Deaton and I arrived in Vinales by bus in the morning, completely oblivious to the naivete that would soon have us freaking out. But for now, we were just enchanted by the little village and the surreal landscape of mountains shaped like bubbles emerging from a vat of mollasses just prior to bursting.

We wandered to the edge of town where we were greeted by an old man with leathery skin and kind (if not fully toothed) smile. Through a mix of our broken Spanish and his broken English, he invited us to his home for a cigar. He was a tobacco farmer, and proud of his work. He explained how the government allowed him to keep only a very small amount of his crop for personal use, which is what he'd share with us.

When we got to his house, we were greeted by a young and startlingly beautiful woman who he introduced as his wife. He said something to her in Spanish (Cubañole, more precisely). She sat down quietly and began rolling a cigar. The farmer explained to us that the cigars that are exported are sealed with a kind of glue, but here in the village they were sealed with honey.

His wife finished rolling the cigars, put one in her own mouth to light it (I guess she didn't trust me to do that right, which was fair), and then passed it to me.

I'm not really a cigar guy. They give me headaches and I don't really care for the taste. But this cigar was delicious.