![]() ![]() ![]() One afternoon, we walked for hours in the ocean, sort of half-floating along enjoying the sunshine and each other's inexplicable good moods. We also spent a wonderful couple of days on the beach at Varadero. Oh, and the highlight for me? Seeing Hemingway's house in Havana, spectacular. We visited some amazing things: the caves where we snorkeled underground, the city of Trinidad, Havana, an old ranch run by a man born in the very house where we had lunch, whose history was translated for us by a youngster from Montreal, and saw Che's memorial at Santa Clara. In short, the good: the beach, which is stunningly beautiful, the island, which is hauntingly the same as its almost frozen in time with its steadily decaying buildings, its old cars, and its strangely ironic absence of American anything. As my RRHB said, "Wanting to be home isn't the way to end a holiday." Are we ever, ever glad to be home from Cuba.
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