Buying hash online in Pinar del Rio

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Buying hash online in Pinar del Rio

I'm headed to Havana. I was invited. Fully hosted. Two birds with one stone. Gold Coast is set in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, against an opera of secondary expatriate Cubano characters. I want source music to be the real deal: rumba, mambo or salsa. From Cuba. Not Puerto Rico, Panama or Miami. So, I accept an invitation to meet Cuban musicians with the intention of using this remarkable music on my soundtrack. I jump a rickety prop plane from a French island and land in Havana, where I'm ushered into an eerie dead-of-night, Third World phosphorescent scene. The airport terminal looks like a military landing strip from the '50s: one drab main building with soldiers lurking everywhere, lounging against the glass entrance door, scrutinizing everyone who arrives. The baggage area is a Graham Greene cop station, replete with plainclothes guys and Formica-top tables and the ever-present phosphorescent lighting. Bags are indiscriminately searched. Outside, there is no hotel representative, just a convoy of s Chevys, Russian motorcycles with sidecars and a boulevard adorned with Usually, my one axiom of traveling is, if anyone walks up to you when you've got baggage in your hand, it's a scam. This isn't. She is a travel agent and her expected clients were not on the plane. Going with people anywhere is my idea of thrombosis. Forty-five cigars, to be exact. The concierge tells me there is a smoking room on the mezzanine. I move through the lobby and bar, crammed with puro collectors from Iceland to Singapore. It is a world convention of aficionados bound by obsession. To fly thousands of miles across the world to a Caribbean outpost, just to schmooze at a dinner, fund-raiser for a hospital or no, one must be mightily hooked on some anathema. In this case it is the 'stick,' the 'heater,' the 'gar,' the 'stogie. In the smoking bar, in the midst of my remedial Spanish with the barmaid, a beautiful Cubana named Sandra, someone taps me on the shoulder and it's John and I light up a couple of H. Upmanns, Sir Winstons. A great Churchill. The first, but not the last surprise of this trip. My man in Havana, John tightens me up. I live part of the year near Naples, Italy. But I will not drive in Naples. And shoot me before I ride anywhere with Neapolitans, a passionate people who believe physical assault was the sole reason for the invention of the automobile. But I'm tempted. Although I say, 'I must meet salsa bands here. Most of these guys don't start until midnight. If I'm back in time for the music, I'll go with you. Next morning the ringing phone sounds like a fire alarm. It's 7 a. On that popularity alone, the original cigar was reinstituted in Cuba, solely for Cuban consumption. John's cohort, William, arrives, and we jump in a taxi, a Chevy with side fins, for Quinta Avenida Fifth Avenue , in the heart of Miramar, the grand old neighborhood of Havana where once lived the aristocracy of the New World. Along the boulevards there is a striking array of turn-of-the-century villas, Italian or Mediterranean in style, replete with lawns and gates. The country's broke, so almost all of the buildings are wasting away in the salt air and sun: peeling paint and falling concrete, chipped Corinthian capitals atop crumbling pillars, doors ajar, and rusted gates. We stop at a grand old house, enter a lobby of old Holiday Inn furniture on a ratty rug, and walk up the stairs to a small hallway. At the end of the hallway is a walk-in humidor, which forms part of La Casa del Habano, one of Havana's premier cigar shops. I'm handed a Davidoff by the shop manager, Enrique Mons. Hard to beat. I head to the terrace to focus on the Havana morning. Humidity and diffused sun bounce off broken terra cotta and tired asphalt. A girl on the boulevard flags a ride on a motorcycle. Busted buildings and grandeur long gone. As I sit there, I wonder what it will be like, in 10 years or less, when McDonald's restaurants adorn hotel-chain golf courses and strip malls. So much is unique, unfettered and unblemished in this time warp that is Havana, a part of me whimsically hopes this fastidious decadence--of aging villas and pot-holed streets where '49 Chevys bump along, backfiring over salsa--never changes. Then again, it's easy for me to say. I finish the Cuban Davidoff on the way to lunch, and am handed a six-year-old Cohiba Siglo I, the strongest cigar I've ever smoked. Five minutes after I light one up, I'm praying we get out of the car soon, lest I'll be humming in tune with the ringing in my head. Mind blowing. My fourth cigar and it's only a. Following an after-lunch Cohiba Robusto, my mouth feels like a Bunsen