Wedding tan

Rings, a Dress, and Two Wedding Bouquets

Plans. A curious thing. We love making them, and we get terribly upset when they don’t go accordingly. Never mind the fact that some people set totally unachievable goals for themselves after buying into the gospel of smooth-talking hustlers and online life gurus, who look straight into your soul through the screen and swear that you, specifically you, can achieve anything. Yeah, right.

Without setting clear priorities and consciously ditching the things you’ve already marked as “secondary,” all you’ll do is spread yourself thin across too many fronts and end up not really succeeding at anything. That’s why it’s so important to combine planning with consistent preparation. It’s kind of like the “5P Formula”: Planning + Persistent Preparation = Pretty much guaranteed to Pull it off.

We started preparing for the wedding nearly a year in advance. Right after I dropped to one knee and hit her with the diamond ultimatum. Turkey. Balcony. Sunset. You get the vibe—Nastya barely stood a chance of saying no.

Once the initial excitement faded and our vacation tans peeled off, we sat down to draft our wedding budget. Since neither of us came pre-equipped with relatives willing to hand over a suitcase of cash and a blessing, we had to rely entirely on ourselves. With heavy hearts, we axed a few visionary options from the start:

• A skydiving wedding ceremony (where everyone—even those who firmly believe jumping out of a perfectly good airplane is lunacy—would be expected to jump).
• A ritual duel where guests would fence with sturgeons to determine the supreme fish-blade master.
• An underwater ceremony, because the bride was worried, I’d mumble the “I do” a bit too unconvincingly through the bubbles. Plus, even though Max Factor says it’s waterproof mascara, there are limits.

We quickly agreed that we wanted a celebration that felt right for us and our closest people—comfortable and free from cringeworthy traditions. That meant no wedding motorcades with creepy baby dolls strapped to the hoods. No ransom games or schizophrenic contests that teeter between softcore porn and fever dreams. We also vetoed any attempts to get guests plastered (those infernal “It’s getting chilly—shall we heat things up with a shot?” suggestions beloved by old-school emcees) or squeeze money out of them under the pretense of “ransom for the bride’s left slipper.”

Spoiler: someone did try to snatch Nastya’s shoe at one point, to which she coolly replied, “I’ve got a second pair.”

It was hilarious watching people, shaken to the depths of their cultural foundations, react like we’d just committed heresy. “Wait—no drunken embarrassment? No public humiliation? No money-collecting stunts for future baby names? What about tradition?!” Some even gasped, “That’s just… not Christian!” I never quite figured out what Christianity had to do with any of it, but hey—maybe they knew something I didn’t.

As our expenses crossed yet another mental threshold of 100,000 rapidly depreciating rubles, Nastya’s eyes grew steadily more square-shaped. Occasionally, with growing despair, she’d turn to me and say, “Maybe let’s just cancel the whole thing?” I’d stroke her head, offer comforting noises, and sigh in harmony—but I stayed firm. We’d come too far. And no matter how glittery the wedding sausage was, there was no grinding it back into raw meat.

On the appointed day, a cool September morning, our matrimonial machine roared to life. Like a well-oiled locomotive, the day’s schedule clicked into gear and pulled behind it a full train of videographers, photographers, ceremonies, guest gatherings... all the way to the grand finale of fireworks. General Suvorov would’ve been proud—every guest knew their maneuver. The newlyweds were buzzing with joy and nerves. The parents were extra nervous and extra joyful. The guests had fun and, despite our best efforts, still cheekily shouted “Kiss! Kiss!” with wicked grins.

The people working that day were truly on top of their game. The host and the event coordinator steered the evening smoothly from one phase to the next, masterfully juggling those in-between moments when guests were free to mingle, snack, or just vibe—only to reel them back in right on cue so we could continue with the wedding program.

Our videographer practically fused with his steadicam, trying to mimic a subatomic particle—everywhere at once, capturing every angle, every glance, every perfectly-lit second. The photographers kept morphing between sharpshooters and hawks. One moment they’d freeze in place, firing off shots from some mysteriously perfect angle only they could see. The next, they’d circle the hall with professional hunger in their eyes, hunting for someone to beautifully immortalize in pixels.

