Like a crumpled up, but proud, sash around Miss Cuba the road glistened and bore its potholes well. The trip from Playa Pascara to Guardalavaca [our destination, which means ’Watch out for the cows’] takes 25 mts and costs us US$5. We pass at least 10 outstretched hands thumbing a ride.
I am still working on my accent, that elusive 1%. I am now skilled at kissing, shaking hands, and hugging. But I don’t get much of an opportunity to practice my ethnic greeting.
I opened my eyes and saw nothing. First the sounds of rain reached me, then the spray from a water drop. Lightning made the room bright for a blink of an eye. I reached down and pulled the blanket over my head ready for the sound. The deafening thunder made me still shudder.
There is no woman in sight. If a man stands in the middle of a forest and says something, is he still wrong?
The day started early, a few sunrays before six. The sun peeped, ran an eye over Holguin beach, looked up, parted the curtains of our resort room, and summoned me to the window.
Chitra is mean. It all started with that stupid carrom board*. One fine evening Chitra and I had the urge to go and eat at Gerrard St. [Indian street downtown]. So, with Parvathiammal [our Tamilian friend who has a strong opinion about everything and everyone] in tow, we eased into our 1996 Ford Taurus and …
“Eat, my son. By the time you go back to Toronto, I want you to gain two pounds.” This shocking start to conversation stemmed, unbelievably, from unconditional love.