Havana with my father
Our driver pulled up to the shabby doorway of an apartment building just off Paseo de Marti in Havana on Christmas Eve. The address did not match the reservation sheet I held in my hand for the casa particular I had reserved weeks before our arrival. Attempting to get clarification, and despite my exhaustion I tried to find the right words, the right Spanish verbs to explain this wasn’t the right place. Nothing matched. Not the address, not the pictures I had seen when I reserved our room, nothing. “Por favor, mira el papel. Este no…
Just a. . .
When this is all over, and we embark on whatever the world will look like after Covid-19, I don’t want to hear anyone say
“just a. . .” when referring to a person’s job.
No one is just a grocery store clerk.
No one is just a nurse.
No one is just a delivery driver.
No one is just a trash collector.
No one is just a truck driver.
No one is just a farm worker.
No one is just a meat processor.
On Tuesday morning I fell in love. Not a lot, just a little. Since the pandemic started I have been in two relationships, and on Tuesday one of those relationships moved to the next level.
When the shelter in place orders first began in the spring I brought my French press coffee maker out of the cupboard. I was used to drinking industrial coffee from an urn in the teacher’s room, I figured I couldn’t do much worse. Oh but I could. So much worse. It didn’t seem to matter what I tried, it was still bad. …
Teacher, traveler, amateur photographer and writer.