Like everything else in life, the day eventually came to an end. The cold fountains had sparkled their last, the final toasts were raised, and the guests—each at varying stages of revelry—began to drift off into the night. After a quick recap and mutual nods of satisfaction, my now-wife and I agreed the day had gone brilliantly. We’d even do it all over again, we thought—everyone had simply crushed it.

But there was no time to bask in the glow for too long. In just a few days, our honeymoon would begin—on none other than the “Island of Freedom” itself: Cuba.

Red Kilometers

Let me make a quick disclaimer. The decision to head to this particular destination for our honeymoon didn’t come easy to my better half. As soon as she heard the words “the flight will take about 14 hours,” Nastya flat-out refused to go anywhere near cheap rum, fragrant cigars, or Hemingway’s house. She swore she couldn’t handle it, that the heat would be unbearable, and insisted we just go to Turkey or Egypt instead.

With the help of our travel agent, I launched a diplomatic siege. It wasn’t quite the length or intensity of the Siege of Candia, but just like that Cretan fortress, Nastya eventually fell—and began googling all sorts of facts about the island that once sat at the heart of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

To be fair, the flight wasn’t exactly a joyride. The main issue wasn’t even discomfort—it was boredom, paired with a creeping numbness of the, let’s say, posterior region. Even I—someone who in my barefoot, reckless youth could clock hours in a computer chair—had to get up occasionally and shuffle through the cabin like a disoriented flamingo, desperately trying to restore the natural contours of my backside.

“What an inconvenient inconvenience!” Nastya exclaimed a few hours into the flight, turning her still lovely but now slightly bloodied face toward me. What she actually said was less poetic and significantly more explicit, and she made me swear I wouldn’t quote her directly or suffer marital consequences of the highest order.

She’d gotten a nosebleed out of nowhere. Nothing serious—a few tissues and an airline-issued cold pack did the trick—but still, not ideal midair. Pro tip: if your blood vessels are on the delicate side, I’d highly advise skipping alcohol and/or coffee on such long flights. As we learned firsthand, even I—whose blood cells probably resemble coffee beans under a microscope—ended up with bloodshot eyes so intense, I looked like an extra from 28 Days Later after just two cups of weak Americano.

Finally—landing. After what felt like a small eternity, we were greeted by the soft twilight, the sight of swaying palms... and a wall of tropical humidity that socked us in the lungs the moment we stepped out of the plane.

While we waited for the rest of the group, some “Blue Lightsaber Jedi” of a man—already well past the point of tipsy—started slurring demands to “leave immediately.” He nagged so long and so gratingly that the rest of the travel-weary passengers began quietly seething. The man was very close to putting both his vacation—and his face—at serious risk. Fortunately, the bus showed up just in time to prevent any diplomatic incidents.

The ride to the hotel took a merciful 30 minutes—we were the second stop. Nastya was completely wrecked and all she wanted, in this exact order, was water, a shower, sleep, and a one-way ticket back to Russia. I myself was running purely on muscle memory and the adrenaline of a seasoned traveller.

We arrived at the hotel and, stepping off the bus, were immediately swallowed once again by the molasses-thick Caribbean air. There were about twenty of us. The check-in line moved with the urgency of a mildly depressed tortoise. Almost none of the guests spoke English. The hotel staff, meanwhile, greeted us with wide, apologetic smiles—doing their best to hide their own limited vocabulary.

Their strategy was one familiar to anyone who’s ever crossed linguistic borders: speak in your native tongue, but louder and slower, hoping sheer volume might carry the message across the language barrier. For extra effectiveness, add frantic hand gestures—imagine a game of charades meets international diplomacy.

Nastya wasn’t doing so hot after all that action and the all-consuming heat, so I sent her off with a helpful hotel staffer to the bar in search of some cold water. A glass with ice worked its magic, and the rest of the check-in process she endured like a stoic willow tree swaying beside me—firm in her misery—as I handled the paperwork.

