I remember thinking two things the morning Allie and I left for Viñales: one, we were up far too early, and two, we had stayed out drinking far too late the night before. Miraculously, we weren’t as hungover as we were exhausted. We had a long drive to the tropical and agricultural town of Viñales, and for once, I welcomed a long commute.

We met our driver outside the colectivo and loaded our overnight bags into the trunk of the car. As with all things in Cuba, our curbside pickup time was vastly different from the time we were actually scooped up by our Cuban guides. Allie and I jammed our elbows and hips through the middle row of laminate seats until we were cocooned in the back. Although the ride wasn’t particularly uncomfortable, the oddly arranged vintage car interior made me reevaluate my methodology for sleeping in moving vehicles.

Early on in our commute, we had stopped to pick up a fabulous middle-aged Brooklyn couple. Frank and Maggie were quite the entertaining duo. As we quickly learned, Maggie, a born and bred New Yorker, was a fountain of curiosity and intellectual vigor. She challenged Frank on his every statement, demanding that he examine his stance from another angle first. Frank, an easy-going Frenchman, seemed to welcome Maggie’s constant underdog advocacy with frequent tongue in cheek replies. Allie and I found ourselves appreciative of our companions and the intellectual conversations we had with them over the course of the trip.

Our first pitstop of the ride was a little neighborhood that is truly only describable through photos. Fusterlandia was the brainchild of Fuster, a Cuban artist who dreamed of transforming his impoverished neighborhood into a work of folk art. Slightly off the beaten tourist path, our guide had taken special care to immerse us in Fuster’s neighborhood homage to the well-known Spanish artist, Gaudí.

Back in the car and about halfway to Viñales, we pulled off at someplace that I suppose the Cubans would call a “rest stop”. We dashed to the shelter of the thatched pavilion just in time for the bottom to fall out of the sky. While we took turns going to the bathroom and dodging leaky straw ceilings, I took inventory of this obscurity of a rest stop. In the center of the pavilion was a full out tiki bar; next to that was a fully functioning restaurant. And opposite to the bathrooms was a souvenir shop, stocked to the brim with an odd assortment of gifts.

Allie had hyped up the Piña Coladas from this particular locale, so we very quickly crowded the bar in search of this mythical roadside treat. I watched in horror as the bartender hacked the top off a coconut and poured a concoction of fruit and alcohol into my hollowed-out wooden cup. I don’t even think it was 10:30 am at this point, but island beverage duty called. We loaded up on snacks from the souvenir shop before piling back up in the car, and just like that, we were back on the road.

I think the first time I realized that Viñales was going to be a magical time was when we pulled off to an overlook in the depths of an untouched and luscious tropical canyon. Simultaneously tired and tipsy from my boozy Piña Colada, I recall feeling as though I had unearthed the fictional lands that Pixar’s UP had dreamt up for the animated flick.

It was early afternoon by the time we stopped for lunch at a small family farm co-op. We feasted family style with mounds upon mounds of mouthwatering Cuban meat and vegetables until we were quite sure that we would not be able to walk back to the car. Our heavy tummies morphed into heavy eyelids— I think all four of us silly, ravenous American tourists got some serious shuteye in the car afterwards.

The sleep served us well; our next stop was a tobacco farm that we’d tour via horse. Now I don’t know if you know me well enough to predict the direction of this tragic tale, but Sydney and horses mix about as well as oil and water. The issue is not so much one of being scared of horses as it is one of making the otherwise serene creatures absolutely psychotic with my presence.

I will briefly take you back three years earlier where Allie convinced me to get on an Egyptian stallion— my first time on a horses in probably a decade, mind you— and proceeded to gallop ahead full speed in the direction of the pyramids. My horse took off behind Allie, and I instinctually opened my mouth in sheer horror while reinventing the term “death grip”. In the distance, the wails of a dumb American tourist could be faintly heard “I’VE GOT SAAAAAND IN MY MOUTH!” (Ahem, me).

So you can imagine I was not— how do you say, delighted— to resume my position as resident horseback embarrassment. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I rose to the equestrian occasion yet again. Sporting my finest platform Teva sandals, I plopped atop a burly horse named Vernana, did a few Hail Marys, and trailed horseback behind Allie. Soon enough, the tobacco farm had vanished from sight and we were consumed in the dense foliage of the valley trail.

'“Are you ready to gallop now?” the rancher called to Allie in Spanish.

Fairly certain of what I had just heard, I wailed ahead to my friend in my biggest girl voice, “WHAT did he just say?!”

My answer came in the form of a swiftly unwelcome increase in speed and a belly laugh from Allie who charged full throttle ahead.

We eventually came to a lush field with panoramic views of the rocky slopes that enveloped the fertile valley. Our horses stopped to graze, and Allie and I drew out our cameras to capture the moment in all of its beauty. It must have been minutes before sunset that we spent in the field. If bliss were ever a tangible sensation, I felt it in full as the setting golden sun bared down on the wonderland surrounding me.

