room. But Anetta wants to return to the Hotel Ambos Mundos for a late drink. It is perhaps 10 PM. I am shocked to find how many people are still wandering the streets and squares nearby, on Christmas Eve. Recognizing me/us from earlier in the day, the staff has a special air of friendliness. Have to say, they genuinely appear to love Americans. We are very well treated here. Whether it is because we have more money than the locals, tip well, or are a rarity, I can not give the real reason for this hospitality. But it is genuine.

Which begs the contemplation: 50 years after the Cuban Revolution and the expropriation of American property by Fidel Castro and his henchmen, why do we still not recognize Cuba? This economic embargo we have against them makes absolutely no sense at all. We do business with 1.3 billion Chinese and their particular brand of communism and government is much more restrictive! Nobody can offer a reasonable explanation of why this dinosaur of a policy remains, except for the existence of some rabid right-wing Cuban expatriates in Florida who will not allow normalization come hell or high water. This from a slightly right-leaning but truly independent voter from Seattle. Who is also rabid …

Upon preparing to leave, the security guard – again adorned in a uniform worthy of an Ambassador to the Court of St. James – ushers me aside. “Cigars?” he asks. “I can get you a very good price. Five Cohibas for $15 CUC.” Having been to the bank in the afternoon and converted my last $200 dollars to CUC, I want to preserve what I can. “No thanks,” I respond. “Perhaps manana.”

Anetta wishes to listen to music. I reluctantly agree to join in, only because I want to see what Havana still has to offer at this late hour on a holiday. We are directed to La Casa de La Musica Del Mar, one township to the west in Vedado. It is a slightly taller, more modern quarter of Havana. The taxi ride takes perhaps 20 minutes, and costs about $11 CUC. We arrive early, to find the place not yet open. We are rather forcefully directed around the corner for drinks to await the band. I resist. These Cubans, they love cutting you from the herd when they smell a turista.

A quick look around reveals this to be a mover’s paradise. Well dressed music afficianados and professional lounge lizards proliferate nearby. Local women–of-the-night approach from taxis, and stay on the periphery of the property, just beyond the range of primary lighting. They make their intentions very plain. They are well dressed, but not subtle. Constant approaches are made for cigars, taxis, and female company. Trouble begins when the bill is paid for a couple of mojitos. Anetta pays in Euros. Change is given. Or is it? Or have they kept the surplus to pay the cover charge? We are told we have paid our cover charge, but then at the door denied entry.

I complain to the security man and ask for someone who can speak English – even a little. We return to the bartender to straighten the situation out.  After much tortured discussion lasting 20 minutes, I learn Anetta’s 20 Euro note is not acceptable in payment. The bar doesn’t want the conversion bother. She has already been paid change, and the bar wants both payment for the drinks and her change back. She throws up her hands, and walks away – just like earlier in the day when I encountered Mama and her photo op child trying to wheedle milk money out of me. I am left to solve the problem myself, and pay the 20 CUC back to the bar.

Somehow Anetta has already slipped the 20 Euro note back into her purse. I am thus left without leverage, and a rapidly diminishing supply of already limited cash. Only laughter serves once again. I learned you get what you are supposed to get on these ventures. When I round the corner, the security guard tells me she has already departed via taxi. My own cab ride home taxes me further. No, it is not a wasted night. Just another rich experience by a Stranger in A Strange Land …

HOW NOT TO GET TO CUBA …

With one day remaining, most participants for Synthesis 2012 either ignored remaining events to mingle with each other, or left early.  I was among them.  My bus arrived about 11:30 AM back in Cancun after a four hour drive to the airport.  Once again, I was introduced to the oddity that makes up south-of-the-border flight and travel arrangements.  Quickly learned for example, only Aero-Mexico and Cubana Airlines went to Havana, Cuba.  The first only on Tuesday and Thursday.  The latter daily, but only through a cash payment.

I must have the look” (as in a major bullseye painted on my travel vest).  For I am swooped on almost immediately by an official looking fellow with more badges and ribbons than an army major general.  He speaks English.  He explained his status with the airport, offering assistance to passengers.  He can assist me getting flights “which are not available.”  I compare notes with a couple Aussies and Brits, find out that tickets to Havana for this day (Sunday) really are rare, get some idea of pricing, and decide to accept his assistance.  First trip, to the cash machine.  Only Cubana is flying this day.  They only accept cash, and it has to be Mexican pesos.  No American dollars.  Fifty years after the Cuban revolution, America and Cuba are still culturally and economically at war.

It takes two hours to find that all my careful prior arrangements to have guaranteed access to cash and credit with my banks have apparently gone for naught.  My Pin number password codes are rejected, no matter what entries are attempted –cash, credit, or savings.  Then the cards are rejected, for too many swipe attempts.  The service official stands by patiently, does some minor interpretation for me, and repeatedly checks his watch.