burner. I run past a street party that blares three different sources of salsa simultaneously. Lovers everywhere sit on the wall over the ocean, some on the other's lap, many entwined in a kiss. Havana is a blistering image of sensuality. If you can't leave, and you can't play a get-ahead game in the commercial market, what else would you do except wrap your arms around someone wonderful and kiss in a tropical sun? Or dance. Love and music are the spine of Havana, believe it. The cement of the walkway is seared black from the smoke of cheap Eastern European gasoline that's burnt the rings out of most of the public automotive engines, belching exhaust into the air here for decades. I jog past throngs of street vendors, cooking everything from beans to fish, and the old Hotel Nacional. I can see Batista's terrace where he would throw his parties and show off in front of a crowd that would eventually spit in his face and run his ass and his stolen millions all the way to Spain. As we sit, an athletic-looking blonde sashays past us in stretch pants, glares at me, turns up her nose. She returns, and in a quick repartee we end up with an invite to her ballet performance at 9 p. I shower, change, and join John and William at the bar. At dinner I'm offered my eighth cigar of the day, a Cohiba Esplendido, and smoke it through the meal with the boys and the hotel manager, Carlos Villota, from Pamplona, Spain, already my friend for life. The ballet is an aqua-dance to Bizet's Carmen and the weirdest deal I've seen executed in a swimming pool with clothes on. I watch while working on a Cabinet Punch Double Corona, smoke number nine. At midnight, I'm off with Carlos and the boys to the middle of a Havana suburb called Vedado to hear salsa. An old notorious watering hole, Johnny's Drink--now renamed the Rio Club--sits on a corner dead in the middle of the residential neighborhood. Johnny's Drink was the great after-hours hangout during the Batista regime, and it puts forth some of the best salsa in Havana. As we walk in, we are blitzed with the screech of trumpets and congas and the chant of Afro-Cuban musica Latina! Everywhere, people are moving. If they're not dancing while buying drinks at the bar, they're swaying, chatting with their boyfriends or girlfriends. Whatever they may be doing, they're dancing at the same time, oscillating, circling, grinding to the beat of the most infectious, compelling music I've ever heard. On a postage-stamp dance floor 60 dancers spin and melt into one another without so much as bumping into anyone else. It's as if everyone went to dance school and someone choreographed the thing. Then again, they've all probably been moving like this since the womb, so why wouldn't it look choreographed. The distinction here is that all the partners are looking at one another, all blatant sexual enticement through flashing eyes. If they are standing at the bar, whispering in corners, walking to the restroom, or just hanging out like us, watching the dance floor, no one is standing still. You can't not dance to Cuban salsa. And it is definitely erotic. I've never seen anything that comes as close to choreographed public concupiscence as Cuban salsa dancing in Havana. The women are smiling, spinning, bumping, rubbing in perfect unison with languid men, who seem as slyly remote as the big bad wolf doing a sashay. If the women aren't dancing with men, they're dancing with other women or alone. Several have a leg hooked up on the banister of the mezzanine, flashing caramel thighs, while their hips gyrate in double time to their shoulders rolling back and forward. Congas and more congas ever louder, compelling every person in the place to move. I turn to William, but before I can speak, he turns to me wide-eyed and yells, 'I have never seen or heard anything like this. The day is over. There will be four more days, no less enriching: a private visit to the newly renovated Cohiba factory; an evening at the Tropicana for the 30th anniversary of Cohiba, where it finally behooves Fidel to take the stage, and where later I am captured by the beauty and charm of a Tropicana dancer named Or the drive by the single most hideous building ever constructed in the history of the universe Looks like a dart gun on its side next to a grain silo with a golf ball on top, draped in gray concrete of a federal prison. Then there was the Partagas factory downtown in glorious Old Havana where I enjoyed the privilege of a double corona-sized perfecto of which there were only one hundred boxes ever made. Is Old Havana run down, quaint or antiquated? It's an anomaly of time for sure. And on to El Floridita, the home of the Daiquiri and Ernest Hemingway's favorite hangout, followed by the cardiac arrest of riding shotgun in the Toyota, Gianfranco