Tuesday, 08 November 2011 15:03
Havana at night. Muse of poets, painters and musicians.
Although San Cristóbal of Havana is already 492 years old, it does not decline and stays young, vital and enigmatic, having passed through a splendid transition from small village to big city. Neither hurricanes, nor fires and attacks harmed it, defiant and invulnerable it's raising up, historical and cultured.
You will never completely understand it; every day it catches you again forcing you to undress it, just like an unusual vision. Its mysterious narrow streets and wonderful avenues take you everywhere and nowhere. Counting with admirable buildings from unimaginable styles as well as wonderful and proud people who make it grow and shine.
Permanent muse of poets, painters and musicians who don't exhaust neither its infinite groin vault, nor its secret cabbala. A rich metropolis, wealthy, but not ostentatious at all, rather modest, simple; maybe that's why it's been envied by the entire world. With a unique rhythm and pace, it peacefully absorbs and incorporates its harmony.
The Atlantic Ocean in the North puts it in a marine color and a perfume and taste of seaweed while refreshing it with its perfect and subtle wind. The only cloned metropolis with multiple close and direct interactions, just like the two poles of a big magnet: Havana and Miami.
A city that for all this and a lot more exists wherever stands a Havanan.
Havana makes you dizzy and fall in love and it stays in the ones who know it, the ones who live in it and especially the ones who make it stay alive, also from far away.
I raise my glass filled with Cuban rum and toast to the wonderful San Cristóbal, to my celebrating Havana and to all Havanans in the world. And I do this repeating the prophecy of a Spanish captain, Francisco Dávila Orejón, who stated 350 years ago: "I don't only know what you are, but also what your value is. Oh Havana, the smallest one of America. In the presence of your elegant greatness you will remain alive for ever".
Cheers!
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