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Wanderlust: Malmö Central Station
This is Malmö C early yesterday morning.
I once had a neighbor who used to ask me why I travel so much. She eventually leaned into the interrogation: “How can you possibly appreciate life at home if you’re never there?”
I answered her question with another question: “How can you appreciate your home when it’s such a minuscule sliver of what life has to offer? Especially if you only rarely leave the comfort and predictability of your daily routine?”
I have traveled regularly since my mid-twenties. You can call it an addiction, a distraction, or a never-ending adventure. To me, knowing that I am about to change locations and temporarily adopt new routines is what keeps me sharp, alert, and alive.
The big sleep is coming regardless of what we do or what some people prefer to believe. I want to experience as much as possible, as often as I can, before my eyes close for good. I know that one day, something will inevitably hinder my chronic wanderlust. It could be physical, financial, or political. But until then, every opportunity to move, change environments, and meet new people feels like a gift – a necessary breath of fresh air to fill my lungs with.
🍾 The Post-Champagne Reality Check: Time to Reset
There is an undeniable magic to France, but if I am being brutally honest and facing an uncomfortable truth, these last three visits have left me feeling an urgent need to detox. There’s just too many temptations, i.e. too much good food, especially delicious cheeses, related beverages in France. Not all, but most of everything that you can buy and eat there is also available here in Sweden. But nothing tastes as good as it does in France. Even the simplest baguette or bottom shelf wine tastes better. Maybe it’s just the ambiance. Maybe I’m just telling myself this.
Staying on track gets particularly interesting when you check into a hotel only to realize there is no gym facility on–site. Normally, that is just a cue to lace up the running shoes and hit the pavement to explore a new city which I love doing almost everywhere I travel. But throw in an intense summer heatwave like the one hovering above most of Europe right now, and suddenly, even a simple morning jog feels like a completely insurmountable task.
Paris Street Photography
Paris. Tuesday. Afternoon.
The first time I set foot in Paris was at the end of July 1983, during the final stretch of my first of two Interrail adventures through Europe.
I was an almost twenty-year-old guy with a head of curly brown hair, on my way back to Sweden after a month-long journey that had taken me from the Ouzo-drenched beaches of Corfu in the southeast, through the hovering clouds of ganja at the Montreux Jazz Festival, to the teeming lanes and countless pubs of Camden Town in London.
I only stayed in Paris for a couple of days that time. My money was almost gone. But I still wanted to see some of the classic places before boarding the northbound night train to Copenhagen.
I photographed the monuments and eventually collapsed each evening into a cheap bunk bed at a backpacker place somewhere near Gare du Nord.
By pure coincidence, Charlotte and I are now spending a few nights near that same iconic railway station.
Forty-three years have flown by, and much has changed. Obviously.
Paris has retained its timeless, elegant forms, but the social landscape has shifted considerably.
There was certainly poverty here in back in the summer of ’83, but nothing resembling the enormous amount of homelessness and the number of beggars lining the boulevards today. Not even close.
Just as in 1983, Paris is currently held in the suffocating grip of an extreme heatwave. At the time of writing, just after four in the afternoon, the mercury has climbed all the way to 36°C.
Early in the morning, the city is relatively manageable – you get a brief, deceptive reprieve before the sun takes full command.
After lunchtime, something changes, and the heat becomes almost threatening. The sun literally cooks the concrete pavements and the seemingly endless asphalt streets until the heat presses against you from two directions: like a radiator from the ground and a blowtorch from the sky.
It is like navigating the inside of a convection oven. The air is heavy, thick, and almost completely still.
But the heat does not stop street life. With my camera around my neck, I look for those fleeting encounters and scenes that appear for only a few seconds. Sometimes, when a face catches my eye, I step forward and ask:
“Excusez-moi, je suis photographe, je peux vous prendre en photo ?”
The answer is often positive. Most Parisians – whether they are on their way somewhere along the pavement or lingering in the shade outside cafés, bistros, and brasseries – are remarkably accommodating. Young and old alike carry themselves with a distinct, innate sense of style and pride. They are surprisingly often happy to stop and offer a pose.
Perhaps it has something to do with the historical weight of fashion here – a deeply rooted understanding that to be seen is to exist, and that being captured in a photograph is a compliment, not a personal intrusion.
Paris is extraordinary for many reasons, but even when the heat bears down on the city, it proves that street photography is alive and kicking.
Just as it was in 1983.
