Where journeys & stories meet

I knew I should have not had this one last, very cold Mojito. I knew it.

Now here I am. Sitting in a taxi listening to Latino pop with beats bumping simultaneously to the rhythm of my headache.

I stare at the Cuban flag hanging down the mirror of the car and moving slightly to the left and to the right.

I'm leaving a world behind that I dislike, where fake authenticity rolls over the real beauty of the country. Good bye, you all-inclusive resort.

Hello, Cuba.

It's my first time in a country, where Spanish is much more helpful than German, English or my rusty French skills.

My taxi driver is taking me to Ciego de Avila. A city with houses as colourful as Europe's trees in spring.

I wander through the small alleys of the city and sneak through the open windows. Kids in front of their TV and parents preparing food. Average daily life, I think, when Salsa rhythms drag me into a different direction.

The sound becomes louder and I quickly find myself in what I always imagined Cuba to sound and look like.

Ambitious dancers are shaking their hips to the sound of live Salsa music, right in the middle of the streets.

All of them are in their early 70s, maybe older. They dance and laugh. One after the other enthusiastic Cuban man walks over to the timid ladies around the square and asks them for a dance.

With a shy smile on their faces but with prompt attitude, the high-heeled ladies in their knee-long skirts enter the dance floor.

Showing off with Salsa moves? Something, I always wanted to learn but never was able to do. I secure myself a seat and watch the event, as, suddenly, I get an offer as well.

Obviously, a freckled girl with a camera does not remain unseen.

An old man stops in front of me.

George, probably 70, resembles the Cuban I always imagined. He wears a white suit and Salsa shoes, his face is covered in wrinkles from the sunlight and he has a cigar in his mouth.

“Hola chica, que tal?”, he asks. “Muy bien, y tu?”, and this is also the only thing I can potentially say in Spanish. George does talk bits of French too, but it is not enough to have a proper conversation.

With Salsa skills resembling a robot dancing to The Prodigy, I let George hit the dance floor on his own.

George.

I look at him, as he drags his dancing partner to the dancefloor and shakes his hips enthusiastically. When I am 70, I want to dance in the streets of Ciego de Avila.

Just like George.

I grab a Mojito to go and leave the alleys of Ciego de Avila.