At one point, I even call US Bank in the United States to have them troubleshoot why cash is not working.  The bank employee stays online while I attempt yet again to get pesos out of the cash dispenser.  He tells me a 24 hour rule may be in order, and I would need to try again tomorrow.

Same result with my primary bank, Wells Fargo.  The PIN number I use virtually every day won’t work – for savings, cash, or credit.  From either a debit card, or a savings account number.  It appears I will have to make a major adjustment in both flight and travel plans.  There simply is not time to call all the banks prior to my sole daily flight to Havana leaving at 3:30 PM to get a fix.

Suddenly and inexplicably, the cash machine works.  But only for half the cash I need.  I now have what seems like millions of pesos, and only half my fare.  What to do?  The service official checks his watch.  He has been far too patient.  This is not just service.  He has an investment in me now.  He is on the take, at some level.  He is clearly part of some systematic cabal within the airport. He has been with me over two hourS, and follows me like a lost puppy.  It is then I know I am being fleeced.

And yet, there is a timeline to adhere to.  It is not within my range of choices to sit around Cancun for another day, to cycle through another round of choices.  I make the decision to acquire the balance of my fare from the greenbacks carefully stowed in the deep security pockets of my travel vest.  It goes without saying there are conversion commissions to pay.  Then the “oh, I forgot, you have to pay your airport and emigration tax.”  I heard previously it was $23.

The Air Cubana personnel and the airport official who have secretly huddled discussing my ticket fate demand $50.  In cash.  I pay, but ask for a receipt.  They frown.  Say this is not necessary.  I point out that when I return from Cuba, I will not want to be paying this again.  And need my proof.  I think they went into an unused box of surplus stickers that might have served a Kindergarten art class, slapped ‘em down with studied determination, and put some stamps across.  “Done!” they announce, beaming faces practically dripping with exultation.

I leave with my ticket and boarding pass, knowing for the last hour that I have been officially “wheeled,” yet triumphant that I’d paid $100 less than the Brits and Aussies, who had fallen for the “only first class seats are left now” gambit.  Everybody, it seems, who had been threatened with the warning that “there is only one seat left and there are no more flights today” explanation somehow makes it on the plane.  What are the odds?  I laugh.  They have done it again.

The explanation given is: “Oh, we have had a lot of cancellations today.  You know, it is almost Christmas.”  This is a most crude, but effective means of squeezing every last dollar out of foreigners desperate to get to Cuba.  Especially given the artificial time crunch, and the language differences present.  You are at their mercy.  But on your way to Havana!

 

 

“The End of Time” Takes A Time-Out

5:11 AM on December 21^st arrived with its usual complement of massive sleep shortage.  What was supposed to be a globally coordinated candlelight ceremony largely turned out to be a dud in the event Epi-Center at the Hacienda Hotel in Chichen Itza.  The center grounds were not opened to participants as planned. Wind and rain blew out the candles for those gathering instead in the hotel parking lot, staff leadership to open the ceremony never arrived, and other attempts at leading faltered as rapidly as the candles.

Only when meeting with another body softly chanting en masse at the nearby Pyramide Hotel did anything approaching Unity take place.  An inspiring spiritual gestalt then developed amongst two now combined groups, leading to each participant gliding down a path with fellow candle holders forming a supportive gauntlet to either side.  After finishing their journey through its middle, each Spiritual Warrior peeled off to one of the two sides and became part of the gauntlet themselves. From there, it was a deliberate and contemplative 1.5 mile walk to the Archeological Park.

The crowds were large, the press badgered everybody who looked wildly dressed or sufficiently crazed to make a statement related to “Aren’t you disappointed that we didn’t experience The End of Time?” And the expected gathering of up to 60,000 for the course of the day never materialized.  Once again, the hosts showed a unique Mexican approach to Park entry.  No organized entry lines at 6:30 AM.  Just follow a throng where people appear to be pressing in the hardest.

You buy one ticket – eventually.  There are no signs in English describing what you are getting, or why, or how much it costs.  I swear four different people pay differing amounts, depending on what their assessed net worth and attire rating might be.  I smile to myself.  “The Vertical Scan,” so redolent of life in Venezuela.  You pay, depending on what you appear to be worth and can afford.  Once having obtained a ticket, we head for the Park entry.

We are stopped.  “No, Senor.  Necessita una pequena billete” (you need a little ticket).  Not “you need a little ticket, also.”  Did I buy the wrong one?  I know there will be no refunds here.  Somebody has already pocketed my error.  Baby has milk for next week and Mama has new shoes.  I find out after repeated inquiries that, no, I need an additional small ticket this time.  But where?