C’est ça.
Reims & Épernay: Champagne Days & Caves
Sunday. Evening. Reims. Near heatstroke.
It hit 93°F (34°C) this afternoon by the time we sat down for a late lunch after our last tasting at Maison G.H. Martel.
Our collective sigh of relief we let out in that air-conditioned brasserie probably echoed across the entire dining room.
Next to us sat a newly retired couple from Florida, originally from Cuba. We eventually got to talking politics – turns out they are definitely not fans of “you-know-who” and sometimes even hide their US identity by claiming to be Canadian when traveling.
The night before, we watched the first half of the Sweden vs Holland match from our hotel room bed.
Hunger ultimately beat soccer, and it wasn’t until the main course arrived that we found out about the beatdown in Houston. Still, a solid effort. Japan should be an easy win next, right?
We’ve discovered a great local Champagne hack: regional tourism offices frequently host smaller champagne houses to pour free tastings and share their stories.
And since the French hold journalists/travel writers and photographers in high regard, they love to roll out the red carpet for us – especially when they hear we’re from Sweden. Maybe even a little extra after Saturday night’s loss.
The 10+ smaller houses we’ve visited so far know all about the Swedish state monopoly – how tough it is to get on Systembolaget’s shelves and that private importing is rarely worth the hassle.
What they don’t realize is that a mediocre glass of wine at a Swedish restaurant often costs more than a nice glass of Champagne here in Reims.
This is my third trip to France this year, and I’m continually struck by how incredibly polite and welcoming people have become since my first visit in 1983.
The younger generation speaks far better English than we do French; my local poll suggests many have learned English from watching shows like Friends, just as in Nice and Marseille.
Reims is a fantastic basecamp. Steeped in Roman history, it’s spotlessly clean, has beautifully preserved architecture, and is incredibly easy to navigate via regional train, car, or, even e-bike.
The village of Épernay, also in the official Champagne region, is arguably even more picturesque – and not far from church where Dom Pérignon helped pioneer the use of cork stoppers – but its dining and hotel scene is too small for us. Once you walk up and down Avenue de Champagne, the town feels a bit limited and exorbitant.
Back in Reims, the underground chalk caves (crayères) at Maison Pommery & Greno are an absolute must. Originally excavated by the Romans for building materials, these massive vaults now house millions of aging bottles – mostly Magnums and Jeroboams – alongside massive contemporary art installations. Our self-guided ticket was €30 and came with a glass of delicious bubbles.
Growing up in Göteborg, “The Yellow Widow” (Veuve Clicquot) was the only champagne I knew by name.
Visiting her maison felt nostalgic, even if the brand is now more of a lifestyle empire than a traditional winery. Their gift shop is packed with pricey trinkets – a bit gimmicky, but undeniably lucrative.
The grip that the Comité Champagne (CIVC) has on this region is wild. They function like an international legal army, ruthlessly suing anyone using the name illegally – whether it’s a US soda maker or a local guy printing t-shirts with the word “Champagne” on it.
By fiercely protecting their AOP (Protected Designation of Origin), they keep Champagne synonymous with ultimate luxury while micro-managing local harvests down to the last detail.
The big houses account for 72% of global volume and 79% of total value. The region comprises roughly 410 houses, 120 cooperatives, and over 16,000 growers.
Giants like Moët & Chandon produce some 30 million bottles annually, and Veuve Clicquot hits around 19 million, while the independent growers, which we’ve favored while here, usually produce just 10,000 to 100,000 bottles.
At €5.7 billion ($6.1 billion) in annual revenue, the entire Champagne ecosystem is a massive economic engine, yet it’s smaller than global Swedish tech giants like Spotify.
Behind the luxury lies a grueling, labor-intensive industry reliant on 120,000 seasonal workers every harvest – many stemming from Eastern Europe and West Africa via third-party agencies.
The industry has faced heavy criticism for substandard housing and exploitation of migrant labor. It’s an important part of the reality; luxury always starts with hard manual labor.
As a first-time visitor, I’m genuinely hooked. The intersection of Roman history, ancient craftsmanship, sharp marketing, and label aesthetics is fascinating. I’d love to come back – ideally during the harvest.
Next stop: Paris.
Quick Facts: Reims & Champagne
Reims
The Royal Cathedral: Notre-Dame de Reims hosted the coronations of 31 French kings between 1027 and 1825.
