The easiest way to blow through, what must be the terminal destination for fratboys and girls, (where this is an appallingly worse place than anything I've ever seen) and onto Cubana Air and that treacherous Russian plane; (the last smoking) immediately bellowing steam/exhaust: both, silent, non-toxic, co-medically-cold air, welcomed on this little hour hot-hop in summer to the illegal, prohibited isle of communist Castro's, and, of course, to his proud Habana Airport.
And so we did touch down and were finally free: free to not have our passport stamped, free to kill chickens for Santeria rituals, free to be cigar smoking, morning-rum and Cuban coffee drinkers, on this, the only communist holdout in the Western hemisphere.
The rest is mostly what one does on regular holiday, except for everything squalid, disorganized, beautiful and preserved by UNESCO: this ruined old Columbus pearl-town; remembered by my inclination to suck up all cultures as a dying man does air--mojitas and depraved Kipling-boys taking us to where we shouldn't have been.
And then she says, 'I'm pregnant.' And it's crying time on the clean tiles of the famous hotel bathroom; and I actually gave my rental car to that guy we met in Parque Centrale, so he could take his girl on a real date in a real car; and it was parked out front in the morning for she and I to leave.
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