I look for another throng.  It is a Darwinian free-for-all.  Those not willing to persist or who lack physical stature are pushed off to the side.  I don’t know if they ever got in.  I return minutes later and some recognizable bodies are no closer than when they had begun, as if spun into a whirpool vortex from which there is no escape.  But eventually one comes to the fore, softly grabs the attendant’s attention, and says “Billete.”  You have no idea if a third ticket will be required still, what this is for, or how much it will cost.  Of course, it is twice as expensive.  Cautiously, I finally proceed to the Entry Gate for the second time.  After being lectured about my candle not being allowed, I am eventually ushered inside.  Ah, Chichen Itza …

I can not describe all that took place once facing the impressive Mayan stone monuments inside Chichen Itza starting about 7:15 AM.  Operating on one hour of sleep in the prior 36 led me to be description deprived.  I can say there were no fights, there was peaceful if not complete harmony, the “come one, come all” dances led by Indigenous Natives were very well attended, and participants repeatedly created their own spontaneous ceremonies over an extended period of time throughout the day.

 And oh, yes, Time Did Not End.  It did not even hiccup.  There were no eclipses nor earthquakes nor giant condors flying overhead nor pole shifting nor Rapture emigrations throughout the vicinity.  None of the other spiritually significant sites chosen for a simultaneous Web Cast of the moment, such as Stonehenge, Ayers Rock, Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, or Easter Island manifested any indication of a Doomsday scenario either.   Whether a new blueprint existed or not, The Mayan Calendar merely moved on to its next phase, quietly and without fanfare, like a phantom retreating into the shadows.

Subsequent celebratory activities consisted of continued dancing, music, workshops, free massage and healing presentations of various sorts at the grounds of the Hacienda Hotel back in town.  Filling in what void was created by the peaceful procession of events were rumors of a LSD trip gone dramatically south with a young woman from the campground ending up in the middle of the road.  Descriptions of interference from police authorities apparently miffed at not getting their assumed  baksheesh (payoff) money followed.  Many of the locals thought the event to be a cash cow, and wanted in on their share of the unlimited lucre supposedly flowing into Synthesis 2012 coffers from the 2500 or so projected participants.

The evening was topped off by a wildly successful dance (back at the campground once again) at a spectacularly designed stage setting reminiscent of a pyramid-shaped funeral pyre.  I will fill in details later about those responsible for such a positive outcome.  For now, let us agree it is difficult to track all of what occurred when venues are so disparate, events are moving so fast, locations are constantly changed, no timetable is adhered to, and some scheduled events don’t take place at all.  What announcements that are made relative to these changes, are typically drowned out by music.

A signature for the event might best be illustrated through an interview I attempted to gain with Synthesis 2012 Founder Michael DeMartino.  DeMartino cultivates a highly praised, fawned over, charismatic persona.  His appearance is very much that of a pious Knight Templar, 1000 years past his prime. My aim was to get an assessment from his point of view what went right and what went wrong with the Festival.

In making the request, I asked for a specific place and time in a mixture that suited his convenience.  He agreed to a sit-down near the pool at the Hacienda Hotel complex, and indicated he would meet me “in about forty minutes and right in this area.  This is where I can always be found.”  He walked past me three times afterward, made eye contact on each occasion, and quickly moved on.  There never was an interview.

Overall, the event lacked similar cohesion and organized follow through.  As summarized by one participant from Los Angeles who regularly participates in The Festival Lifestyle: “We are used to gathering in one central area.  We were all spread out here. The communication was terrible. Things were so disjointed.  As a result, we couldn’t really Do The Work.  We are people who act with a high degree of integrity.  Synthesis 2012 is not the way we do things.”

The dining hall arrangements were a notable exception to most activities at Synthesis 2012.  Meals were served warm, on time, with a full complement of silverware and glassware.  The food was delicious, if somewhat repetitious.  It included Mayan green salad, a full fruit plate, rice, local creamed potatoes, tomatos, beets, chicken, fish, rolls, dessert, black bean sauce, and vegetarian options. A variety of cervezas and soft drinks was offered at a bar adjacent to the food.  Our wait staff was polite and unfailingly efficient.  Their efforts sadly went largely unnoticed.

Similarly successful was the live web streaming event from the command center room at the Hotel.  Whenever I peaked inside, there were beautiful images from around the globe of Solstice and Galactic Alignment type celebrations taking place worldwide.  The process and end product appeared at least to be flawless.  The claims of 20 million viewers tapping in however, were not believed by anybody, given the credibility of the event staff and their other pronouncements to date.

The Festival largely though not officially concluded Saturday the 22^nd of December with a generous daylong offering of workshops, speeches, presentations, music, and dance. Don Miguel Ruiz, the headliner who appeared two hours late and concurrent with long dinner lines, was a major disappointment.  He spoke for only 15 minutes and didn’t visit any new material not already present in his published bestsellers.  Perhaps the heart replacement surgery he had undergone the year prior, had understandably sapped his energy.

The best program was given by Dr. Joe Marshalla.  I will post more on his eye-opening presentation later.  For now, I wish to conclude reports on Synthesis 2012.  Despite the chaos and disorganization present throughout the four days, I believe the Festival to still be a success.  Sure, there were numerous talks about class action lawsuits over failure to deliver on promised (and paid for) services and performances.  Many said they would call their credit card company immediately upon return home to dispute paying $500 for a campground, missing transportation, meals which did not materialize, etc.