A nimble porter helped us lug the suitcases up to our room, then froze expectantly, radiating a very specific kind of stillness only achieved by those waiting for a tip. I’d already scraped together every ounce of my Spanish back at the reception desk, and it came in handy once more.

I asked him if he could exchange a few dollars for the local currency—Cuban pesos—and when he confirmed, I told him I’d like to swap a whole 50 of those eternally green American presidents. That number seemed to set his internal alarms ringing; he bolted out of the room without even taking the cash.

About five minutes later, a polite knock on the door. It was our porter, now armed with a fat wad of Cuban bills. When I counted the money, I was pleasantly surprised to find he hadn’t just exchanged it at the official bank rate (1 dollar = 111 pesos), but had also thoughtfully split the total into small, medium, and large denominations—50s, 100s, and 200s—for easier use. Impressed by this level of customer care, I rewarded him with a generous tip, then gently closed the door behind his satisfied grin.

Meanwhile, as I made my modest contribution to the Cuban economy, Nastya had begun inspecting our room with all the enthusiasm of a war crimes investigator. Not a single flaw escaped the critical glare of her overworked, bloodshot eyes. She hated everything. The palms rustled like traitors, the air conditioner roared like a bastard, and the toilet flushed like a scoundrel.

Sensing a full-blown meltdown approaching, I quickly built a nest on the king-sized bed and dragged my wife into it with the same grim determination and inevitable gravity of a kraken pulling an unlucky fishing vessel into the abyss. She tossed and turned a bit, then curled up against my shoulder and began to snore softly.

After a few minutes of lying there, listening to the steady hum of the air conditioner, I too promptly passed out.

Resurfacing in Varadero

As has been proven countless times before, morning really is wiser than evening. Waking at dawn and seeing a scene straight out of a tropical paradise commercial through the window—well, even the hardest of hearts would’ve softened, lit up with joy, and gone searching for their swim trunks. As for my wife and me, being the more emotional and tender sort, we howled like happy hyenas and bounded off to the beach after a hasty breakfast.

I should point out—I’m not a fan of beach vacations. Not in the slightest. I can lie on a lounge chair for a bit, ponder the universe, go for a quick dip. But doing that for hours every day? That’s a no from me. So, I almost never—read: never—consider vacation spots that revolve around so-called “seal-style” lounging. But I must admit, Cuba’s coastline pleasantly surprised me. Swimming in that crystal-clear water and soaking up the tropical scenery was actually pretty great—especially after escaping the chilly grip of September back home.

The hotel grounds were pretty expansive. Multiple buildings, pools, bars, cafes—all at our disposal. And wildlife. And no, I don’t mean the tourists. September is technically considered the off-season in Cuba. Honestly? I don’t get it. When both the air and water hover around a balmy 31–33°C and there’s not a cloud in the sky, if that’s “off-season,” then I’m not sure what counts as “peak.” But I digress.

So. Wildlife.

One of the most unexpectedly familiar sightings was the humble sparrow—exactly the same coloring as the ones back in Lipetsk. Maybe just a little bolder, a little more streetwise. They liked to perch on the edge of your table and stare deep into your soul while begging for scraps. Calling them just “sparrows” seemed too basic, so we dubbed them “shmarrows”. Why shmarrows is better than sparrows? Don’t ask. We may have been drunk. Or overheated.

There were also some birds that looked like pigeons, just... shrunken down to titmouse size. Completely unremarkable, which made them very much like their full-sized cousins. The loudest and most persistent feathered locals, however, were a kind of Cuban starling. Their fyu-yew-seeet noises sounded like a hybrid of a doorbell and a phone notification. For the first few days, every time they sang, we kept instinctively checking our phones.

Among the more entertaining members of the local reptilian squad were the lizards. Some were fairly familiar in shape and vibe—except they had a knack for appearing suddenly and in extremely inconvenient places. One of them shot out like a missile from under my suitcase in the hotel room. I let out the ancestral battle cry of my forefathers (which, to the untrained ear, may have sounded suspiciously like a panicked shriek—but you weren’t there, so you’ll never know for sure) and leapt sideways with the grace and power of a startled gazelle.