WWII Ends Here: WWII officially ended in Europe on May 7, 1945, when Germany signed its unconditional surrender inside a Reims schoolhouse serving as Eisenhower’s headquarters.
1,800-Year-Old Caves: The city sits on 124 miles (200 km) of Roman chalk tunnels holding a constant 50–54°F (10–12°C)—nature’s perfect cellar.
The Smiling Angel: The cathedral’s famous L’Ange au Sourire statue was decapitated by WWI bombs but painstakingly rebuilt as a symbol of French resilience.
The Champagne Cookie: Biscuits Roses de Reims (baked since the 1690s) are double-baked to be rock-hard so you can dip them straight into your glass of Champagne without them dissolving.
Champagne
Tire-Level Pressure: A standard bottle holds 5–6 bars of pressure—double a car tire and triple a bottle of soda.
The Bubble Myth: A single glass holds 1 to 2 million bubbles. Tiny bubbles don’t automatically mean higher quality; bubble size is determined by temperature and glass texture.
40 km/h Corks: Flying corks can clock 25 mph (40 km/h). Proffs hold the cork stable and twist the bottle, never the cork.
White from Red: Over two-thirds of Champagne is made from red grapes (Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier), pressed so gently that no color bleeds from the skins.
Strictly Hand-Picked: Machine harvesting is entirely illegal. Every single cluster in the region must be picked by hand to prevent damaged fruit from spoiling the press.
Skagen/Jylland/Denmark
Here’s a few clips from where two seas meet in northern Jylland.
Where the Skagerrak and Kattegat crash into each other in restless, shifting currents. Where concrete ruins from Nazi-era bunkers are slowly being swallowed by sand, salt, wind, and time. Where pale beaches stretch for miles beneath a vast northern Scandinavian sky.
This is Skagen, Denmark’s northernmost town – a place of strange beauty, hard history and that extraordinary light.
A landscape shaped by war, weather, and water. A place where everything seems to be moving: the dunes, the sea, the clouds, the memories.
Skagen: Battle of the Seas
Yesterday, I waded out to the point often described as the nearest place on land where one can experience the meeting of two seas – the North Sea (The Atlantic Ocean) and the waters leading toward the Baltic.
I’m not entirely convinced that the claim is as precise as the tourist brochures suggest. Geography has a way of becoming more poetic when it is turned into marketing. But standing there, with the sand shifting under my feet and the water pulling in different directions, it was easy to see that two separate currents were colliding.
The result was strangely beautiful: opposing waves crashing left to right and right to left, into one another, folding and breaking at odd angles, creating patterns on the restless surface. Whether or not the brochure version is entirely accurate, the sensation was real enough as the sea was briefly drawing its own visible border.
Skagen in Denmark
Past to Present to Future
Charlotte took this shot of me in a dive bar along the main drag of Lahaina on the Hawaiian island of Maui. Lahaina is the town devastated by a wildfire a few years back. I came across the photo while looking for the parrot image that the University of Cambridge licensed from me a couple of weeks ago. We rented a house there for about a week and loved Maui’s west coast.
I’m finally done with the gigabytes of photos that had to be curated ahead of launching the new website for my fine art photography. So today, I spent much of my time going through a trove of half-century-old photos from my childhood and teenage years in Los Angeles.
I suppose it is easy to think that I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about, dwelling on and analyzing my past. And yes, over these past four or five months, I have admittedly spent more time than usual discovering, sorting through and making sense of all kinds of crap from my childhood. It’s definitely been a process, but mostly a healthy one.
I guess you are never too old to go through a dysfunctional childhood. It’s always there, like a knotted neckless or a third eye that is constantly looking at your life through a totally different lens.
For the most part, my days are spent working on creative projects that have very little to do with the past. They are all about the future.
My Mother’s Death Day
On June 11, 1978, my mother, Solveig “Sissi” Andersson, passed away. A few weeks earlier, I had come home from school at Bancroft Jr High and seen a friend and part-time assistant of my mother’s, Richard Ross, sitting on the edge of the bed in her bedroom at 842 Croft Avenue in West Hollywood.
My mother was lying in bed with a red towel covering one of her eyes – I don’t remember which eye. According to Richard, my mother had bent down to wash her underwear in the bathtub and struck her eye on the sharp edge of the metal handle on the bathtub’s glass door. The impact was so severe that she lost her balance, fell backward onto the bathroom floor, and hit the back of her head hard.
