A trip to Cuba is like entering a world apart
It’s not just the architecture or the cars. There’s something slower in the air, something that resists the usual pace of things. Cuba doesn’t rush. It doesn’t adapt either. The rhythms here follow another logic—one that leans toward people rather than schedules, toward presence rather than progress.
Forget the pressure to consume, to plan, to optimize. That isn’t how this island breathes. Here, it’s the conversation that counts. A shared bench in the shade, the clink of glasses in the heat, someone humming an old bolero without realizing it—those are the moments that tend to linger.
Music, of course, is everywhere. Not just in clubs or performances, but in the streets, in kitchens, between neighbors. It drifts through shutters, skips across rooftops, gets caught in your clothes. You don’t need to understand every word. The rhythm usually says enough. And before long, a hand might find yours—just a simple step, maybe a turn. And that’s how the evening starts. Or a friendship.
Travel to Cuba: moments that linger
The video speaks for itself—Cuba isn’t just seen, it’s felt. Havana kicks things off, loud and alive. Not just the cars or the colors, but the rhythm under it all. Walk through La Habana Vieja and it’s like stepping into a place that remembers everything and forgets nothing. Music spills out from somewhere—always—and the past leans into the present without asking permission.
Then, quieter notes. Cienfuegos, slower, polished in a different way. French echoes in the facades, a sense of space that invites you to just walk, no rush. The sea’s always near, the sun a little softer. It’s a pause in the middle of the trip.
Trinidad doesn’t move forward or back. It just holds. Cobblestones, pastel walls, doorways that haven’t changed in decades. In the evenings, guitars tune themselves on the Plaza Mayor steps, and people sit without needing to speak. Everything there feels paused, but not frozen.
And Viñales, at the end. A different Cuba again—green, open, grounded. Horses pass slowly, fields stretch wide, the air smells like earth and something sweet. Out here, it’s easier to just be. The mogotes don’t say much, but they don’t need to.
Cuba resists summary. And maybe that’s the point.
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