Moscow to Havana! The news hummed with “where is Edward Snowden?” this week. He arrived in Russia from Hong Kong. He supposedly bought a ticket Moscow to Havana, then never made the flight. Maybe he is making his way incognito to Ecuador? Or Venezuela? Or will he live for awhile in the Moscow airport, perpetually in transit? Whatever happens, these news nuggets launch me into travel reverie–thoughts of airports, of getting on planes, of all the great spy movies where they skip seamlessly country-to-country. I love travel…the tickets, and passport stamps, and visas…I get chill-bumps just imagining holding a plane ticket that reads SVO – HAV. I amuse myself with a vague thought of traveling one day from a Russian winter’s deep snow to a sultry Cuban night in the streets of Havana. I have this dream that one day, I will go. I will sell everything and go. For a year, for two, maybe three. Travel light. Take my time. Get to know the cities. See the countrysides. Meet the people. Stay long enough to recognize the accents, the light, the patterns of life…like how to order an espresso like a local in a Roman cafe, or where to find the right peso taxi line in Havana. These thoughts make me tremble with anticipation. There’s just something about travel. The essence of life.
Rainy season Cuba
Around this time last year, I was traveling in Cuba. On the road across the length of the island. Such an exceptional place, and even more so when saturated in spring rain. These images washed over me like a dream. Looking at the photos now, I’m reminded of the fresh smell of that warm Caribbean air. I remember the feel of the humidity, the breeze, the sound of the rain, and the low rumble of thunder rolling. The season was changing. I was changing. What is it about Cuba that draws us out, that lifts life, calls it to the surface?