Intergrams Archivear


Where tourists become travelers.

Bonfires roared and everyone danced. Smoke poured across the field but the music pushed through.  Saxophonists and guitarists wandered alone, sharing a single rhythm. The man that took me here was lost in the crowd, laughing with friends. Everyone was friends with everyone. We were far off the guide map--far off any map. And I knew I wouldn’t find this place again. So when the woman grabbed my hand and pulled me into the dancing crowd, I let go of everything that wasn’t here.
Cuba: where tourists become travelers.

Through the doors, four men sat at a table. a single yellow light bulb flittered above them. This wasn’t the restaurant I set out for-- I’d taken a wrong turn.  But they waved at me to join. We drank beer, and laughed and played. a man sat in the corner, rolling cigars. I didn’t speak spanish, but we talked with our hands. Those were some of the best conversations I’d ever had. Cuba: Where tourists become travelers. 

The man talked more than he cut. Wandering around old Havana gets confusing. I wasn’t seure what street I was on when I stumbled in. Music played on an old boombox. We laughed and shared stories. I could smell the cooking from upstairs. Roasted pork, garlic, plantains, onions--drifting through the ceiling. He said it was his grandmother’s, that she was the best cook on the island, and when he insisted I try if for myself I knew the haircut was a good decision. Cuba: Where tourists become travelers.

CW: Rich Forzano