Sometimes pictures are better than words. That’s how I feel about the streets of Havana anyway – mainly Havana Vieja (Old Havana) - in all their gory richness; the dichotomy of grand, colourful buildings basking in a halo of sunlight, replaced by shadowy vestibules of crumbling brick, exposed wiring and rotting trash round the next corner.

When I think about the explosive, corrosive, all-encompassing bath of heat in Cuba now, it feels like I over-exaggerated it even to myself. I guess it’s hard to put myself back there while wrapped up for winter wearing furry slippers with the heating at full blast. Maybe.

Comments Off | In: Lifestyle, Photography, Travel | tags: buildings, cuba, cuban architecture, havana, havana city, havana in pictures, havana vieja, holiday, hot, streets. | #

This is a short piece I did in response to my new writing class – Inspiration & Realism for Writers - focusing on using the senses to convey story. We were played a beautiful, symphonic melody with hints of dolphins conversing. At least that’s what I made of it. The emphasis was on the sense of ’sound’.

It was a tranquil moment amidst a busy day, and a chance to let the imagination take over.

At first it made me think of a ballet dancer intent on her poses; perhaps like Natalie Portman in Black Swan. Then came the aquatic overlays which led me to the strict regimen of a synchronised swimmer – acting alone yet part of something bigger.

Floating.

The first notes amplified  in the still water. Water slippery around her face, her skin wet then veiled with fine droplets like lace clinging to her pores, clinging to the tiny hair follicles.

Symbols clashed their signal and the group moved in unison. Limbs pointing straight out, toes primed like a ballerina mid-plié.

Then up, out of the water, the air clasping smooth skin in its embrace. Plunging back down, fanning out, coiling in. Hands together, holding, synchronised. Face submerged. Notes subside.

The water is still again.

I wonder what this week’s class will inspire?

No Comments | In: Writing | tags: inspiration and realism for writers, music, personal writing practice, sound, synchronised swimmer, university of strathclyde centre for lifelong learning, writing practice. | #

How difficult is it to have a conversation? Not difficult at all you might say. Only I’ve noticed recently that it can be fraught with interruptions and that each train of thought is derailed so many times the point being made is infinitely diluted to the merest nothing; a cosmic vapour; sound bombs lost in a chilly October wind.

Example 1

The Scene: City Centre Car Park with Husband

The Scenario: Constant noise/situation pollution stamps out all attempt at sustained conversation

Upon exiting the car, I being a conversation (can’t remember what about now…) Having parked on the roof of said carpart, we have to walk downstairs, passing through a stairwell that stinks of piss. I hold my breath. Doors are opened and held and closed. I carry on my thread of conversation. We have to show our car park token to an attendant and wander along the busy platform of the train station. Falling back into step, I continue, only to be interrupted by a tannoy announcement about a delayed train. OK – carry on. The tannoy announcement is repeated. Start again. Refuse free newspapers/magazines, and wander along the street. Building work, pneumatic drills, noise pollution so loud we can’t carry on a conversation. Walking uphill, people in front smoking so I get a lungful of second-hand smoke. Thanks. I forget what I was saying and give up.

Example 2

The Scene: Shopping with the Mothership

The Scenario: Visual disruptions make conversation futile

Me (with burning desire to off-load facts): “So, you know how I told you about [key topic at forefront of mind]…”

Mothership: “Erm, remind me again. Ooh, look. Aren’t they lovely. Shall we go in [passing a shop window]?”

Me: “OK. Yeah so remember…”

Mothership: “Oh before I forget did I tell you I won £5 on the Thunderball again? I meant to say on the phone. It really is better than the normal lottery. Anyway, go on.”

Me: “Right, well the thing is…”

Mothership: “Is that [random person] over there?”

Me: “No.”

Mothership: “Sorry. You were saying…I must just nip in here to get those special porridge oats actually. Hang on a minute.”

Me: “Shall we go for a coffee so we can sit down properly?”

Mothership: “Good idea. I’ll just nip to the loo.”

Me (internally): Why do I bother?

 And it’s not just these scenarios that leave me irritated by interruptions and unable to converse. Restaurants are places where many crimes against conversation are committed.

Picture the scene – you meet up after work for a mid-week meal out OR set out on ‘date night’ for a romantic evening. Shown to your table, you order drinks, bit of chit chat, peruse the menu, then the evening can begin. Soaking up the atmosphere, recounting anecdotes from the day, catching up on conversation…until they bring out the bread rolls and butter, swap some cutlery about and perhaps uncork a bottle of wine at the table. Then the candle – if not already – has to be lit/swapped/snuffed. All of these interruptions take place at non-consecutive times, giving you just enough time inbetween to start out on a protracted thread of convo, but stare awkwardly at each other for the duration of the interruption, de-railed and confused.