There was always drama at our house, and it was usually my mother who caused it. Her alcoholism guaranteed that, and her waking state constantly fluctuated between three stages: tipsy, drunk, and hungover. All three variations made her both unreliable and, above all, unpredictable.
No one doubted that she was intoxicated when the accident occurred. She drank pretty much from the time we left for school in the morning until she fell asleep at night. She would often lie on the couch, snoring loudly when Tyko and I came home from school in the afternoons.
On the carpet below the couch, there was almost always a blue plastic glass filled with vodka. I remember the stench and to this day cannot drink it. But then again, that’s the only spirit I can’t drink.
My mother was clever at hiding her bottles of Smirnoff, but after two or three drinks – which she drank with lime juice or club soda and ice – I suppose she couldn’t muster the energy to put the gallon bottle back in its hiding place. So, instead of making sure there was something for us her kids to eat, a large glass bottle of Smirnoff would sometimes be standing on the kitchen table.
When the ambulance arrived to pick up my mother, we thought she was just going to the hospital to get patched up, and then come back home. But she didn’t. She never came home. Following a surgery where they attempted to relieve the pressure that built up when her brain swelled after the fall, my mother slipped into a coma and died 48 years ago today.
Both Tyko and I were obviously deeply upset when the news arrived. The surgeon told me on the phone after the operation that my mother’s general condition was critical; above all, her liver was shriveled from years of alcohol abuse. He explained that she would not have lived much longer regardless, and would only have been able to pull through the surgery and recover if her body hadn’t been in such bad shape.
Looking back now, nearly half a century later, I can admit that I felt both a profound grief and a sense of guilty relief. My mother was rarely kind to me. In her eyes, I reminded her of my father and became intertwined with him as the root of everything that had gone wrong in her life. I was her convenient scapegoat for him abandoning her for a younger woman from Alaska who worked as an erotic dancer at strip joints along La Cienega Boulevard.
I spent most of the day on June 11, 1978, comforting Tyko. He was only 11 years old and understandably had a really tough time processing our mother’s death. Our dysfunctional family had now been decimated even further, but life for both of us, at least for a while, would actually turn around when we moved to Sweden a few weeks later.
I’ve come to learn more about my mother in recent years, and maybe I’ve even come to terms with some of the shit she’s had me carry with me for the rest of my life. Still, a part of me, the most generous part, would have loved to have her see how I managed to create a decent life for myself, despite her vindictive, vodka-fueled misbehavior. Above all, it would have been wonderful to see her amazing granddaughter, Elle and Charlotte.
I don’t celebrate my mother’s death today. But it certainly is a day that is hard to forget.
The photo is probably one of the very first of me, likely taken by my father.
This post isn’t about me seeking sympathy or empathy. It’s just another story that I needed to tell. However, if there are readers who can identify with it becasue they too grew up with an abusive parent, then maybe it can help them feel less alone in their lifelong struggle to feel good about themself.
Parrot from Guatemala
I photographed this parrot during a ten-day press trip through Guatemala several years ago. I believe it was taken near the Mayan pyramids of Tikal, or possibly around Lake Flores – both unforgettable places with an extraordinary mix of history, color and wildlife.
Anyway, I mention this because I recently licensed a completely different parrot image, taken on Maui, Hawaii, to a researcher in the Electrical Engineering Division at the Department of Engineering, University of Cambridge, UK.
Having my photography spread across the internet is, unfortunately, a necessary evil. Over the years, many of my images have been used without permission or proper licensing, often in commercial contexts.
On a few occasions, after threatening legal action, I have been fairly compensated and I should arguably probably spend more time tracking where and how my work is being used or misused.
But as a lawyer friend once told me a long, long time ago, I am probably better off being creative than chasing infringements.
At this stage of my life, creating new images and having honest people license or buy them matters far more than spending my time as an image-rights detective. I know there are services that do this, but you still need to put in a lot of effort to figure out who is in the right and who is stealing.
Memories from the Pool
When I was a kid growing up in what would eventually become an increasingly dysfunctional family in Los Angeles, there was a short period – maybe a year, maybe two – when I experienced something that I want to remember as blissful.
My father had decided that we needed a swimming pool in the backyard of our house at 849 Alfred Street. It wasn’t very big, maybe 2.5 by 5 meters, and not extending more than about 3 meters at the deep end.
According to my mother, I could swim before I could walk. I had first been taught by a local kid I met in Topolobampo, Mexico, where we stayed for several months while my father was completing one of his early Art For Children books.
