Forgive me for repeating myself – it’s late, I’m tired and have Cuba on my mind.
My husband and I have a thing about cemeteries – when we travel, it’s a given we’ll end up in a graveyard. We never discuss the inevitable, that’s not how we travel. It doesn’t matter where we are, at some point a cemetery beckons, we oblige.
Cristobal Colon in Havana seemed no different. Undaunted by the closed gate, buoyed by voices in the gatehouse – my husband negotiated our entrance. Unencumbered by expectation, void of tour book overviews – we entered just the way we liked it – blank slates on a mission of discovery.
I’m not certain if the enormity of Colon ever truly registered. Past the gates, lost in silent pondering, each of us intent on picking solitary paths through the labyrinth. Five or ten minutes passed, minutes filled with wonder at the stark beauty of monuments to the dead. We needed that time to get our bearings…
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