driving like a true Napilitano all the while complaining about running out of gas. Never doubt the logic of a Neapolitan in Old Havana. All shrouded in the smoke of wonderous cigars. And every night it's salsa. It's midnight again. We're waiting for the salsa singer known as El Medico, the Doctor of Salsa. After a dinner at a paladar , a private home that doubles as a restaurant, we're off to the Hotel Capri and its disco in the lobby. We are greased past the security and shown into a nightclub-sized dance hall with long Formica tables surrounding a dance floor in front of a stage. We take our seats at the back of the club on a mezzanine level, and pull out Bolivar Belicosos. In the next three hours we will finish the Bolis, Cohiba Siglo I's yes, the rocket launcher again , Cohiba Robustos and be on the downside of a wonderful Hoyo Double Corona before we call it a night. A big salsa band appears and starts wailing. The instant they begin, the dance floor is filled with dancers, eternally spinning, stuck to one another like Velcro. Everyone is instantly out of their seats, and with no break in conversation, the hips swivel and the shoulders twist. Even the band dances as it plays. In Cuba, you never get the feeling that musicians are playing just another gig. Everyone on the stage is swinging, laughing, yelling or shaking in accompaniment to the fiesta on the floor. A truly gorgeous young woman with a very short summer dress is pointed out to us. She is pasted to a man of equal distinction, and they seem to dominate the floor. The room is filled with Cubanos and Cubanas of all ages. But the handsome couple are the king and queen of the place, due in no small part to the very high hem of the woman's dress, spinning around her in counterpoint to the grace of her amazing legs, stepping oh-so-carefully between those of her man. As soon as the first tune is over, he shakes hands and walks away, and we realize that this girl isn't with this guy at all. She begins a dance with someone else. The congas swell and women everywhere in the club dance by their tables, against the wall, with each other, or with the proverbial leg hooked up on a rail. Everyone is laughing, smiling. The dancing is precise, choreographed, perfect. El Medico is a great-looking young man, with a small crooning voice as opposed to a large operatic one, the usual style of salsa singers. John, William, Carlos and I stand on our mezzanine and rumba in place. Women hand El Medico large placards with his picture on them; he autographs the pictures, all the while smiling at each girl, while the band blasts and the singing segues into a two-step with his backup singers. His wife, he tells us, just delivered a child that day, and he's very happy. With joyous hugs all around, I explain to his manager that Paramount Pictures will contact her about the use of his music. He insists we come back to Cuba and spend time with him, an invitation we accept. I'm out the next day. There's a ride to the airport. My mouth has turned into an ashtray and I'm not about to smoke. The plane is yet another out-of-date jet that makes weird noises as it starts away, and I'm considering the justice of ending my life in an explosion on a runway on an island that my country refuses to recognize. Would it be like the Bay of Pigs? Would the spooks tell my mother, 'he disappeared somewhere in the Caribbean scuba diving for colonial gold'? The eighth edition of limited-edition, period-piece cigar jars made exclusively for the Spanish …. Once only offered in a very expensive humidor, the Spanish exclusive is now available in a count …. Cigar Life. Big Smoke. The Magazine. Cigar Find a Retailer. Top Search Search. There's no gold there! More in Cuba See all. Oct 3, Cuban Cigars In Spanish Jars The eighth edition of limited-edition, period-piece cigar jars made exclusively for the Spanish … Aug 23,

Pinar del Rio Oscuro | Cigar Review

Buying hash online in Pinar del Rio

Meaning, I have gone into my humidor put aside with only cigars that have been aging for a year or more. And are inexpensive. Almost all were gifts. I have Andy S. And each time, found the Pinar del Rio line very enjoyable. So time to move on to the construction. This is a nicely made cigar. It is packed with tobacco and yet has the perfect give to it. The wrapper is a wonderful oily chocolate. Sandy to the touch. The PDR rollers used the Entubado bunching style. Normally, only found in more expensive cigars. There is a perfectly applied double cap. Seams are tight and near invisible. And for the most part, the cigar is near vein free. I clip the cap and find aromas of peppery spice, cocoa, earthiness, heavy dose of cedar and oak, and raisins. Time to light up. The stick starts off very earthy and sweet. The draw is spot