Having a pool in our own backyard felt magical.
A few years later, after my father had left and what remained of our family was slipping into a crumbling chaos, I remember sneaking out of the house at night and turning on the pool heater. It may have been the winter of 1975.
I waited a few hours, then watched the warm water meet the cold Los Angeles night air, steam hovering just above the surface, almost ghostlike.
My mother was furious, of course, that I had turned on the gas heater in the middle of the energy crisis.
But it was that first and maybe second year with the pool I remember most clearly.
I must have been five or six, so around 1968 or 1969, just before my parents’ divorce. Clearly, the pool did not turn out to be a particularly effective marriage-saving project.
I spent as much time in that small backyard pool as I could. I remember challenging myself to see how many underwater laps I could swim before coming up for air, lengthwise and across.
There are a few photographs from my parents’ pool parties, where everyone is smoking, smiling, and looking almost impossibly happy.
I think of these silver-lined memories whenever I see clear blue water like this, which I captured during my week in Greece. They are distant faded and easily drowned by other, less blissful episodes from my childhood, but nonetheless good memories.
Clouds over Greece
Somewhere above Greece last week, just before landing while flying with SAS in an Airbus A320, the sky put on one of those quiet shows no screen can compete with.
As we began the descent on our way to Sivota, the clouds appeared like soft mountain ranges, lit from below by a sunset slowly burning through gold, pink, and some blue.
For a while, the flight became less about getting somewhere and more about simply looking out the window.
A reminder that travel sometimes begins before you land.
The Spread
I’m definitely not a resort or a retreat person. I don’t like being trapped in a cushy, comfy all-inclusive bubble where I don’t get to see, hear, smell, or taste anything other than what has been more or less intelligently composed and conceptualized for me by a team of hospitality pros.
To me, that kind of institutional, over-sanitized travel feels completely hollow. Soulless.
I much prefer staying at smaller, independent hotels where you actually feel like a guest – a human being – and not just another faceless, revenue-generating statistic in a corporate database.
That said, as much as I push back against the “resort industrial complex”, this hotel’s location here in Greece is undeniably beautiful.
The scenery here doesn’t give a hoot about stiff and worn hospitality mechanics; the way the light hits the bay and the surrounding landscape is the real deal.
Travel Tip: Vacuum Packing
A long day’s journey home has begun. Packed and ready, but packing is definitely not one of my hidden talents.
You would think that after decades of traveling and thousands of hotel nights, I would have developed some kind of technique or knack for it. But not a chance.
When it comes to packing a suitcase, I am actually a disaster. There is simply no happy medium – either I pack like I’m moving abroad for good, or I realize too late that I’ve forgotten some of the most important things I wanted to bring.
But my biggest problem is still the total lack of structure. No matter what I do, it always ends up with everything sitting in one chaotic, unsorted mess.
I push down, squeeze, and close the lid with brute force, which results in me completely losing track of what’s inside. If I need to grab a specific sweater, I have to root around like a badger and pull everything out onto the hotel bed before I can find it.
But now, I’ve discovered vacuum-packed travel bags. They might not help me become more structured in my packing, but I seem to fit significantly more stuff.
The concept is ingenious in its simplicity: you just stuff the clothes into the bags and suck out the air with a pump (or, a vacuum). Suddenly, that huge, cumbersome mountain of socks, underwear, t-shirts, shorts, and everything else has shrunk into flat, rock-solid, and ridiculously easy-to-pack packages.
The best part isn’t even that you save about half the space in your bag – though that is a massive plus. Through the transparent bags, I can see exactly where my things ended up. “Neat and tidy” might be stretching it, but at least I get a decent overview.
Geeking out on a huge Greek Breakfast
I’m once again on assignment in Greece to do a travel story about another seaside sport hotel known for its many activities. This time I’m on the mainland, not too far from the legendary islands of Corfu and Paxos.
I rarely eat anything other than yogurt and smoothies at home, except when Charlotte makes her delicious vegan pancakes. But when I get to stay at a hotel that serves a classic English or American breakfast, I typically go with the flow and indulge.
The above selection is from this morning’s breakfast, which I enjoyed after an hour running and lifting weights at the hotel’s gym.
Book Delivery: The English Garden at Österlen
The sky was wide, the air was crisp, and the landscape was doing what it does best at this time of year – completely giving in to the season and showcasing the blue and yellow hues of the Swedish flag.
