Walking down from the nice hotel and casino down in the burning south. A checkered corridor leads me to a room with some books. Larsen is there, so is Kinney. A and I head to Jalapeño´s, then to Chango’s. The walk takes us from Reina, to Union, to Concordia, and finally to Luna.
If you look above you, at Chango’s, you can see Cuba, Brazil, Canada, Ireland, Puerto Rico, and Jamaica. On one side of the people-laden joint stands a Christmas tree, but if you look to the other side, the wall wishes you a Happy Halloween, while the guy dressed all in black with a cross around his neck dances joyfully.
A lot of older faces around, even the barkeep has seen many Summers. Beer is the drink of the night, and the Dutch is always my choice. No hard liquor tonight, just ladies dancing the night away from the fireworks above the cross by Serrallés.
We open the door, and a mummy meets us covered in white, and the room still smells of tacos, as a sleepless night listens to the shower fall and the air vent circulate.
In the 100 x 35 piece of the Caribbean, the magazine attempts to convince you that there is nothing wrong here, while outside a soul of addiction dances to no music with a white stick, and a crack pipe lays on the ground surrounded by three lighters, all of different colors. And the master of the crippled bike emerges from a dark corner.
The sadness strikes me again as the continuation of the previous night comes to an end after a day at the southern Caña Gorda beach, that is filled with spots of seaweed. The clouds were kind to us, but I am reminded of my abject uselessness, and feelings that must be felt.
The good night and the good day were all thanks to the kind red-headed lady, Ms. Y, whom I could not repay, but hope to.
Hope…
Guilt…