Ultimately, however, with changed hearts and minds and the connections made during the event there really appeared to me to be an internal shift within the participants which might support this success.  In the case of Synthesis 2012, the participants finally took over.  They made things happen themselves.  The inmates took over the asylum, and found out they were the keepers of the flame all along.  They made things work.  They connected and bonded without assistance from the organizers.

I witnessed much evidence of changed hearts, stilled minds, answered prayers, and realized intentions leading to potential healing, transformation and personal growth.  It was as a transformative event that Synthesis 2012 can stake whatever claim to success that it might.

 

CHICHEN  ITZA, MEXICO

My first challenge after arrival was to obtain a room.  Craig & Donna had been “swapped out” for less desirable quarters further from the Archeological Park, but closer to the Synthesis 2012 activity center.  At first, I attempt to negotiate with their same Chichen Itza Hotel for quarters, which proved useless when the bidding started at $500 nightly.  I later found a room to share with a young man from Seattle who had two beds to his room and a working shower, but never utilized the opportunity.  Too much work to do, and too little time.  Just stayed up all night on my first evening in Chichen Itza.

Next challenge was to get in to Synthesis 2012.  I had arrived with no tickets, no meal plan, and no room.  The ultimate freestyle approach landing. The organizing group intended to hold a pre-solstice press briefing at 4 PM.  I quickly joined in discussions with their planning group.  In discussing why I was here, much of the previous conversation Craig and I had engaged in re: the meaning of 2012 was conveyed to the event executive staff.  Surprisingly (to me at least), much of it made its way into their introductory remarks at the subsequent Press Briefing.

To make a long story short, as a result of that conversation and proof of the publication of “True North” (and intention to write Volume 2 with their Festival as the lead story) I got handed Press Credentials.  This came about by explaining in pithy terms what their event was all about from the POV of an outsider, leading to spiffs for free food and free daily entry to all organizational events.  The tickets otherwise cost from $250 to $500 to $2800, depending on level of access to various Festival venues, and whether hotel rooms and transportation from Cancun was involved.  Already, I felt like the gouging from our van ride from Cancun was being mitigated.

At the Press Conference, in addition to quoting heavily from the joint conversation with Craig, Synthesis 2012 Marketing Director Giselle Bisson quoted Bolivan President Evo Morales:  This event, she said, “Is about the end of  Fear and the beginning of Love.”  The goal of the event was to celebrate and activate the Mayan prophecies related to 2012, so that with “intention, focus and love we will manifest a new era of peace and harmony on the planet.”

It proposed an ambitious schedule leading to a global awareness convergence and candlelight winter solstice service on Dec 21^st celebrating the previously described concurrent events.  Event organizer Michael DeMartino, had begun envisioning the event as far back as 1989 when he produced the worldwide “Unity” Gathering.  It was to include a “Burning Man” style campground (after the folklife rock and party soiree that attracts 50,000 annually in the Nevada desert), and numerous rock bands with widespread reputations.

The purpose of this gathering was to bring together some of the top international music groups, dynamic visionary leaders, spiritual teachers, shamans, the local Mayan community, teachers of healing arts and practitioners of  healthy & eco-conscious living to awaken global awareness and promote global change.

The event had the support of an experienced major California production team working directly with local Mayan elders, wisdom keepers and event producers in Mexico with the cooperation of the UNESCO recognized Mayan Cultural Organization and International Mayan Council.  An international webcast coordination of galactic alignment celebrations taking place worldwide was also planned.

Major speakers were to include New Age Luminaries such as Don Miguel Ruiz (author of the bestselling “The Four Agreements” and “The Mastery of Love”), Mayan Wisdom Keeper Humbatz Men, Caroline Casey, Nicki Scully, Foster & Kimberly Gamble, Dr. Joseph Marshall, Nick Edwards, and Patrick Flanagan – among others.

Problems become obvious before the Press Conference is even concluded however.  A campground set up for attendees (to offset price gouging in local hotels) has had to be moved from in-town, to a clearing six miles outside town.  A shuttle service to ferry Festival Goers back and forth never materializes.  Most who don’t have rental cars must pay $8 one way for taxi rides into town and to visit the Archeological Area with the Ruins – if a taxi is available.  Volunteers who are told they will get free meals, are shut off from the dining hall.

A music truck with over $30,000 of equipment on it is either hijacked or waylaid just south of the Texas border – the stories differ depending on who you talk to -- and returns to Oregon after gulping nearly $5000 worth of fuel and repairs.  It never arrives at the festival.  Much sound capability is therefore cut off.  Hotels are changed for VIP customers without notice.  Van transportation from Cancun does not materialize.  Staff are not being paid and often have to put their own funds into various Festival functions to make them work.  Many bands that have paid their own way down to the happening, are told their services are no longer available and tickets promised for meals are not distributed.