“Are you ok for drinks?”

“Bloody fine – we’re having a convo, yeah?”

Then the meal arrives. Great stuff. Starving. Start eating, then just as you have a mouthful of food, they come over and ask if everything is OK.

“Mmmph. Thanhgihgks.”

When you finish eating, you just want the plates cleared and they are NO-WHERE TO BE SEEN, OR, you’re so thirsty and need another drink and can’t do anything to grab someone’s attention.

Dessert. Maybe. You’ve got a few questions perhaps about what each one includes/entails/is made of. Your heart is set on the mouth-watering-brilliant-super-seductive-whatever-with-ten-cherries-on-top. Oh but they don’t have that. Didn’t they say when they gave you the menu? Ooops.

Right, just the bill then. But everyone is gone; in hiding. It’s like a ghost-town and no-one wants to rattle your chains. You’re so full, you’re glad they didn’t have that sumptuous-sounding dessert. But now you just want to get home/get to the pub/lie down and die in super-soft pyjamas.

Not for nothing will they notice you now. You’re over as far as they’re concerned. If you aren’t ordering anything more and they’ve pumped you for all the coffee you can drink, what’s the point in wasting their energies on you? Until you start getting your scarf, hat, gloves and coat on. That does it. The conversation though? What conversation.

So it’s just the interminable wait for the card machine to crunch through your plastic; everyone staring at it, willing it to work, to spit out the thin papery trail of your romantic evening as you suck on a mint. Unless you want to add some gratuity?

No, I WANT TO BE LEFT IN PEACE TO HAVE A PRIVATE CONVERSATION!!!!!!!!!!!!

1 Comment | In: Lifestyle, Wannabe Journalist | tags: carpark, city centre, conversations, interrupted, interruptions, noise pollution, restaurant, Shopping. | #

It’s a month now since we woke up to this amazing sunrise squeezing up between the buildings of Parque Central, Havana.

Full of verve for the day ahead we were greeted with the Cuban version of Bucks Fizz as we entered the breakfast room. An omelette chef was on-hand, as all around tables bulged with fruits, pastries, cereals, cakes, cheese, cold meats and the usual cooked fayre. What was all that about a shortage of food?

Suitably fuelled, we ventured from the luxuriant cool of the hotel – for the first time since arriving – quickly accosted on all sides by men asking if we wanted to take a ride in their rickshaw or yellow Cuba Taxi; women asking us to buy dinner for them and their many children… It was akin to visiting the pyramids at Giza when we were pestered by hordes of locals to buy bags and ornaments, or just hold them – for a fee - and couldn’t properly enjoy the experience.

Tempted to bolt back into the hotel and up to the rooftop pool, we persevered, eventually stumbling into La Habana Vieja – Old Havana – rather than be tricked into Havana City with the lure of a non-existent Salsa Festival. It’s not that Cuban’s want to harm or murder us you understand, we were later told. It’s just that they want our money. The idea would be to lead us into the dodgiest part of town, the parts where tourists are told to avoid, and then rob us blind. Oh I see, OK, well armed with that knowledge we feel MUCH better about the whole thing. Which way is it then, this festival?

Clearly, wandering the narrow, often dirty streets of Havana is no time for relaxing thoughts. With names like Cuba and O’Reilly, they had open bins, rusting cars and kittens strolling around huge puddles from the previous days’ thunder storm. The heat mutated into an almost visible evil genie, slapping us in the face at each corner; spitting at our clothes, stealing the oxygen from the air.

We stood out as obvious tourists; our large-brimmed sun hats, pale skin and confused facial expressions. Toothless indistinct persons shouted out to us; ‘Kissy Kissy’ girls grabbed our arms, encouraging us to take photos of them dressed in Cuban lace and finery, then pay for the privilege. Others followed, asking where we wanted to go and had we heard there was a Salsa Festival just round the corner?

Within minutes we were hot, sticky, lost, confused, heat-debilitated and thirsty. Passing a collection of open doorways where vendors arranged their wares for the day – leather and crochet handbags, shell jewellery, canvas paintings, fridge magnets and trinkets – we took refuge in a leaf-canopied cafe/bar where I ordered a reviving Pina Colada.

It was 10am and I felt rather decadent. Then little bits of blossom and bark trickled down from the canopy above into the creamy froth while sweat ran down my face.

No Comments | In: Lifestyle, Travel | tags: breakfast, cuba, cuba taxi, fake salsa festival, havana, havana city, humidity, Kissy Kissy girls; Kissers, La Habana Vieja, o'reilly, Old Havana, parque central, rickshaw, sunrise. | #