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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…

Sarah Brennan

Teacher, traveler, amateur photographer and writer.

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