I start making subtle inquiries about how this situation has come about.  I need not tend such care.  The anger level even amongst staff grows by the hour.  It becomes obvious there is a command and control problem.  All command is centered at the top.  Very little authority flows downhill. Decisions – even petty ones – can’t be made without the personal imprimatur of Michael DeMartino.  Funds suffer the same restriction.  Nothing goes out without the visionary’s okay.  Chokeholds abound at every decision nexus point.  DeMartino, meanwhile, attends to self- satisfying but organizationally crippling duties as personally handing out meal tickets.

But the festival proceeds nevertheless.  This is partly due to the abundance of freewill present.  It is due to the huge hours of donated time and focused intention of the volunteers and staff.  Most of the invited luminaries still attend.  Moving speeches are made the afternoon prior to “The End of Time,” referring to nursing each other into a new consciousness, converging and rising up spiritually to overcome the existing world order in a quiet revolution, and celebrating new awareness with conscious connection into a new soul community.

A song initiated spontaneously by teenagers becomes the anthem for The Festival: “One People, One Creation, One Love, One light.”  It earns much enthusiasm from among the attendees.

Many well-intended folks have clearly done the work to prepare themselves over an extended period of time.  These people refer to themselves as The Rainbow Tribe, those souls who are present now combined in spirit with all those who have preceded us.  These are the serious spiritual seekers.  The purposed soul work heavy lifters.  Others appear hobbyists, looking for an emotional peak experience.  These are the ones who bear the feint miasma of “we are the ones we have been waiting for.” 

Others merely seek a lark, and want to be happy.  They are often found in the campground, and more often than not under a cannabis cloud.  Their theme song would more closely resemble “Kumbaya.”   Another set, the evolved version of the Hippie Movement, might be characterized as having a “Brother Son, Sister Moon, Everybody is Part of Me” mentality.  Their primary mindset seems to be a fairly deeply embedded Peace consciousness.

In any case, Peak Events no matter how spectacularly infused with tradition, emotion, or ceremony are sometimes merely … just events.  The spiritual Warriors who gather for four days of Peace & Harmony, nevertheless return to lives as doctors, promoters, students, businessmen, firemen, sanitation workers, and all cross-sections of humanity.

In a knowing scene from the movie Willow, famous (midget) actor Billy Barty plays the part of a very short wizard.  He is helping the decision making of the movie’s hero and his companions, when they must make a difficult crossroads choice as to which way to proceed.  He makes great ceremony of rolling the dice, a set of ancient runes.  He goes about his duty with great solemnity and agonized deliberate pacing.  There is much suspense.  He finally tosses the bones.

“Well,” cries out Willow, with more than a little nervousness.  “What do they mean???”

The Wizard looks at Willow, and gives him a sly wink.  “What do you want them to mean?”

Such is the way with movements.  And events.  And anthems.  We always look for a new message.  We desire a new way of connecting. We are attuned and even hopeful about fresh ways and hopeful outcomes.  We need change and renewed possibility in our lives.  Many things we initiate or respond to, has the cultivated interest of: “What do you want them to mean?”  Sometimes, the level of hope and optimism and caring we emotionally invest in our initiatives, pre-determines the outcome.   Input equals output.

Over and over, I hear hopeful cadences of intent such as “We are at the crossroads of the past, the present, and the future.”  Or “We are anchors for the coming shift.”  Or “The End of Time is really a New Beginning.”  Or, less objectively and much more energetically, “We are the Hope of The World and the Means of Its Transformation.”

Despite these occasional stretches into fanciful hubris, and all the snafus with Synthesis 2012, on the alleged Eve of the End of Time and Conclusion of the Mayan Calendar and windowpane to the Galactic Alignment, there was much loving and well-intentioned input taking place all throughout Chichen Itza.

CANCUN
 

This entry may just be a flyby, as I really have two days worth here and really just want to get around to the zenith of Mayan culture and architecture, the still not completely unearthed archeological wonder of Chichen Itza.

Flight out from Phoenix and then Dallas very routine.  Took advantage of the five hours of flight time, to catch up after receiving only two hours of sleep the final night in Phoenix.  Packing, writing, and excess excitement will do that to you.  I muse on the fact I’ve landed at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport probably ten times in my life, and never actually stepped foot in Texas.

My third landing in Cancun runs smoothly.  Off the plane, through customs in an hour (following some clever Aussie rope jumpers), and out to the taxi area.  Taking a transport van reduces the cost to get into the Zona Hoteleria to only $16, instead of the projected forty.  Shades of  Lima!  The trick is generally to name your own price, and not take orders from the carnival barkers trying to push you into their yellow sardine cans.

There is nothing redeeming about the tourist area of Cancun.  Except perhaps that it is safe.  This, when contrasted with dodgy areas of Mexico now where tourists have to worry about being robbed, assaulted, or worse.  Formerly iconic areas such as Acapulco and Mazatlan, where drug gangs rule the roost and a tourist unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time can end up gaining their proverbial 15 minutes of fame through grisly postings on the internet displaying various parts of  their body online.

