These lovely folks actually called out to me to take their photo.
Across from the American embassy.
When the cat tries to eat the camera.
Looking through into the University of Havana.
This is my favourite mural ever.
A very kind man who has lived in Australia as an opera singer.

I heard the jangling song of an icecream man and decided to try it out. He was delighted when this obvious foreigner tried out her broken Spanish on him, and probably more so when I gave him half a cuc for an ice cream that should have costed a peso. It was the most disgusting ice cream I’d ever eaten, strawberry that tasted like cardboard coated in plasticy chocolate, but it was worth it for the conversation.
Colon Cemetry. Not pictured: the two chicken carcasses in front of one grave.

This kid agreed to have his photo taken, but not to smile.

All the brown is rubbish floating in the sea.

While there are supposedly many clubs in Havana, I was honestly more excited for eight hours of sleep after a harrowing final semester. The one night I did go out, I was struck by how much these venues catered to foreigners. In this little cafe, the musicians did not play until six of us–white and black, American and Indian, Kiwi and Swiss–but all foreign to Cuba and carrying valuable cuc, walked in. Cubans hung out outside the cafe, singing and dancing and clapping to the music, but did not enter. Two men, obviously hired, came and encouraged us to dance, but did not smile. One man grabbed my hand and I obliged, trying to feel excitement as he instructed me on basic salsa steps, but unable to become enthused when his face read “just another day at the office.”

Heladería Coppelia, supposedly the best ice cream in Cuba. It must have sat at least a hundred people at one time, and I loved that locals came as well.

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