Cayo Coco 11

The end of April was coming around, along with my four-month heart assessment. I wanted to go to my favorite beach again in Cayo Coco, of course! I asked Trent if he wanted to come. It had been a while since Trent had been back to Cuba, and Barbados kick-started his travels. Trent was set to go to Normandy, France, with the CAF for 'D' Day in June for ten days. He was in travel mode and wanted to come along.

This was Trent's second or third time going to this resort, Memories Flamenco, and it felt good bringing him back there now that he was a grown-ass man. He’d also been going to that beach since he was a baby, so I knew it would be nostalgic for him.

We started packing to go to Cuba. We already knew about the food situation there—especially in 2024. It wasn’t good at all. Trent had those luggage privileges with the Canadian Armed Forces, so I pretty much packed my food for the week—granola bars and oatmeal mostly… along with a whole bunch of other stuff. We were good in that department. I had a baggie full of all my gut health powders to blend up with bananas or whatever fruit they had going. Very rarely do you not see bananas in Cuba. Bananas were my thing during my whole stomach fiasco. We were good to go. The buffet always has potatoes if all else failed anyway.

I don’t really eat a lot on vacation, but with this stomach situation, I now had to eat every two hours or it would do its thing—and still, to this day, every two hours, I have to nibble on something to prevent it from acting up.

This vacation was a rough one!! About 15 minutes before we arrived, 500 people had just landed from Russia. We could see a huge-ass plane on the tarmac. So we waited hours to go through customs. There were two, maybe three, booths out of ten that were active for all those tourists, and there was no fucking air-conditioning.

My girl, who usually works the front desk, Iliana, moved to Spain since I was last there. I’ve been going there for at least 10 years. She always had my room ready for me, where I wanted to be—oceanfront in building 1, 2, or 3. Never was there an issue, never had a complaint.

But this time, I was travelling with Trent, and I won’t lie—I wanted to impress him. So we opted into the Diamond Club, which is supposed to mean more dining options and a guaranteed oceanfront room in building 1 or 2, where I always end up anyway. I paid for it this time to ensure there were no fuck-ups, just in case. I’ve never paid for Diamond before; I just don’t. I don’t ever wear the bracelet, and I go wherever I wanna go. That’s just how it is.

The chaos going through customs was just the beginning of a whole lot more shit to come. We arrived at night. They gave me a room in building 15—Timbuck fucking Two! I didn’t even know where building 15 was. I had no idea. I had never even seen that part of the resort before, nor did I want to. I’ve always stayed in buildings 1, 2, or 3. 

I knew from day one at this resort that any of the rooms beyond building 4 were problematic—pure shite from previous hurricanes. And for this trip specifically, I needed a closer room. The heat, my heart—I needed to be near the amenities. There was no way I was gonna walk an hour in the fucking heat with the sun roasting me, back and forth to the front desk or lobby every day. Not happening.

They said, "OK, OK, you just have to sleep there tonight. We’ll change your room in the morning." I was up at 8 o’clock. It was scorching hot. I walked 20 to 30 minutes to get to the front desk. Only to hear, "Nothing available right now. If you want to change room, you need to pack up all your stuff and put your luggage in the closet here at reception until we get you another room. Come back at 11 AM. "Huh, if?!"

This is day one, and it was fucking hot—like 40°C, not a cloud in the sky. We walked back to the room, fucking exhausted already, with the sun blazing. We packed up and waited for a golf cart to collect us and our things, which took about an hour. We dropped off our bags and hung out poolside, close to the lobby. I went back to reception at 11 AM. "No, lady, sorry, we don’t have anything." WHAT!!

Now I’m like, what the fuck? I paid for Diamond, and we don’t even have a room. “Where’s Iliana??” The lady behind the counter told me she moved to Spain. They Facetimed her on WhatsApp, right then and there, to say hi!! Oh my god! Sure, I was super happy for her, for meeting someone and getting the fuck out of there, but I did not want to speak to Iliana at that moment, nor did I ask them to call her; she wasn’t in a position to help me, even though I did ask. The young woman calling her had no pull—they were newbies, with a new GM. The girls at the front desk said there was nothing they could do, that the resort was full.

I wanted to speak to the general manager. Of course, this general manager just came on board less than a month ago and he was a dick! He couldn’t give two fucks about my repeat guest status for over ten years or my heart condition. I really wasn’t harping on the ten-year shit; I was more so leaning on the heart situation with the heat. We had no room! I asked him when would we have a room? He was smirking, like he was Rico fuckin’ Suave and it wasn’t his problem, saying, “I don’t know, try later.” I was like, “You don’t know? This can’t be right, what do you mean you don’t know?” He just shrugged his shoulders and walked away from me.

