liquids, first impressions of

The air is heavy. I’m a bit sticky. The sound of the harmonium weaves its way through the cars that weave their way along the Malecón, tracing the lines of the ocean’s edge though the ocean knows no edges, knows no walls, breaks over walls onto streets and cars before settling and slowly drawing back, seeming to pull both with it. We arrived in mid-afternoon and paused before our new residence to watch the ocean, our professor telling us how rare this is. “This only happens in January, the ocean breaking over the walls of the Malecón. I’ve come here in January specifically to film these waves.”

As waves fell over the Malecón I could think of no better grand display of “Welcome to Havana.” Yet as I stood watching the ocean that first night and now as I do so exactly a week later, watching it creep farther and farther over the sidewalks and streets, soaking more of the land in front of us, I increasingly notice my distance from this place, fully feeling the effects of feet moving faster than the eye can absorb, eye moving faster than the mind can process.

The kitchen where “Mima,” the residence’s caretaker, stands, welcomes, kisses, and a boiling pot of pineapple spines that turn to jugs of the spiny juice sitting on clean, sparse, ordered tables which we pour into small flowered glasses before it quickly becomes the damp shine dripping from foreheads, seeping from our little Michigan pores, opening them to the new humidity, to the new strong juice in our juice boxes, to the placement of these rum boxes on shelves next to water, Acqua Panna water, 4 CUC water, perhaps a third of one’s income water, placed on the third floor of the galleria across from the Melia Cohiba hotel, the Melia Cohiba placed three streets east and one south of the market with reused beer bottles holding tomato sauce for sale, 10 peso tomato sauce, placed on one side of a fence on which the other holds a small drum of gasoline, perched, or so it looks, above a driveway which holds a car in repair. So much of the air smells like gasoline, as if the odor liquefies inside of you once inhaled, walking down the street, large breaths, no different than if the drum were to suddenly spill up your nostrils before coming out again, exuding an aura of smoky dampness. But we all have it, the smell and shine, though ours smells newer than others you can still smell it, most prevalent when packed 30 to a room, Santeria ceremony, dancing behind golden necks, glistening necks, the smell of us all, of the liquids and smoke inside, becomes more easily recognizable before being washed away, cleansed, by the water squeezed out of flower petals and baby powder, dripping from foreheads, spilling over bowls, bowls for offering.

I watched the Malecón last night and wondered if the waves would ever reach our feet, if one day we might get soaked, too, or perhaps just stand in a puddle of the ocean’s sprays, have a few of our smaller toes dissolve into it and then seep into the ground, below the sidewalks and buildings, with perhaps the smallest melted particle making it to the ocean, being pulled with it before being thrown back, over the walls again.

*NOTE: Names that appear in quotes are pseudonyms we have chosen to protect each individual’s privacy.