jezwired

Ever since I read Pico Iyer’s wonderful “Cuba & The Night,” I picture myself sipping Mojitos on some pavement cafe overlooking the Malecon, with the seductive rhythm of a bolero echoeing out into the magnificent Havana night. My vision of Cuba is far from the tourist ideal. Save me the trip to Hemingway’s House (he hated crowds anyway) and give me instead an afternoon’s tryst in the descrete shade of one of Havana’s gorgeously decrepid old hotels. Forget the segregated beaches, the gated super-resort hotels and even the trip to the rum making factories. Just give me Cuba, and the night.

In some small quiet place of me there is the very distinct fear that I might not do this. I don’t mean my hair or waistline which have already abondoned all hope, but I mean me as some grumpy old guy bemoaming the world and all in it. The vision I have of myself is, of course, some sprightly, silver haired elder whose wisdom and experience is sought by all.

The water is smooth and green, my paddle slices through it with practised ease, there’s just me and the Loon enjoying it.