Dispatches from Cuba #2-5.9.15

IMG_4712The airport was red lines and glass. Small and easy to navigate, but for my inability to understand any Spanish that wasn’t culturally relevant, like Cerveza. Tired, of course tired. Two morning flights, neither leaving on time (time made no sense anymore), 3 or 4 watery coffees, a couple of dry “breakfasts” and a wall of humidity and waiting, wading humanity. No matter the colour of the sky, I’d find out, whether it was a dull blue or a bright grey, all that permeates the fatigue & wonder of arriving in Cuba, is the deep, deep green. Give a city a moment of pause, and green will explode across the horizon.

Through the cab window the alien country was as shocking as a TV show rerun. I couldn’t grasp it unless I touched it. I needed to step out of the car and paw through the grass, ruffle the leaves, slap the concrete walls, peel the paint away, and prod a sign I didn’t understand. Of course I have to reach into another world physically. Of course I have to grope it to grasp it. The things I like are instantly mine. It’s new to me, like a novel, lovely, play thing. Then I’d look up and see disgruntled faces and remember i don’t belong, and I don’t own anything. Most faces were looking at me in a question of who’s staring at who now. I couldn’t read them, I couldn’t help but pretend I knew what lay behind the faces. I wish I could read faces, to see into people’s souls, or at least their intentions and inclinations. I’m proud to humbly admit (isn’t humility so great and noble?), that I can’t read a face to save my life. And I hoped that Cuba was not a country where that would be tested.IMG_4192


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