Cuba

They didn’t pose for me. They were simply there—living, waiting, watching, connecting. These are not the postcards sold on the Malecón. They’re the quiet truths you find when you slow down and pay attention.

Each of them shows a different side of Cuba’s soul: playful, patient, defiant, joyful, solitary. You won’t find them on a brochure, but they stay with you long after the flight home.

**Breeze Through the Bars**
Trinidad. She spends her afternoon like this: in the doorway, framed by iron bars, watching the world go by. The house is quiet. The sun is warm. A Caribbean breeze slips through the shutters and plays with the edges of her dress. She doesn’t say much. She doesn’t need to. Her presence holds the kind of peace that fills a space—a quiet endurance shaped by years and softened by grace.

**Compadres**
Havana. From the balcony above, I watched: a pink convertible slowing as it met a man on a bike. They recognized each other from afar. Smiles widened. Hands stretched. Traffic paused. It wasn’t a performance—just two friends sharing a genuine moment of street-side affection. In Havana, joy doesn’t wait for the weekend. It grabs you where and when it finds you.

**A Quiet Soul**
Trinidad. He stands against a pastel wall, barefoot and shirtless, studying a plastic bottle like it might contain a secret. We crossed paths more than once. There was something solitary about him—something peaceful too. The town buzzed with music and heat, but he seemed to carry his own atmosphere, wrapped in thought, untouched by the rhythm of the street.

**Little Miss Rebel**
Trinidad. She sits on the doorstep with her coloring books and mismatched sandals, eyeing the camera with more attitude than most adults. And then—*plop!*—out comes the tongue. A perfect moment of cheeky rebellion. She’s not posing. She’s claiming space. A flash of personality that stays far longer than the shutter click.

**The Art of Relaxation**
Trinidad. He leans back, perfectly balanced between the ground and the unknown. The chair creaks but holds, displaying his mastery of relaxation. I watch, envious of his ease—unbothered, unhurried, at peace with the moment. The air is warm, and were it not for the faint rhythms of Cuban son drifting through the distance, time might seem to not exist.

**Gringo**
Varadero. He stands alone on a postcard-perfect beach, framed by turquoise waves and hotel silence. Around his wrist, the unmistakable yellow of an all-inclusive resort pass. Sunburnt shoulders, loose limbs, vacation mode fully activated. There’s nothing wrong here—but there’s nothing Cuban either. Just a tourist, momentarily part of the landscape.

Tourists come and go. They leave tanned, rested, unmoved. But the people remain, with lives as rich and layered as the island itself. This is a glimpse—not of Cuba as a destination, but as a place where people simply live, beautifully.