on. The sweetness of raisin is very prevalent. And the cocoa is milk chocolate. Spice begins to build slowly. I am guessing that the extended humidor time has tamed a lot of the spiciness out of the cigar. And right away, I get the start of a canoe that I call a V burn on one side. I quickly correct it. Not a good start. This happens in way too many cigars. Sloppy rolling. It is a miserably cloudy and cold day in Milwaukee and not a drip of sunlight for my photos. My apologies. In fact, the entire flavor profile is undergoing a massive shift. Here are the flavors, in order: Earthiness, sweetness, creaminess, chocolate, red pepper, raisin, oak, cedar, espresso, buttery pie crust, and fruit. I find this an odd grouping of flavors in an Oscuro wrapped primarily Dominican cigar. And I cannot convey strongly enough how important to the flavor profile of the lush earthiness. In spite of the burn issues, I am really enjoying this cigar. It is nigh on to being a flavor bomb. And while the char line is nothing close to being a sharp line, its waviness is controlled and no longer a pain in the ass. This is a popular cigar. Good quality and inexpensive. If Abe Flores used better rollers he could ask a few bucks more for these sticks. The char line is beginning to really behave itself. It is official. A flavor bomb. Just oozing smoothness and balance. It has a very long finish on the palate. Just delicious. Clearly, the extensive humidor aging made a big difference in this blend. And aside…Next week, I will be reviewing a pre-release cigar that everyone is waiting for. I cannot tell you more than that as not even the press release has been doled out to all of the reviewers yet. I am very excited about this. I approach the halfway point, and the cigar is cruising. A nice subtle complexity digs its heels in. You know, the whole reason for using the Entubado method of rolling is to avoid the burn issues I had earlier. This befuddles me. The spice returns as a major player. It ups the anty and now my eyes are watering and my nose is running. The last third begins with a bang. The subtlety disappears and the flavors explode with a nuclear intensity. The lineup of flavors remains the same. Nothing is added. Nothing needs to be added. But the creaminess takes on a nice vanilla nuance. I check the humidor to see if there are more. Sadly, no. But I do have one each of the Habano Sun Grown. Small Batch Exclusivo, and the Classico Exclusivo. I definitely intend on reviewing these aged puppies. One of the hazards of smoking a lot of good cigars is that one can become a snob. I am guilty of that bad habit. And one forgets how many good, regular production inexpensive cigars are out there. Without finishing this cigar, I can say that I highly recommend it. The caveat is that you must be patient and let your humidor do its thing. Amazingly, not a single piece of wrapper cracks. Considering how long it has been in my humidor, I am impressed. I hate tossing a cigar because of that, especially if I enjoy the flavor profile. A bit of nicotine kick settles in. The cigar finishes up with my ass handed being to me by the nicotine. But it ends without a sign of harshness or heat. It is perfectly balanced. The char line is almost perfect. And a flavor bomb to the core. I suggest you get a fiver or a box and just put them away and forget about them for at least 6 months. Good work, Abe. A good friend, Mike Cook, now passed, came over with some blotter and we decided to make the day of it. Two friends and I had rented a nice house in Santa Ana, Ca. They were gone for the day…so just me and Mike. We had recently moved into the house less than a month earlier. And while putting the very first thing into our moving truck, I had an accident and broke my wrist. I had my 10 speed bike from when I was I took a flying leap trying to drive the bike up the ramp and just as I got to the top, I ran out of steam and fell sideways to the ground, four feet below. My feet were in the rat traps so the only thing I could use to break my fall was my right arm. A whole bunch of friends had accepted our invitation to help all us move from our current abodes. My oldest buddy, Skip, grabbed it, looked at it and said I was fine. He now makes antibiotics for farm animals. That day was horrendous. It ended up being a 15 hour move. And to make things much worse, no one knew how to drive a stick on that big truck but me. The stick was about 6 feet tall. And each time I had to use it, I screamed out in pain. On the way back from Riverside, a friend said he would drive the truck. Why he let me drive in so much pain is beyond me. So, Mike and I were in the back with the door closed. It was pitch black. And the pain was making me crazy. Mike told me to take a hit of hash, which I did. Then