Scott Robinson (quadhome) wrote,
Scott Robinson
quadhome

The beach. I'm still sick.

Dear Sarah,

Thursday morning, I woke up at 5am. We went to sleep very early on Wednesday evening. But I didn't start so early because I had slept enough. Just nightmares.

I dreamed about everyone I love. It was a set of monologues with short scenery changes acting as some semblance of a story. Each person would talk about their goals and hard work. No one explicity said it, but the common subtext was clear. My existence and constant laziness was an impediment to them.

The last one, and the one I woke up from, was you. I remember it becuase the character was you - but the body wasn't. Your hair was cut. Your physique was tougher, and your posture aggressive. I tried to say how it wasn't my intention to stand in your life's path. But, I had no voice and "your" words cut enough to end my slumber.

Or, maybe it was the heat.

The humidity and temperature here are both hihg. There are two seasons: sunny and rainy. The only difference is that in one, it rains. For our visit, the rain has mostly confined itself to the afternoon. Those showers are harkened by the familiar smell and last for hours. Being caught in them means never drying off.

Our casa is inland, in the "uninterested" central district of Habana. The morning heat starts early, as we miss the costal breeze. As does the noise and bustle, since the reason our district is considered "uninteresting" is because people live here. As foreigners aren't allowed to talk to locals, goes the thinking, what could possibly be the reason for visiting?

My mood is still somber. I feel it comes across in my writing. Since my ability to communicate is one-way, I find myself imagining what's happened with you at home. Did you finish the move? How is your feasibility study starting up? Have you thought about local Native-American traditional diets? I presume by the time I return, you will have purchased tickets for Los Angeles. While I want to be with you for your birthday, I hope you didn't book your ticket to return Thursday. You're closer to your family than I am to mine; and, I feel it's important to be with the people who have and continue to stand by you.

We're going to the beach today. Actually, I'm at the beach right now. (I write these letters over the course of hours.) The thought in our minds is that a day of laziness will do our moods an improvement.

The first beach we tried to visit, Terará, used to be the happening location. It since has been barred to tourists without proper documentation. Our taxi driver tried warning us against it; but, we were determined. Unfortunately, there was little success to be found arguing at the police checkpoint. Instead, we moved on to Playa de Este. Which is actually a collection of beaches. We arrived at the first, de Mégano, arranged return transport by 5pm, and set off. The beaches is mixed with few tourists and more Cubans. It's also well patrolled. Minutes after finding a palm to base from, a guard warned us of theives. "mas ojos!" Keep our eyes on our belongings.

These are teh first real idyllic beaches I've been on. The wind and sea keeps the air humid but cool. The sand doesn't blow because it's coarse. The water is warm and green to blue. The sun isn't oppressive today so a lone and ragged palm is more than enough shade to provide comfort.

I write and watch, feeling better. Sam walks and is a happier jerk. Chris reads my literal copy of the Motorcycle Diaries, and is a smiling annoyance. I love my companions.

And, I love and miss you,

Thursday.
Tags: cuba, spewing
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