At 11 AM, they told me to come back at 1 o’clock. We were hanging out by the pool. I went back at 1 PM... still no room. This went on all day—me going back and forth from the pool to reception every hour or so, with our luggage in the lobby closet, asking for a room. Around 4 PM, I was in tears. I was exhausted from the heat and the back-and-forth. I was disgusted and stressed out—we were fucking homeless at a resort, on vacation in Cuba!

Listen, I’m not a fussy traveler! You would think I was, but anyone who has ever traveled with me will tell ya, I’m easygoing as fuck! I don’t need much, but I do need a room, for fuck’s sakes!

We didn’t get a room until almost 6 o’clock. Trent and I were both fucking miserable, to say the least. That day was probably the best beach day of the week, and we didn’t even get to fucking enjoy it. We wasted the whole day stressing, waiting for a room.

We finally had a room in building 1, a room with a tiny laptop-sized TV, and the remote didn’t work. Any other time, I wouldn’t mind getting up to change the channel, but I’ve got this heart thing going on. I don’t want to be jumping up every fucking minute to change the channel. So they called maintenance and changed the batteries, but it still didn’t work. They sent someone else to look at it, and the person they sent was just coming to change the batteries again.

There was a point, two or three days in, when the maid was there, and I just wanted to go into the next room, take the fucking TV, and swap it out. She wouldn’t let me. I didn’t even understand why they couldn’t comprehend that it was that simple of a fix. We had like three channels on the TV, all sprawled out from number 1-100! My quaint little spot, Memories Flamenco, was tainted!

That whole week, day by day, I noticed the Cubans were spent. They were not their regular friendly selves—'Sit down, lady. Let me get it for you.' Instead, they were more like—'I don’t see you, I don’t care.' I honestly can’t blame them. Ever since the pandemic, they’ve been short on everything—no grains from Ukraine! And the staff is treated like shit by the guests because of it. Meanwhile, they work all day long for peanuts, struggling to feed their own in their own dire situation.

When I first started going to Cuba in 2003, it was an oasis! The people were beyond friendly and accommodating. The guests also had decorum back then. Now, sadly, it’s a different story—there are a lot of undesirable, sloppy drunks all over the place. It’s as if people figured out they can fly to a beautiful island, sit in the lobby, and drink their faces off all day for the same cost as going to their local bar for a week! And they do! I’ve seen people sitting in the lobby all-day-long! Drinking and smoking—completely uninterested in the pool or the beach. Their sole focus is the lobby and the booze! Especially at Memories Flamenco. Memories used to be a 4.5-star resort back in the day. Now, in my opinion, it’s a 2-3 star at best, and a 3-star in Cuba is rough—basically like a no-star anywhere else!

The beach was windy every single day—sand-whipping-at-you windy. That’s never happened there for me before, not in all my visits. I experienced it once in Cayo Santa Maria and never went back. I’ve never experienced weather like that in Cayo Coco—whipping sand on the beach—until then.

Us

It felt like Mercury Retrograde or some shit was in effect, everything was off. And of course, I had Trent with me! I was already pissed off, but even more so because I really wanted Trent to have a great experience, and this definitely wasn’t it. I remember looking at my steps one day on my watch—13,000! Holy fuck! I’m usually 5K a day stepper, and there I was on vacation pushing 13K! I couldn’t wait to get the fuck home.

Four days in, we’re sitting at the lobby bar one night—vibes were all fucked up! There were a lot of Russians, and for some reason, they are drawn to me. Tall, blonde, Brigitte Nielsen thing—I don’t know, but I’ve had several encounters with them, and they were not nice. I find the men to be overly aggressive, not my cup of tea at all. With everything going on in the world at that time, Cuba was the only place Russians were allowed to travel to, so they pretty much took over the island.

I was with my son—my grown-man son—and I discovered while on that trip that he was protective of me. He didn’t like men approaching me. One night, Trent went back to the room to grab his speaker, and this guy pulled up a chair right beside me and said, “You’re hot, I like what I see!” He definitely had a buzz on.

Trent came back, and his face was twisted—stank face. He was staring at the guy with an evil look, one I’d never seen before. The guy definitely felt it. He was with three other guys, not much older than Trent. One of them managed to hold Trent’s attention and have a conversation with him—I think he was trying to get Trent to lighten up.

