Day Three

After my near-death incident in the Cold War bunker, we decided to take a cab downtown.  And guess what?  There were still parts of Old Havana we had yet to see.

"Well, I guess it's good we did it in parts and pieces," I said.  "I mean, we have had something new every day."

"Sure, but how will we know if we have seen it all?"

"Faith," I said.

It was the prettiest day of the trip, the sky clear, the air drier, the light and shadows sharp and distinct.  And so we wandered again, looking, drinking.  For a while, it seemed, the tourists were gone, but I imagined that the cruise ships would be docking any time and dropping off their crowd.  For the moment, though, you could pretend.  Locals sat around in the non-tourist restaurants with the open doors and mismatched furniture.  On side streets we looked into living rooms where people lay about on a lazy Saturday, doing what people do--cutting hair, washing clothes.  Above the street, laundry was hung on lines to dry.  People sat on curbs and old chairs on the narrow sidewalks talking to their friends or waiting on someone they knew.

We decided to walk back to the apartment on this last day, along the Malecon where the crowds had gathered.  But that will have to wait until tomorrow.

Narration interrupted.