dreaming of Cuba...

I miss the language—the words, The speed of the conversation. I miss Cubans asking me where I’m from, and knowing that—maybe I can’t pass, but at least I don’t scream American. I miss the heavy weight of the air.

Havana is really dirty. It’s a hot mess. The streets are trashed. There are huge holes in the street. There are skinny dogs everywhere, and crumbling ruins of buildings where laundry hangs on the third floor balcony...But it’s also gloriously terrible.

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