I'd arrived. Landing in the most humid of circumstances. A heatwave had come to take the spirit of the island of Cuba.
And it showed. On the backs of the necks of the people. On the lips of the ladies, coming to greet family who'd returned from adventures they could only hope to see.
Immediately, I feel a sense of freedom. Freedom without limits as I am engulfed in words of a language I faintly recall, waiting for a car from yesteryear to come and take me away to paradise.
Paradise by definition is an intermediate place or state where the souls of the righteous await resurrection and the final judgment.
And as I traveled into the outskirts of Havana, I couldn't help but feel a resurrection within myself. A resurrection of faith. Judged against the lives of the Cuban people.
There are few things that are as humbling as traveling into a place outside of recollection or complete understanding. The mystery and excitement of my impending adventures were enhanced by the jaw-dropping visuals of the city.
Beyond my sunglasses, I could see the details of a city frozen in time. The irony of which did not escape me as the heat of the land began to overcome me. Havana, in all of its timeless splendor, seemed to be melting and deteriorating into the very ground on which it stood.
It's a breathtaking paradox that one has to experience to truly understand. The people, sitting outside their homes, traveling to and from work, walking the streets, riddled with heat. These people are living and progressing in a place that has physically not changed in decades.
I felt instantly connected to the people. A carnal consensus arose - the same sweat, love and life existed between us. The simplicity of it all was what called forth resurrection in my being.
While my physical senses were drained by the heatwave, my spirit was revitalised by the essence of Havana.