Otherwise, the 13-mile Hotel Zone, is nothing but a bit of the Texas or Georgia coast transplanted to Mexico.  The prices are hardly different.  The culture barely raises its hand.  There are accents among the wait staff, to be sure, but most of them speak English.  They are unfailingly polite.   I’m not sure what the draw is.  Why not save yourself an expensive plane flight south and just drink heavily in a warm and sunny clime at home?

Regardless, I join my friends Craig and Donna Murphy from Jackson, California at the Coral Mar Condos on the smaller of two major lagoons inland from the  Caribbean coast.  Jackson is my hometown, from long ago and far away, and the storied site of the two richest gold mines in US History – the Argonaut and the Kennedy Mines. Craig and I and I go back to 6^th grade together, and he remains my longest standing friend. 

The Murphys – among others – are among the victims of a hotel snafu where their bungalow at the Mayan Ruins in Chichen Itza has been (re)sold to the highest bidder, forcing them to change to a hotel at the last minute.  For Craig, who is a seeker, the change is beneficial.  It puts him closer to the events center for a group called Synthesis 2012 that is the clearing house worldwide for events related to the celebrations taking place locally to great international public fanfare.

These include convergence of the Winter Solstice, the so-called “End of Time” Prophecy related to the final versions of the Mayan Calendar, and 26,000 year cycle wherein the planets in our solar system line up through the earth like cherry tomatoes on a shish-kabob skewer.  At the same time, because of this Galactic Alignment, we get a rare glimpse at the “Dark Rift” of the Milky Way, or the exact center of our galaxy.  We are headed toward unique circumstances.

Donna is alternately disadvantaged.  Whereas she had been located right across the street from the Archeological Ruins area of Chichen Itza – favorable conditions if one is lugging heavy professional camera equipment – now she will be one and one-half miles away and facing a logistics/strength/endurance challenge.

Our ride in is part of the package snafu.  Not trusting to the give-and-take hotel and  transport arrangements initiated by Synthesis 2012, Craig hires us a private van for the 240 kilometer and two and one-half journey to the ruins from Cancun.  Our driver, Alfonso, is barely conversant in English but we make do and learn quite a bit about nearby areas, what to see, and new Spanish words on the road headed in.  As we should.  The trip is normally normally $150 for a round trip day visit to the ruins, but with the human wave approaching Chichen Itza, it is now $380 … one way!

We ponder the irony of the New Age Thinking & Feeling taking place all around us concurrent with this old-fashioned demonstration of pillaging tourists brought on by that old saw -- the line where an ascendant demand curve crosses a diminishing supply line.

We grit our teeth and decide surety is the better part of valor.  We must arrive early, before the hordes arrive (some estimates put the number of visitors who might be present by December 21^st at 60,000).  To get oriented.  To eat.  To make connections.  And for me to arrange a place to sleep and shower.  The rooms which my friends have been moved to, which normally cost $99 for a Best Western 3-Star Hotel, have been jacked to $500 nightly.  Luckily, Craig and Donna don't have to pay this.  But I travel freestyle, and (intending to be on the road for at least 45 days) would not pay 10% of that regal sum.  So the  risk taker and negotiator part of me eventually must prowl out alternatives.

But first, we enjoy dinner in Old Cancun.  The part of town where all the hotel zone workers and real Mexican personalities reside.  It is difficult to tell if prices have been jacked to coincide with the Dec 21^st celebrations, but there are no bargains here.  Prices are the same as Seattle and any other major US city.  For both food and drinks.  There are no bargains.  It doesn’t feel like Mexico.

I do however get to experience a Michelchada for the first time.  It is a relatively new phenomenon in this part of Mexico, I am told.  The mix combines your favorite beer, and black pepper, lime, maggi juice seasoning, and salsa tipo inglesa sauce.  Craig spits his test sip out.  “That tastes like steak sauce on the rocks,” he growls.  I like it, and find the concoction – like any acquired taste -- gets better with a bit of thinning and persistent guzzling.

Next morning, along the way to Chichen Itza, we see mile-after-mile of scruffy (like a marine flat topped  haircut) low-canopy jungle, colorful pueblos with their proverbial thrashed cars and feral dogs, and the decidedly ethnographic darkened chocolate faces of the Mayan people.  We also see periodic displays of blue agave, the source of premium tequila.  A prominent sign reads:  “Blue Agave Tequila: The Future of The Yucatan!”

The plants are very sharp, with needle points and serrated leaves.  Craig gives one a casual rub and pops the rhetorical question, to nobody in particular: “Tequila?  Or To-Kill-Ya?”  He also pokes fun at me for some graying of my temples beyond our last visit.  Whereby, I serve up the Grizzly Bear gambit on him.