Driving through Österlen right now means moving through an almost surreal contrast of colors: the sharp, neon yellow of the blooming canola fields rolling all the way down to meet the deep, cold blue of the Baltic. It’s the kind of light and texture that makes you want to pull over every hundred meters and capture the annual, albeit short-lived, occurrence.
But yesterday, there was a distinct purpose to the eastward drive. The back of the car is loaded with copies of my book, Österlen, and Charlotte and I were on our merry way to drop off a fresh delivery to Anette Cato at Den Engelska Trädgården.
Tucked away at Svabesholms Kungsgård in Svinaberga—just a few kilometers south of Kivik, right where the shadow of Stenshuvud National Park begins – this place is an absolute gem. It’s a beautifully executed nod to the classic English Arts and Crafts style, packed with meticulously planned perennials that have just begun to burst into life once again.
Delivering a book that is entirely about capturing the soul, the light, and the raw beauty of this region to a sanctuary that celebrates the same thing made it feel like the perfect artistic circle.
Delivering a book that is entirely about capturing the soul, the light, and the raw beauty of this region to a sanctuary that celebrates the same thing made it feel like the perfect artistic circle.
In addition to The English Garden, my book Österlen is available on Amazon (US) and at Adlibris and Bokus.
The Duckess of Malmö
Malmö. Last night. Gorgeous evening light, with the Öresund Bridge doing its usual quiet thing in the background. How could I not whip out my five-year-old iPhone and at least try to capture this beautiful bird?
This is not just any duck, but what, according to an informed source (ChatGPT), is a female mallard – gräsandshona in Swedish. She stood there on the wooden deck, checking out the view and everyone who came by as if she owned the place, which, given the confidence of most ducks around here, she probably believes she does.
The mottled brown feathers, perfect camouflage for nesting and for looking understated, are the giveaway that she is a she. The male mallard gets the green head and all the attention. The female gets practicality, elegance and survival skills. A better deal, if you ask me.
Look closely and you’ll see the blue-purple flash on the wing, apparently called the “speculum”.
Mallards are among the most common ducks in Sweden. They are adaptable, pushy, oddly dignified and always seem to know exactly where the snacks are.
This one had the bridge, the sea, the sunset and the pose. All she lacked was an agent.
From the Archives: Turning Torso in Color
Not since ABBA’s Waterloo have I been able to say, honestly, that I think the Eurovision Song Contest is anything other than a professional and slickly produced spectacle where bad taste continues to prevail.
I did, however, partake once, during the finale here in Malmö in 2013 – not by watching the show, but by documenting how Turning Torso was spectacularly and colourfully lit up for the occasion.
From the Editorial Archives: Miami Beach
Havoc in Havana
One of the places I’m happiest to have visited – twice – is Cuba. From a purely visual standpoint, I sometimes think spending at least a week in Havana should be mandatory for any serious photographer.
Few cities I have visited reward serendipitous wandering quite the same way. You can turn a corner expecting nothing and suddenly find a scene that feels less like reality and more like a film set that forgot to wrap decades ago.
I remain in awe of the city and its strange magnetism. Havana is undeniably beautiful, though obviously not in the polished or carefully curated sense. Its appeal often lives in the cracks. Buildings seem to peel and sag under the weight of time and rule.
Balconies lean with an almost philosophical indifference to gravity. The city wears its scars openly. There is decay, yes, but also dignity and character among people trying to live their lives within that decay. It rarely felt staged or manufactured for visitors. It simply existed on its own terms – take it or leave it.
What stayed with me as much as the visuals, though, were the people. During both visits I met Cubans whose warmth and openness felt spontaneous rather than transactional. Conversations had a way of appearing out of nowhere – on street corners, in cafés, outside homes, beside old American cars held together by equal parts ingenuity and stubbornness. And probably a few smuggled Japanese spare parts.
Like with all places where I’ve spent some time, I find myself thinking about the people there now.
Cuba is going through extraordinarily difficult times.
Many ordinary Cubans seem caught between forces largely outside their control – economic hardship, shortages, political realities and circumstances that leave little room to maneuver. Sandwiched between a rock and a hard place hardly begins to cover it.
Perhaps that is also why the place stays with me. Cuba was never simply about old cars and faded facades. It was, and is, about the people living behind them and the hopes and dreams they carry. Despite the havoc. Or, maybe their dreams have never been more important.