Once we were back at the ranch, I swung one leg over the other to dismount my lovely, misbehaved Cuban steed, landing on a pair of utterly jello legs. I wobbled over to a straw hut and sunk down into a wooden picnic table bench. Phase two of our tobacco farm tour included learning how to hand make a Cuban cigar. I observed with childlike enchantment as the cigar maker pulled a handful of dried tobacco leaves from a woven basket and laid them one on top of the other. With skilled dexterity, he pressed and pulled at the leaves, almost as though he was working with dough. Flicking his wrist, the tobacco leaves were rolled into a golden brown cigar, held together by a mere droplet of what appeared to be water.

A cigar cutter was exhumed from the tobacco leaf debris on the table, and with a swift clip of the edge of the cigar, the craftsman dipped it in honey, engulfed it in flame, and pawned it off to Allie. We took a few heavy puffs, feeling high and mighty in our psuedo-Cuban ways, before our cigar maker looked at us with gleeful amusement.

“Don’t inhale the smoke!” he cautioned with a smile, “you will get really high!”

Allie and I gave each other a not-so-subtle side eye that morphed into a belly-laugh inducing cigar smoking photoshoot. If the highly suspicious side-eye was not a good first indication, the resulting photos from that smoking series were a dead giveaway that we had, in fact, inhaled far too much cigar smoke.

the picture we *really* know you scrolled down to behold

Before the four of us turned in for bed that night, we indulged in a classic Cuban street party. Perhaps one of my most vivid memories from Cuba was watching the locals swarm into the streets of Viñales in time with the rising moon, fully engulfed in music and dance. Wagons after wagons of margarita and piña colada vendors closed in on the commotion like birds of prey, and before I had time to digest the scene, I was being pulled into the crowd to dance. Let it be known once and for all that I am NOT a dancer…. but perhaps in Cuba, and only Cuba, it’s just something that must be done with zero cares.

The next morning, we ascended the stairs of our homestay to a breakfast banquet on the roof. Plates of home cooked eggs, pancakes and locally grown fruit floated around the table. The wind caught the curtains in a beautiful dance and at a distance, the birds seemed to sing along in chorus. I knew it was going to be special day.

We kicked off the day’s adventures with a small hike into a natural cave turned WWII bomb shelter turned back into natural cave. Beyond the touristy trailhead, the trail itself— tough not arduous at all— was hardly recognizable compared to its American trail counterpart. We scaled wooden fences, sludged through pastures of grazing cows and maneuvered around smelly ponds. Further up the trail, we passed rock climbers ascending glorious routes, smiling back at them until we too found ourselves in a mountaineering-like situation. Finally, we made it into the cave where we paused to catch out breath and take a quick history lesson.

Destination numero dos…. better known as la Mural de la Prehistoria was the exact opposite of what you would consider prehistoric. Painted in the 90’s, this mural of dinosaurs felt, at best, like Cuba’s sad take on modern hieroglyphics. The expansive rockface was saturated in primary colors, and though it was a sight to behold, I can’t say it’d make my list of places to revisit should I return to Viñales.

While the first cave of the day was impressive, the second cave was absolutely breathtaking. Cuevo del Indio, or the Indian Cave, was a completely immersive experience. So much so, in fact, that I joked it was actually a Disney World ride in disguise. Visitors trekked a few hundred feet to the entrance of the caverns. Low hanging rocks and slabs of stone required you to put forward your best explorer persona. Deeper into the cave, a line began to form in front of an underground river; just behind that was a dock. In small groups no more than 15 in size, we loaded up into the boat and gently motored against the current of the river. From the time we boarded the vessel to the time we crested over from cave into open daylight, every passenger’s mouth was agape. I’ll tell you one thing: I don’t know if you’re familiar, but Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean ride needs to take notes.

We picked up a few souvenirs on our way out and shuttled to an expansive home around the corner from Cuevo del Indio. Similar to breakfast and lunch the day before, our meal was family style and super-sized in portions. Before I could pile my plate with rice and beans, a “waiter” (if you could call it that) came around to our table and asked what complementary beverage we’d be drinking. Without hesitation, I ordered the freshly pressed sugar cane juice— a process involving raw sugar cane and an industrial looking contraption that I watched in real time from my seat. The drink came with a healthy dash of rum, which proved to be a godsend sleeping aide for the journey back to Havana.

I’m not the first to say it, and I certainly won’t be the last: Cuba is magic, through and through. If you ever have the opportunity to explore this majestic country, seize it without a second thought.

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I hope everyone is staying in good spirits and good health during this time of crisis. It’s certainly been difficult to summon the time or energy to sit down and write this, as my mind and heart is concerned with people, communities, and general matters elsewhere. Be well, my sweet community of travelers. <3