“You know Murphy, when in the vicinity of annoyed Grizzlies, I don’t have to be fast.  I just have to be faster than you.  Same thing with hair.  Mine may have a little more sheen to it, but it is still darker and more plentiful than …”  I love playing the trump card.  Craig seems to enjoy it also.

But most of our trip in is given over to a serious discussion about 2012 and the worldwide event we are fast approaching.  Who are we, really? Why are we here?  What does it mean?  Why do people care about being here at this particular time?

We decide – from a combination of our personal quests, a lifetime of learning, and what we have deciphered about the collective vision for this convergence – that we are all here in support of the affirmation that things can’t remain as they are on this planet.  It is necessarily a time for change.  We will exercise our free will to manifest being a part of that change.  We feel drawn to a collective purpose.  Like a funeral or a rivalry football game, we are at least temporarily drawn toward synchronicity of intention and a united mindset.  We are mistreating the planet and each other, and Things MUST Change!

We also agree we have become detached from our authentic selves as humans, and must find our way back .  We are not mere physical beings, occasionally having a  spiritual experience.  We ARE spiritual beings, occasionally and temporarily assigned to physical bodies, and that our essence carries over from lifetime to lifetime.  Luckily we are just now coming around as soul entities to remembering who we really are.

Collectively, the human race is on the cusp of learning to relate to each other from the heart, instead of the mind.  We are being restored – like finding our way back to Shangra La – to soul spontaneity and balance.  Including balance between male and female energies.  A transition between the male and brain-centered energy of the age of Pisces, and the female-centered and feeling oriented  Age of Aquarius. 

I personally liken the transition to a finely engineered bridge contrasted with a waterfall.  The bridge may be a piece of calculated genius.  It may even be a work of art.  The Golden Gate Bridge comes to mind.  But it is necessarily flawed.  At some point, all calculations break down, and its shortcomings become palpable.  It fails, and no longer serves the purpose it once upheld.  A waterfall, on the other hand, is a heart matter.  It is always beautiful.  It needs no purpose.  It is perfect at any given moment.  When in heart mode, we see and feel as if a free-flowing waterfall.  There is no flaw, no effort, no artifice, and no need for change or adjustment.

Craig and I have discussed “heart mode” for months.  Our particular definitions – and there are many – boil down to the following:

Intentioned tolerance, an emptying of the judgmental mind, voiding oneself of expectation (and being Happy For What You Get), “holding space” to wait situations out and having the patience to observe what is really happening (without attachment to a pre-determined connection or result), practicing detached compassion, getting outside your own ego, and having the courage and work ethic to offer up your authentic self when connecting with another member of our species.

True North – Central America: “Whirlwind!”

Advance Preparations

Episode Two of another epic international tour finally begins.  With a whirlwind.  Unlike my lengthy trip to the far reaches of the southern hemisphere of a bit over a year ago there has been very little time to prepare for this episode.

Despite long-term planning for this journey, the money has only come forward in the last three days, and there has been no time at all to obtain necessary shots, get added pages for my passport, get a new camera or a battery charger for the old one, or do any of the myriad things one must attend to in order to prepare for an extended trip abroad.  I am uncharacteristically unprepared.

As I depart Seattle/Tacoma International Airport on a Sunday morning with less baggage than ever before, I haven’t a clue what is in my backpack and light carry-on.  No idea if what is there is adequate, how many things I’ve forgotten, or where critical items might actually be located.  All I know is TSA always finds my bag worthy of “another look” and routinely pulls me over to the side for a hands-on inspection.  And that I am able to travel much lighter compared to the 85 day sojourn of last year, since current travels don’t include the necessity for cold weather gear for Antarctica.

My objective this time, is to fill in the gaps between the comprehensive map filler of 2011 – which included Antarctica, ALL of South America, Easter Island, and four islands in the Caribbean --  and the home turf territory of the United States, Canada, Hawaii, Alaska, and neighboring Mexico. That leaves us with The Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico – which is very familiar territory, Cuba (offering the allure of forbidden fruit!), Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and finally Panama. 

As I researched potential trip highlights, I am most drawn initially to Cuba for the tenacity of its people and culture despite a 50 year embargo placed against the island by the US government and their odd, lingering fondness for the Fidel Castro led “Revolution” of 1959. Guatemala beckons, for its Mayan temples and profound geography.  And Costa Rica calls, for its draw as the “Switzerland of Central America.”  All in all I will get 45 more days of bliss and discovery and the chance to satisfy an omnipresent curiosity about all things.

What also beckons however, is The Yucatan.  Home of Chichen Itza, the perigee of Mayan civilization and site of a Dec 21^st  celebration commemorating the End of the Mayan Calendar and what is portrayed as the beginning of a new spiritual age on this planet.  Due to Mayan petroglyphs which have been interpreted as predicting the so-called “End of Time,” many folks will be congregating in 2012 in the Mayan Temples of the former Mayan Empire.  “End of Time” parties and spiritual enclaves in these locations are sprouting thicker than flies at a gypsy wedding.  My desire as I head south, is that this celebration in whatever form it transpires would be far superior to that yearly bacchanalia in Rio de Janeiro that is otherwise known as Carnival.  That was the ultimate disappointment, as far as parties or celebrations or cultural events might go.