the pain went from in 4. On Monday, I went to an orthopod and all he did was look at it and told me it was broken. But an X-ray was in order. Mike handed me the little piece of blotter paper and we sat on the living room floor and listened to records. You cannot explain what taking acid is like to someone who has never taken it. The first being that Mike told me he was worried that I would hit myself in the head with my cast and split my head in two. It was an instrumental. A synthesizer part came on and we began to freak so Mike yelled at me to turn the radio off. I crawled over to the radio and it might as well have been the dashboard of the shuttle. I had no idea how to do anything. All those knobs confused me so we had to leave it on. That evening, friends stopped by and one took me for a ride in his new sports car. I was still frying and he knew it so he drove like a maniac scaring the shit out of me. I took it another time when we went to Disneyland. That was a huge mistake. Standing in those long lines frying. And the last time I took it was on my 25th birthday in London. It was the perfect trip and around a dozen or so of my musical friends took it with me. It was a great night and I decided never to take it again. Go out on a good experience. Tags: abe flores , cigar review , cigar reviews by the katman , cigars , pdr cigars , pinar del rio oscuro cigar review. I remember, penned by Gilbert Shelton. I also remember characters done by R Crumb p. I had a great experience with blotter In my crazy days long time ago and that comic was one of my favorites! Especially when you smoked a joint and started to relate with the characters, oh my! I love there Cubano Especial Maduro in the corona size and only this size for there larger brethren just suck. But when I let them rest for 6 or more months they become so good you just want to eat them! So for anyone that wants to truly find out why Pinar has such a following just purchase some and hide them for as long as you can and discover what makes Pinar, a Pinar Del Rio Cigar. Wally, Everyone has their own opinion on how to do the things you mentioned. This is my opinion: Always remove the cellos. By doing this, it not only allows the entire cigar to breath but allows it mingle with the other sticks in your humidor giving the cigar a little extra oomph and flavor. A crappy cigar never gets better no matter how much humidor time you allow it. I have several of those type in my year or older humidor and the are still crap. But a maturation process does happen. You will have better luck with a cigar that cello is not used. In fact, I find that those cigars are good to go almost immediately. So the reality is that a cigar needs to breathe. Remember, it has been aged and then put in an airtight cigar box for who knows how long…thereby stilting the maturation process. Something happens to an aged cigar once it is removed from the surrounding air. I know smokers who just cut off the end of the cello. But this just makes the cigar take longer to mature than if the cello was completely removed. While my father and grandfather bought crappy liquor store cigars like El Producto and Dutch Masters, I immediately went to cigar stores and bought good cigars. My father had a humidor and I used that to store my cigars. And I used that same humidor for almost 20 years. It is now gone through the exercise of moving so much for new jobs. I agree that mixing infused cigars with your regular cigars is no big deal.. A little bit of infused flavor on a regular cigar gives it a different nuance. Just in case the infused flavor impregnates the regular one too much. Thanks Katman…Good advice…I was taking the cello off of all my cigars for storage, when a friend told me I was making a BIG mistake…That never made any logical sense to me.. I totally agree with the desirability to let these sit a long time. Fresher examples 's that I have already smoked exhibited burn issues and inconsistent, sometimes even nasty, flavors. But for the price they were ok. Now they are very good. Thanks for your great reviews, and your rockin' stories. You must be logged in to post a comment. But not a hint of nicotine. Creaminess is driving the bus making the cigar ultra-smooth. A new flavor shows up: Caramel. It enhances both the creaminess and vanilla elements. And now for something completely different: It was the first time I took acid. I was Anyway, back to the acid story. Two things stand out in my memory. They are always there to take advantage of your situation. Late that night, the stuff wore off and the hallucinations stopped. I was a limp noodle. Reblog Subscribe Subscribed. Cigar Reviews by the Katman. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. Loading Comments

Buying hash online in Pinar del Rio