To get a sense of my ballet technique, just search for “cat and cucumber” on YouTube.

Among the more captivating cousins of the jump-scare-inducing lizards (loved by local fauna, feared by startled Russians) were their larger, more dignified relatives. Not the Russians—the lizards. Their most notable feature was a tail curled up into a perky cinnamon bun, just like those of Shiba Inu or Akita dogs. Naturally, we christened them Godzilla-Inu. These creatures usually lounged on hot stones or basked in puddles of sunlight, zen to their very core.

Sometimes, they were so deep in their meditative basking that we’d sneak right up to them, shamelessly snapping photos. Ripped from their sun-drenched trance by the looming presence of a giant figure holding some strange contraption, the lizards would leap cartoonishly into the air and scramble off into the nearest bushes, their little cinnamon roll tails bouncing indignantly behind them like offended sentient pastries.

Then came the jellyfish incident.

It happened one fateful afternoon. We strolled to the beach and noticed the water wasn’t exactly crowded. And those few who were in the sea kept glancing around nervously, as if anticipating some kind of betrayal by Poseidon himself. The day before, a light storm had stirred the waters, leaving them slightly murky. Other than that, nothing seemed off. Shrugging, we did what we always did—waded in and started swimming.

Seconds later, a blood-curdling scream tore through the tropical air:
“JEEEEEELLYFIIIIIIISH!”

That scream came from Nastya. She launched herself toward the shore with such power, grace, and sheer panic that she out-leapt dolphins, seals, and possibly members of the Navy SEALs. I, not spotting any of the infamous Portuguese man o’ war—those lovely locals whose stinging cells can leave you with vivid and very memorable pain souvenirs—chuckled and made a few unflattering remarks about my beloved’s tendency toward the dramatic.

Karma, dear reader, does not dawdle.

Barely half a dozen strokes later, I found myself surrounded. They looked like translucent footballs, outlined with elegant purple-blue rims. Their tentacles writhed menacingly, silently saying:
“So, you thought it was funny, huh, four-eyes? Let’s see you laugh when we give your tender bits a full tour of the pain dimension!”

And so, I charged. I remember flailing with such desperation that I failed to register the approaching shoreline and suddenly found myself scrambling across the sand on all fours—like some prehistoric lobe-finned fish making a frantic evolutionary leap just to be done with the whole aquatic chapter of its existence.

Later, curiosity (and a still-tingling backside) got the better of me, and I decided to ask the lifeguards about this tentacled terror of the deep. They laughed. Not the reassuring, “oh-don’t-worry-it’s-fine” kind of laugh, but the genuine, shoulder-shaking kind. Turns out, those jellyfish were among the most harmless gelatinous creatures you could meet near the shore. Just don’t touch them, they said—no matter how tempted you might be to poke the wobbly ocean ghosts.

Fair enough.

We mentally filed the jellyfish under “mostly harmless,” right alongside a much rarer species: the Cuban weed vendors. These entrepreneurial locals would stroll along the beach offering tourists a taste of the green remedy. While Nastya and I were wading in the shallows, one such gentleman sauntered up to us with a grin stretching from Varadero to Havana and flashed the classic shaka sign—thumb and pinky out, fist closed. You know that surfer/snowboarder/skydiver “hang loose” gesture.

I remember thinking, Bit far from Hawaii, aren’t we? But still, I smiled back and returned the shaka.
Big mistake.

Apparently, I’m officially too old to remember that in the post-Soviet space, shaka also moonlights as the universal sign for “Wanna get high?” And this Cuban definitely meant it that way. He stepped a little closer, lowered his voice conspiratorially, and asked,
“Russian? Smoke weed?”

Nastya and I looked at each other, instantly seeing the same answer in each other’s eyes: not even remotely interested. We smiled indulgently at our Caribbean Snoop Dogg and shook our heads. He took the rejection like a pro and moved on, casually strolling along the shoreline in search of more enthusiastic clientele.

That evening, perhaps as a petty act of vengeance against the sea and its squishy minions, we really leaned into the mariscos at dinner. One of the dishes was a lobster salad. Nastya, brave as always, speared a piece, chewed, grimaced like she’d just bitten into Poseidon’s gym sock, and promptly spit it back onto the plate.