It was obvious to everyone that Trent didn’t like the guy beside me at all. The guy even said, “Your son is looking at me like he wants to rip my head off,” but in a condescending tone, provoking him further. Anytime the dude looked at me or spoke to me, Trent would look directly at him. I honestly just wanted them to leave. They were getting more intoxicated by the minute—especially the guy beside me, who was getting cockier by the second.

The disco opened up, and they were like, “Let's all go to the disco.” I said, “No disco for me,” and Trent said the same. These guys were sloppy drunk, and I was glad Trent opted out. Then, the dude who sat beside me said to Trent, “If you don’t come to the disco, you’re not a man!” Well then—Trent got up and was ready to throw hands! He stood up over him and said, “Don’t fuckin’ tell me I’m not a man because I don’t want to go to the fuckin’ disco! DO NOT!”

Buddy’s friend, the one who was talking to Trent, saw shit was about to erupt—as did I—and he grabbed his boy and left. Phew! I had never seen Trent like that before. I was proud of him because, well—fuck, he ain't no slouch, that’s for sure! But I was also terrified for him, thinking a fight was about to break out—in fucking Cuba, no less! I never want to see him fight; I didn’t even want to see him spar when he was boxing.

We finished our drink and went to the snack bar, where we ordered a hot dog—and it was a real hot dog. Proper. It was even hot. It was the best thing we ate all week—ha ha! But it was only that one time, that one hot dog. The next time we ordered a hot dog—it was not the same. It was gross, hot on the outside, mushy and cold on the inside.

It was just Trent and I sitting in that area when this couple walked in and started looking at the 'bistro menu.' I wanted to help them out—I was like, “Just get the hot dog. That’s all they have anyway.” She was tall, blonde, about my age, and her face resembled Meryl Streep. Her name was Kat. Her husband, Tom, looked like Jonathan from Property Brothers. Tom and Kat, they go by 'TomKat.' So cute! We spent the next few days with them—thank God for them!

There were deep, meaningful conversations between the four of us—her and I, and Tom with Trent too. They hit it off—Trent and Tom were birthday buds! Their birthdays fall on the same day. They had booked their trip last minute, just two days prior—thank you, Jesus!

Trent & Tom

It’s like that meme you see on social media—God said, “I saw your people weren’t there for you, so I sent you strangers.” That was my entire year—strangers along my journey, helping me heal. They became more significant to me in my time of need than my lifelong friends.

Poolside

This was a pool vacation—not my jam, not while on a tropical island. I could never understand why anyone would go to a tropical island with white sand, clear turquoise water, and wanna hang at the pool! That shit don’t make sense to me. Might as well just go to a hotel in your own city.

We went to the ocean only a time or two. Trent took his long walks along the beach while I sat on a lounger, getting whipped by the sand. When I wasn’t in the ocean, I wasn’t enjoying myself on that windy beach, so we mostly hung out at the pool. Trent likes both the pool and the ocean. He can go either way. He’s also a dedicated suntanner, just like me, so as long as there’s sun, he’s good.

Ma Boy

Trent discovered this tiny booth that was set up for two hours a day directly across from the pool, and he came back with four piña coladas—two in each hand. Now we’re talking! Trent knows what’s up—four! Not fucking two. You don’t wait forever in line for a drink and just get two; well, we don’t. Trent also participated in the afternoon pool activities, and I enjoyed watching him have a good time.

We went to dinners and hung out with TomKat at night. Kat said to me a few days after they arrived—”You were right, that hot dog was the best thing we’ve had here!” I was so grateful for them even though I couldn’t keep up. I really wasn’t drinking too tough on that trip, but our conversations were deep, and they ran late. There were a few late nights. We even went to Lenny’s together on our last night, and after I bragged to them about how good it was—it was just meh!

TomKat at Lenny’s

The trip was finally over, and I couldn’t wait to get home to my bed. My stomach behaved all week until the very last day, and we had a late flight out. I had seen a woman at reception whom I had beef with during the pandemic over the $50 Covid test fee being paid by credit card only, while I had $50 USD specifically for that. She recognized me as a regular and was aware of the shit I went through at the beginning of the trip trying to get a room. Knowing Iliana was my connect and no longer there, she was kind enough to give us a 3 PM late checkout—we stayed until 4 PM. Never was there a day, though, that moved slower than that day

This would be the last time Memories Flamenco and I would ever cross paths. It’s almost as if I was mourning it the whole time we were there, knowing that I would never be back.

Even though the trip was turbulent, we made the best of it. Trent is a good travel companion; he knows what’s up, and he’s quick with it! I like that shit. I need that in the person I’m traveling with; otherwise, I would just rather travel alone.