Havana Days

Havana Days


         Cuba is hot. It is bright and tropical and dusty brown. The busses are blasted with cool air conditioning, and the couches in resorts are muted orange. The bar is free and open 24hrs. The pina colada's are the best I've ever had. The sun is blinding and makes my skin tingle pink. Water is turquoise and navy and florescent. The waves are big and salty and warm.

         Our balcony is on the highest floor and we occasionally hop over the gate and sit on the roof. Nobody seems to mind. We can see the whole strip of hotels from there,and the ocean that never seems to end. It is a billiant blue that sparkles and dances. There are no clouds in the painted sky. I want to stay on the roof forever. People are relaxed; guests and staff, and we walk around in bathing suits, or shorts or bare feet. There is always something to do, and there's always time to do nothing. We can eat salad or fruit while sitting under an umbrella of dried palm leaves.

         We layed in the recliners under the hot, hot sun and listened to the surf. We sailed and rented boats and played a drunk game of volleyball on white warm sand. The ocean smelled beautiful, and the air was saturated with heat. Freckled shoulders and beach hair greeted us everywhere.

         Everybody smiles with pink cheeks in the day, and red faces at night. Our breath is lined with courage and alcohol to laugh with strangers and wander into rooms with them. The sheets are green, and the stairs run upside the building. The night is cool and black. The first night it rained. I was in a room with a stranger, Alexei was drunk somewhere and had the key. This man was Polish and shy, and we watched it rain in the darkness from his balcony. The waves and the rain gave me chills. Staring at oceans always does.

         Day time always starts late. Some days we lay all day in bed. But the town is too exciting to miss out. People speak Spanish and some wear pants. And button-up shirts. All the tourists are dressed for the beach, and the citizens are not. It is expensive in town so I get strangers to buy me souvenirs and kiss the buggy drivers to pay less. Havana is a long bus ride away. There are rundown but beautiful old buildings, and everybody has a balcony. We wander around. People ask us for money, and I have nothing to give them.

         The old city is cobblestone, with ducts under the city. We sneaked into tours, and up buildings. The alleyways feel like sidewalks but every once and a while a car will honk and we must make way for it to drive past, missing the children playing baseball by inches. There are big doorways in the walls of the bigger streets, all open and I walk into one. The room is full of paintings. They are beautiful. I admire the mans artwork and he shows me he lives there, in two rooms behind the room of paintings. I pick a beautiful painting of the beach, but there is colour and when I look at it, it reminds me of Cuba. The man has a beautiful smile and seems like a sweet man. I give him 5 more tourist dollars than he asked.

         There are parrots and tour groups and people asking for money. There are lots of stray dogs. Everywhere, in Havana and Varadero and at the airport and in the resort.

         Cuba is touristy, which is an unusual change. I was relaxed and enjoyed my sunny time there. I fell asleep on a catamaran and went snorkelling in the middle of the crystal blue ocean. I saw a shipwreck and ate fresh delicious lobster on the boat. We walked along white beaches and lay in the sun and explored the green plants. There are strange plants there. I miss the happy people. Everybody is there to relax, and in a good mood. Uplifting and soothing and buzzed, no particular stories come to mind, it was too much of a mellow, lazy adventure. It was wonderful and calming and relaxing and bright. The colours are vibrant there. Remembering my time, I remember the sun and with it, smiles and sighs.


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for some reason this came out in a sort of present-tense ... I guess I wish I was still there.