“Disgusting stink-monster!” she announced.

Maybe it wasn’t the freshest crustacean. Maybe the kitchen staff had a personal grudge against lobsters. Either way, I just watched her with quiet amusement as she pushed the plate away. And right then, as she wrinkled her nose in seafood-induced betrayal, a thought flashed across my mind:

“She doesn’t like lobster. And I love her so damn much.”

Rage and Bewilderment in Havana

As I’ve already mentioned, beach-vegetabling just isn’t my thing. So, we picked one of the more budget-friendly excursions—something that wouldn’t require selling off essential body parts—and prepared ourselves for a bit of spiritual enrichment. The program promised a visit to Hemingway’s house, a sightseeing tour of Cuba’s capital, Havana, and participation in the “maridaje” ceremony, which essentially consisted of joyfully downing rum and puffing on cigars.

We set off early in the morning—the itinerary was packed. Our guide was an older Spaniard with the gloriously melodious name of Juan Manuel Pérez González. He fondly reminisced about the days of his country’s friendship with the Soviet Union, peppering his speech with both historical nuggets and very relatable anecdotes, all in lively, charming Russian. Later, he told us he had spent most of his life working as an engineer and had lived for long stretches in Moscow, Minsk, and Odessa.

Quite a "farewell to arms"

He earned our eternal respect at the Hemingway house. There we were, walking around the property, seeing where Ernest Millerovich (as he might be called in Russian tradition) had once lived and worked. This was the very place where he wrote The Old Man and the Sea. There was his small boat, dry-docked like a relic. Nearby were the graves of his four dogs.

At one point, a tourist asked Juan what the strange black droplets on the pathways were—droplets that looked like a cross between sticky tree sap and melted bits of rubber. Juan clearly had no idea. But instead of making something up, he looked down thoughtfully, then raised his head with a devilish sparkle in his eyes. In a conspiratorial whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, he replied, “What is that? Oh, that... that’s just some kind of crap!” Then he burst into laughter, delighted by his own linguistic artistry. Honestly, that’s the kind of guide you can trust.

We were still in the suburbs at that point, with about twenty minutes left to Havana proper. As we drove, we stared out the window, weighed down by the heavy impression of the country’s poverty. It was surreal to see a tropical paradise in full bloom next to ramshackle huts clearly in need of serious repairs. Dirty-faced children laughed and ran through the streets, inventing games as they went, blissfully unaware—or uncaring—of their country’s economic woes. As kids should be.

For the first time in my travel experience, the mere presence of a tourist bus seemed like an event in itself. Locals waved at us excitedly—passersby, construction workers, even the police.

At every stop—exit, sightseeing, back on the bus—we returned to what felt like a giant convection oven masquerading as a city. Imagine being wrapped in a down comforter, doused in hot water, and shoved into a tanning booth. That’s roughly how it feels to stroll through Havana at noon. We listened to the guide with one ear while the rest of our senses were fully engaged with the street scenes and eclectic architecture.

The overall impression was strangely paradoxical. A gleaming modern hotel of glass and concrete would stand right next to what looked like a crumbling ruin—until you looked closer and realized people were living full lives inside. One minute, a well-groomed Cuban in an elegant linen suit would pass you by. The next, a gang of scruffy local kids would rush over, shouting in a chorus that shattered the air:

“One dollar! Please, sir, one dollar!”

 

Contrasts and Culinary Catastrophes

Such contrasts, naturally, do wonders for one’s appetite. So, when the guide announced lunch, our group received the news with genuine enthusiasm. We were taken to a restaurant where, as the guide claimed, Hemingway used to top off his daiquiris on the way home—before the place was renamed a few years ago, that is. Honestly, I started noticing a trend in Havana: if a building lacks a rich or fascinating backstory, just say, “This is where the great writer Hemingway had a drink!” and nine times out of ten, it’ll be true.

