"This is a very meaningful trip because you're not just sending it to a nameless organization; you're actually going there and seeing who you're helping."

Mission Leader Miriam had arranged a morning discussion with journalist and television personality Reinaldo Taladrid, Cuba's answer to a pundit. In our brief but stimulating talk, Rey outlined the Cuban government's position vis-à-vis the U.S. embargo, noted the bright spots in Cuba's economic situation, and defended what he considered the plusses of the Cuban system. (Although he was quick to concede that, "Cuba is as far away from a paradise as Trent Lott is from blacks.")

In the end, we spent longer than we should have with Rey, and departed later than planned, holding true to our mission motto: "We get more behind schedule before 9 am than most people do all day."

Although our ultimate destination for the day was Cienfuegos, we stopped just outside of Havana to visit Cojimar, Ernest Hemingway's "fishing village." The place contained a dock and a memorial to the man. But it was a good memorial. A damn good memorial. It was clean and bright, and it damn near let us forget all that damn stuff we had seen in the war. Sorry, I think I got a little carried away by the Hemingway stuff. Back to our story…

As it was starting to rain, we boarded the bus, and soon we were back on the road to Cienfuegos (one of the lesser-known Hope/Crosby pictures). As Arnaldo took us onto the autopista (highway), we caught a glimpse of a very sad but, as we would learn, all-too-typical sight: Cubans lined up by the score, hoping one of the few passing cars would stop and give them a ride. Many were simply trying to get home to their families for Christmas.

The phenomenon evidently took quite a toll on some, driving them to drown their sorrows in drink. Specifically, the bottles of Hanava Club we had taken from Macumba last night. Few will forget the sight of Marcia chugging a few mojitos'-worth straight from the bottle, then pronouncing it "not bad."

Fortunately, no one overdid it and had to "return" the rum to the onboard toilet. Which is probably a good thing, since it was right about now that Manuel made what I'm sure was his favorite announcement of the trip: "The bathroom is broken. Please, #1 only."

The Cubans have a saying, no hay mal que por no venga bien - "There is no bad from which good doesn't come." That's what happened to us with the toilet. Because it was our desperate need to venture into numbers higher than 1 that prompted Arnaldo to stop at House #11.

He pulled the bus over on a country road dotted by single-family houses. Manuel went out to knock on the door of House #11, to ask if we could use their bathroom. I can only imagine the questions he got ("They have blue jeans in America, but not toilets?"). Still, whatever he said must have worked, because the original toilet-requester disappeared inside. A few others followed. The rest of us crowded at the bus windows, curious and increasingly aware that we had not yet seen how an "ordinary" (or for that matter, Gentile) Cuban lived. Then a trickle of non-#2ers entered the house, swiftly turning into a torrent, until finally our whole group was inside, and House #11 was an official point on our "cultural itinerary." Some of us were taken by the immaculate cleanness and charming decorations, others by the green '71 Peugeot next to the house, still others by the lush orange, coffee, avocado, and cherimoya trees growing in this family's backyard. A few of their neighbors came to see us out of curiosity - presumably, because their bus full of incontinent American tourists wouldn't be coming until Thursday.

Before long, we were entering Cienfuegos, the only city in Cuba with a predominantly French influence. That style could be seen in Cienfuegos's long, lovely streets full of gracefully detailed, columned buildings. We checked into the sumptuous Hotel Jagua, and once again the group split up: some went to the pool, some to dreamland, and others went on a futile quest to locate Cienfuegos's answer to the Havana Malecon.

Once the group was rested and rounded up, we took a ride to the home of Rebecca Langus, the leader of the Cienfuegos Jewish community. Rebecca is a gracious, constantly smiling woman who proudly wear a Star of David necklace, keeps a mezuzah on her door, and maintains a small but comfortable apartment stuffed to the hilt with Judaica. She received each one of the gifts we lined up to give her with a hug and a warm "Gracias." She also explained how her apartment functioned as not only the small community's synagogue (in her words, "We don't need a synagogue - we've got one right here"), but also as its JCC and library. I don't know where she found room to put the Federation, ADL, and two AJCs.

Rebecca told us of the "20-23" Cienfuegos regulars, who show up every week for Shabbat services; of her two young sons, determinedly studying for their Bar Mitzvahs despite no prior knowledge of Hebrew; and about Cienfuegos's strong ties to the Havana community, with four-day camps run by the Patronato that the local kids attended, and all the Jewish supplies they get regularly from the capitol. Despite our best efforts to ferret out what might be lacking in Rebecca's community, she remained cheerfully insistent that they had everything they needed, and their only challenge for the time being was to "become stronger and learn more." We left "Beit Rebecca" a little emotional, a lot inspired, and maybe just a bit more optimistic about the future of Cuban Jewry.

Mario wasted no time taking advantage of our communal spiritual high. Upon our return to the hotel, he corralled us into the pool area to lead us in the Maariv service, and once again offer up a few words of Torah relevant to what we were seeing and doing in this very special place.

Dinner took place at an extremely long table, where Mario displayed another of his talents, singing a popular Cuban ballad while accompanied by the house band. If the rabbi thing doesn't pan out, it's good to know he could always go to Havana and make a living serenading the lunchtime crowd at Plaza de Artisanias.

After dinner, the entertainment shifted to poolside, where hotel guests were treated to the spectacle of a "water ballet." Sprawled out on slightly damp chaise lounges, we marveled at the acrobatic skill, breath-holding capacity, and never-ceasing smiles of about fifteen young female swimmers. So talented were they, my only question was, "How long before they turn those talents toward the Florida Straits?"