Don't Come Back: WINNER of the Writer's Digest 2019 Memoir of the Year Award (Weird Travel) by Fletcher Adam

Author:Fletcher, Adam [Fletcher, Adam]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Wanderlust Words
Published: 2019-07-06T16:00:00+00:00

21

The next morning, after breakfast, I headed out into Havana. I found it as I’d left it—its sun shining, its children playing, its automobiles whispering Bruce Springsteen songs to me as I passed, promising that my sweetheart and I could drive all night to escape our humdrum, small-town fates.

Without a plan, I walked. The weird thing about Cuba is how much it looks like its mortal enemy, America—1950s America, specifically. I kept expecting to turn a corner and find a wholesome all-American diner where roller-skating waitresses in plaid skirts would ply me with ice-cream shakes.

It stole my heart within two blocks.

An hour into the walk, I got thirsty and decided to buy some water. I scanned my surroundings expecting to find five retail establishments where I could complete the simple task. I found no such places. That’s fine, I thought. I’ll walk more. But all the shops seemed to be the same: their middles empty, their edges fitted with waist-high glass cabinets, behind which a bored staff member or two sat on stools, in starched white jackets, looking very preoccupied with the killing of time. Other than in North Korea, I’d never seen shops this bare.

Fifteen minutes and several streets later, I found a supermarket that had a few bottles for sale. I got out my map and drew a little picture of a water bottle next to the location. This would become my water dealer for the following days. Feeling successful, I went to a nearby plaza, sat on a bench, and drank. A man in a fedora—the default hat here—sat next to me. His shoes were brown leather and polished to a blinding shine. “Hola,” he said. “English?”

“Yes.” I reached into my satchel. “Would you like a pen?” I asked, holding out six. The man removed his sunglasses and took one. He squinted at it and clicked its end several times before putting it back in my hand. “We don’t really need those anymore.”

“Oh.”

He turned to face me. “I like your shirt though.”

I looked down at it. It was baby blue and had buttons and sleeves. It was a shirt remarkable only in its ordinariness.

“Okay.”

He nodded. “It’s a really nice shirt.”

Who felt this strongly about baby blue? I checked the shirt again, in case I was missing something. He flashed me his white teeth. “Can I buy your shirt?”

“Uhm.” I felt like I was playing a game whose rules were being written with each dice roll. Was I supposed to walk home topless? I couldn’t afford to lose any of my clothes, since I’d brought so few with me, to leave space for pens.

“Nah. I’m . . . good, thanks.”

We were sitting in a wide, handsome square. At its centre was a fountain. On the far side was a long, slow-moving queue. “What are they queueing for?”

He crossed his legs. “Bread.”

“Is the bread there that good?”

He chuckled. “No.”

I’d heard that in the DDR (socialist East Germany), people would join any queue they saw, even if they didn’t know what was at its front.

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