The interior of the restaurant was an oddball fusion. One part resembled a lively Latin American bar—people chatting loudly, drinking, smoking at tightly packed tables. In the corner, a local band of 3-4 musicians jammed away. Behind a massive bar, a bartender was efficiently mixing and dispatching cocktails to whoever looked thirsty enough.

The other half looked like a banquet hall designed for the Politburo. Frescoes and plaster moldings everywhere. The colour palette was dominated by red, white, and gold. The napkins were embroidered with the restaurant's monogram in blood-red thread. The last time I’d seen this level of kitsch was in the Dolmabahçe Palace in Istanbul.

Which made the contrast with the actual food even starker.

First came the soup. Well, “soup.” On paper, it was supposed to be minestrone. But I’m convinced that any Italian chef—no matter how disgraced or unable to tell farfalle from penne—would commit ritual suicide upon seeing this “minestrone.” It looked more like someone had brewed up a beef-flavoured instant noodle cup, drained the broth into a bowl, realized last-minute that it needed substance, and tossed in a few lonely macaroni bits.

The main course was equally... unique. The plate featured a stylishly fanned arrangement of—wait for it—canned stew meat. Straight from the tin. If you’ve ever gone camping, or just been too lazy to walk to the store and wanted something quick, then you know this salty, fibrous meat product well. Alongside the gourmet goulash were a modest half-sphere of rice and a careful scoop of mashed potatoes. A sad clump of steamed vegetables huddled to one side like it didn’t want to be there either.

The group reacted to this haute cuisine in different ways. At our table, we had people whose expectations were pretty low to begin with, so we dined in relatively good spirits, exchanging only the occasional sarcastic jab about the culinary sophistication. At the neighboring table, however, people were clearly expecting at least wagyu steaks and fugu sashimi. Maybe a humble 2015 Château Kirwan Margaux to rinse the proletarian flavour off their tongues.

The dessert broke even the most hardened cynics.

We were served tiny bowls, each filled about a third of the way with mango sauce. Yes, that same mango sauce usually served in small ramekins as salad dressing or a drizzle for meat. The incurable optimists at our table hesitated to touch it, assuming something else would soon arrive—something it was meant to accompany.

Nope. That was the dessert.

Back at the hotel, a rep from the tour company had warned us that the country had shortages of just about everything. She wasn’t kidding.

The neighboring table took the spartan dessert much harder than we did.
“What the %& is this $#@%?!” - one man shouted.
“Absolute @#$%&!” - his partner confirmed.
They stormed off to raise hell with our guide. Juan, unfazed, simply flashed his white-toothed grin and replied that we were actually lucky—this was considered a hearty lunch.

To somewhat redeem Cuban cuisine, I must say—their baked goods are divine. I’ve never encountered such soft, delicate rolls, baguettes, toast breads, and all varieties of ciabatta. You break them apart, and they yield with a gentle crunch, revealing a tender, fragrant interior. The aroma alone could make angels weep.

Remember that scene in Ratatouille, where the grim food critic tastes the rat’s dish and instantly flashes back to his childhood and his mother’s cooking? Cuban bread has that superpower. And it doesn’t matter where you find it—hotel restaurant, street shack, or a capital café. The island’s baking industry is fully capable of making your taste buds tremble with joy.

And when you’ve grown used to the bread’s taste—spread it with butter. Don’t be shy. Slather it on. This isn’t some half-frozen, plasticky margarine imitation. This is the divine nectar of the gods, melting into your mouth in a symphony of creamy richness. Together, the bread-and-butter form such a formidable combo that it revives every delicious bread memory you’ve ever had—and promptly eclipses them.

Not Everything, Not Everywhere, and Not All at Once

If you walk around Havana long enough, you start getting used to the fact that it’s a city of contrasts. This is true of any capital, really—city centres tend to be beautiful, well-kept, and dressed to impress. But the farther you stray, the more you see the everyday side of life: less polished, more lived-in, and at times downright dilapidated. In Cuba’s capital, though, you don’t need to go far to feel this contrast—just turn your head. Towering glass-and-concrete hotels stand shoulder to shoulder with buildings in such dire condition, it’s a mystery how anyone still lives in them. Expansive tiled plazas give way to empty lots, where you might just spot the ghostly remains of Soviet-Cuban grandeur, quietly crumbling in the sun.

