November 11, 2019
The sounds of the pueblo echo around me in every direction. Voices carried in the arms of Oya embrace me wrapped in a blanket of the cries and laughter of children, barking dogs, honking horns, motorcycle whirs, reggae ton and the seemingly always present whisper of the rustling leaves of the mango and avocado trees that hover proudly above the rooftops. The bells of a street vendor jingle over it all.
These are the remembrances of tranquility I cherish in this pueblo. Tender humanity arises everywhere as the rhythm of Trinidad slows me down inside to relax and breathe in this place anew. On the rooftop of my little casita, I have a perfect vista of the the glistening sea and the gentle mountains that frame this village. There truly is no where else I love more than this place it spite of all it’s challenges, and craziness.
For all the talk of how bad things in Cuba are, nothing feels even a little bit different than when things were supposedly good. All of the same regulars are at the bar, downing plastic cups filled with rum and dancing as if their lives depend on it. Felix has lost another tooth, Yosvany put a new design in his hair, Juan Carlos sprouted a pure white goatee, and Tomas has a little more grey hair but other than that, it’s the same day as it was when I left four months ago.
Life continues, and so does the dream.