I'd read about Cuban bread and was determined to purchase a huge crusty loaf of it for the bus ride out to the beach when we left Havana.
As luck would have it, there was a small bakery across the street from the hotel room window.
Every morning, I rose early to watch the chickens on the roof and listen to the happy crowing of the resident rooster perched on the lip of the roof, head back, yelling to the city that once more, like clockwork, morning was here.
I also waited for the woman to arrive at the bakery, where inside and all night long, someone had been working and turning out bread.
The woman always came out with an old straw broom and swept the sidewalk out into the street, whether it needed it or not, a comforting ritual to watch.
I went over and bought a giant fragrant loaf of bread the morning we were leaving. The bakery was tiny, barely able to contain the wonderful smells coming from the ovens.
We smiled at each other because we could not speak each other's languages.
On the bus, with napkins, I ripped off chunks of the bread, and gave them to the driver, our guide, and everyone of my fellow tourists on the bus.
That had been my intention, to share this bread that I had read about in a Toronto library research trip before coming to Cuba.
Everyone of those Canadians said they'd never had bread like that.
Just one more reason to enjoy the fascinating island of Cuba, and its people.
As luck would have it, there was a small bakery across the street from the hotel room window.
Every morning, I rose early to watch the chickens on the roof and listen to the happy crowing of the resident rooster perched on the lip of the roof, head back, yelling to the city that once more, like clockwork, morning was here.
I also waited for the woman to arrive at the bakery, where inside and all night long, someone had been working and turning out bread.
The woman always came out with an old straw broom and swept the sidewalk out into the street, whether it needed it or not, a comforting ritual to watch.
I went over and bought a giant fragrant loaf of bread the morning we were leaving. The bakery was tiny, barely able to contain the wonderful smells coming from the ovens.
We smiled at each other because we could not speak each other's languages.
On the bus, with napkins, I ripped off chunks of the bread, and gave them to the driver, our guide, and everyone of my fellow tourists on the bus.
That had been my intention, to share this bread that I had read about in a Toronto library research trip before coming to Cuba.
Everyone of those Canadians said they'd never had bread like that.
Just one more reason to enjoy the fascinating island of Cuba, and its people.
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