Kids especially tugged at Nastya’s heartstrings. My wife has a deeply emotional nature, and it pained her to think these little ones accepted their modest childhood as the natural order of things—never even suspecting another kind of life exists out there. One scene on a quiet Havana street filled us both with a mix of tenderness and melancholy. A gang of preschoolers had come up with a brilliant form of entertainment. They found a few planks—probably leftovers from some decorative crates—and nailed them together. Then they fixed on a pair of wheels, seemingly salvaged from a long-dead office chair. All that was left was to find a sloped street, mount their makeshift sleds, and zoom downhill with wild glee, defying every known safety standard and every parent's nerves in the process.

For those who may have grown up on paper but never outgrew the thrill of childhood, Havana offers another kind of ride: its iconic vintage American cars from the ’40s and ’50s. These old beauties have long since retired in most parts of the world, but here? They’re thriving, proudly cruising the streets and ready to take you for a spin—for a fee, of course. I’m not a car enthusiast by any stretch, but I couldn’t help gawking at these moving museum pieces, as if someone had yanked them off pedestals and set them loose again. They looked like oversized, colorful candies. How about a ride in an emerald-green Pontiac? Or a sparkling violet Plymouth? Or maybe you’d prefer a selfie in a bubblegum-pink Oldsmobile, gleaming like a chrome-drenched cloud of cotton candy?

While you’re deciding what to see and where to go, the local hustlers are already hard at work. They blanket the area with their pitches, hoping something sticks to your Maslow's hierarchy. The moment you enter earshot, they launch into machine-gun monologues listing all the wonders they can offer. The funny thing? The menu’s always the same. From every direction, you’ll hear something like:

“Hey, my friend! Friend! Come eat! Smoke? Need cigars—real Cuban cigars? How about some coffee, huh? Let’s have a cup! Need a taxi? Taxi? Exchange money?”

And so on, endlessly.

If you make the rookie mistake of stopping to chat, they’ll double down—tripling their efforts and treating you like a long-lost cousin. Of course, only he knows the best spot with the strongest coffee, the smoothest cigars, and rum that’ll bring tears to your eyes.

At some point, we passed by a local tattoo parlor. There was a guy at the entrance handing out flyers. He saw me—wearing shorts and a tank top—and clearly decided that words were unnecessary. He locked eyes with me, silently pointed his flyer at my entire being, then gestured wordlessly toward the shop door.

The expression on his face said it all: not getting some ink here and now would be a grave insult to tattoo artists everywhere—from African calligraphers fluent in Swahili script to solemn, fourth generation irezumi masters in Kyoto. For a moment, I actually considered getting myself a Cuban souvenir in ink.

But then I imagined the healing process—in this humid climate. And the plane ride home, sticky and scabbed. And the fact that I had no idea who the artist was. In short, any budding thoughts of a new tattoo were quickly shut down by the immortal words of Sergeant Murtaugh from Lethal Weapon: I’m too old for this sh*t.

When it comes to souvenirs worth bringing back from Cuba, the best strategy is to stick with the perishable kind—the kind you drink or smoke before they gather dust. Sure, you can browse shops and markets in search of something original and authentic. But here's the issue: most of the stuff looks like it was made in someone’s cousin’s backyard workshop. Lovingly, sure—but let’s just say the craftsmanship wasn’t keeping any quality inspectors up at night.

During one of our lazy strolls through a local market, a spirited old lady in our group blurted out in frustration: “Why is everything here so damn ugly?! There’s nothing worth gifting anyone!”

We struck up a conversation, and I learned that this woman—well into her eighth decade—had once hiked all over Jerusalem and still remembered her triumphant march across a sizable chunk of the Great Wall of China. And yet, she claimed, even there it had been easier to find a decent souvenir than on this tropical island.

There was, however, one exception to the otherwise depressing selection: leather goods. Cuba does do leather. You can get anything from a small wallet to a massive 2-by-2-meter slab etched with an intricate map of the island. But nothing really tempted us. There was a cute snow-white backpack at the airport, and I was ready to buy it if my wife wanted it.

But upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a bit like Monet’s Waterloo Bridge—better admired from a distance.

Lowrider. Soviet-style

Oh right—there’s one more category of souvenir worth mentioning: charming local paintings. For some reason, the crowd favourites here are oil and airbrush works. And when I say “favourites,” I mean there’s a theme. A very persistent one.

We’re talking vibrant Cuban women with cigars. Vibrant Cuban streets. Vibrant Cuban convertibles on vibrant Cuban streets with vibrant Cuban women smoking cigars in the convertibles. Sometimes all of the above, in one frame, just to be safe.

We got lucky—an enterprising local had set up a mini-exhibition right in our hotel lobby, showcasing the work of a paint-and-palette warrior named Ariela. If I had it my way (and, you know, airline baggage limits were a bit more forgiving), I’d have bought half her collection.

Okay, maybe not half. But at least one of those big, glorious canvases full of chaotic, crumbling charm and Caribbean colour.

In the end, Nastya and I walked away with a few small pieces—postcard-sized memories, basically—and a couple of mid-sized ones we just couldn’t resist. Because sometimes, even in a place drowning in clichés, something grabs you by the heartstrings and refuses to let go.

A Tiny Ponikarovsky

Now, paintings in Cuba… that was a whole separate headache. For years, trying to take one home meant diving headfirst into a bureaucratic labyrinth. You couldn’t just buy a canvas and toss it in your suitcase like a sunhat. No, señor. You had to demand a special certificate from the seller—an official document proving your chosen piece wasn’t, say, a priceless slice of Cuban cultural heritage. And even with said paperwork in hand, airport customs would often insist you unpack everything anyway, just to be sure you weren’t smuggling out national treasure in disguise.

Travel forums are full of horror stories—weepy tales of innocent tourists being relieved of their acrylic bounty by stoic officials, who could only mutter, “Not allowed!” with all the warmth of a malfunctioning vending machine.

Us, though? We got lucky. The small paintings—stacked like postcards—must’ve looked on the x-ray like someone was trying to smuggle a diary addiction. The bigger canvases? We unscrewed them from their frames and rolled them up into neat little tubes. Buried them deep in our luggage, somewhere between the bottles of rum and that singularly optimistic box of cigars. The customs guy didn’t blink. Honestly, the man barely acknowledged reality. He was too busy yawning and flirting with his coworker to worry about protecting the homeland’s artistic legacy. Patria o muerte, huh? Fidel would’ve facepalmed.

The way back home? A logistical miracle. Not a single delay, cancellation, or sudden cosmic betrayal. I had full faith in Russian Railways to get us the last mile, but the Cuba–Moscow charter? That was a wild card. Turned out, I needn’t have worried. According to our tour rep, back in the day, just one lone plane touched down on the Island of Freedom once a week. If you missed that bird, you’d better enjoy your extended stay. But ever since the red-flagged, crescent-and-starred beach mecca jacked its prices sky-high, sun-thirsty Russians started flocking to Cuba like it was on sale. Now five-hundred-seat Boeings zip back and forth over the Atlantic like commuter trains from Moscow to Mytishchi.

There’s a character in Terry Pratchett’s The Light Fantastic—Twoflower, a professional tourist if there ever was one. He once said something that’s stuck with me for years:

“You haven’t really been anywhere until you’ve come back home.”

I’ve been around. Seen a lot. Got a passport full of stamps and a memory bank full of flashbacks. But now, for the first time, I’ve got someone to share it all with. Not just the plane rides and the hotel breakfasts. I mean the coming back part. The being home part. In every sense.

I come home now not just to an apartment, but to my person. To my soul’s house. To Nastya.

That’s brand new for me. And it’s beautiful.

Somewhere I heard that marriage is valuable, if for no other reason than this: you get a witness to your life. Not just a cameo—someone who’s there for the whole damn saga. Well, now I’ve got mine. And I can’t wait to witness everything life’s still got up its sleeve for us.