My objective for three days blanketing December 21^st and the Winter Solstice is to join my best friend from high school, Craig Murphy and his wife Donna, for a “be in the moment” spiritual observance.  We will simply see what happens.  We have no plans.  Only to be in the now and to be very observant of what occurs and to try to experience the event on a Heart Level, and not with our western-trained and oriented minds.

A slight pall hovers over the journey.  Namely, the passing of my beloved Father in October at age 80.  Without Lawrence Arthur Cenotto IV, the trip might not have been possible.  At least to this extent.  And yet, while we did not specifically discuss visiting Central America, it was the type of trip we were contemplating making together.  I have therefore decided to take his hiking jacket, walking stick, a number of  other personal items and his camera along, so that Dad can vicariously enjoy the trail with me as I pass through Central America on a quest now dedicated in his honor.

I notice before departing Seattle my passport is full.  No more room for additional stamps.  I have the world’s greatest parking karma and unreasonable luck in most things, and figure most challenges can be overcome or talked past. The National Passport Center advises me however, I can be refused boarding at the ticket gate level, or at the arrival gate on any of the destinations I am bound for to travel to -- whether I have previously paid or not.

“Of course, we can have you call them and verify the reception details for each country,” was the helpful reply from the national office.  I couldn’t imagine the wait time, let alone any other distraction.  So two days work – in addition to getting medical shots that now seemed beyond my reach on short notice – to get additional pages for the passport goes for naught.

Finally, while intending to get in a little spiritual re-entry practice time in vortex laden Sedona, I am advised the Tucson office of the National Passport Center will do an overnight passport renewal for me.  Instead of the Red Rocks and spiritual basking of stunning Sedona, it is south two hours and wait in line.  And they double the price for expediting my requests. But the staff there is great.  Methinks they are auditioning for some federal service award role, and go completely out of their way to accommodate my last-minute needs.  This is not the way I am used to seeing the feds operate …

While waiting overnight for the passport to be issued, inquiries are made about a good local Happy Hour bar.  Enter the Kon-Tiki on Broadway.  Built in 1962.  Blessed with original bamboo from the Philippines that would take $1000 per square foot to duplicate today.  Adorned with original characters, all.  Home of the best local complimentary hors d’ oeuvres and greatest lineup of original drinks this side of Singapore.  One couple, Scott & Tina, speak of their pre-60’s cars and an abiding shared interest in travel.

Tina regales those of us at the bar with tales of her Navy days, when new swabbies would be hazed upon crossing the equator during a grueling 8-hour initiation rite.  The type of humiliation  not allowed today.  She described an endurance ordeal of  wearing clothes inside out, denied shoes, being plastered with grease and peanut butter, being forced to crawl about the ship on all fours, performing fawning menial tasks, licking jelly beans out of the lint-encrusted belly button of a 400 pound hirsute gunnery mate, and eating swill from a communal bucket.  I’m just glad I signed up for 36 hour days in the forestry service at that age instead …

Picking up the passport after a day of preparation, the to-do list never ends.  Buy camera attachments.  Empathize with horror stories from Cancun of hotel reservations (with confirmation and down payment ignominiously ignored) suddenly being jerked from friends and sold to the highest bidder.  Buy travel insurance.  Make sure my phone will take international calls and texts from all nine countries along the travel path.  Similarly, inform the banks that are holding my credit cards where I’ll be and to allow both debit and credit transactions without the normal interference or security verification calls.  Somewhere in there, caloric requirements and a growling stomach demand their due.

The evening closes with a light dinner at a local watering hole in Phoenix.  Again, my theory is that the best travel intel is obtained at bars.  Sometimes the best war stories.  And usually the best bullshit.  The “share this tripe at cocktail parties” variety, that everybody can moderate and pass on in ever expanding circles.  Got to listen to a bloke named Matt, speak about his best friend crossing over the Iron Curtain in the 60’s after getting an impossible-to-obtain visa from a friend who dated a gal at the Russian Embassy.  His aim was to dispense Hippie Culture in Russia.  And introduce Western capitalism.

The friend drove a flower festooned Volkswagen camper from Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin to Red Square in Moscow, and openly sold Playboy magazines and Beatle records opposite the GUM Department Store in Red Square.  He took the substantial profits, and graduated from there to transiting the Straits of Gibraltar in Spain to sell alcohol in dry Muslim African countries.  All this before détente, and modern visa arrangements.  As they say, Cheeky Lad, that.

And with that, I am off.  Have an early wakeup at 3:30 for a 6 AM flight to Cancun and the prelude to the first (hopefully among many) of the “End of Time” parties.