Recent decades have not been very kind to Havana. It really didn’t grow old gracefully. Bluntly speaking. I have seen cities, that with time, get that special charm. The charm that only comes with years passing by.

But Havana… it ages fast. At the speed of sound. Bluntly speaking. It has lost a piece of itself. But still believes that one day its glory days will return. And this naïvety is… charming. A mindset like this can one day take it there. Or take it straight to… madness. But maybe it was only my impression. My imagination.

And right there, in the middle of the ruins of Havana, it hit me. Going forward, pushing the boundaries, being just a little crazy, thinking outside the box…this is heaven for me. Jimmy Hendricks knew that. And this is what travel gives you. Different perspective. Different point of view. But Havana gives you something else… something you rarely get to experience: a place where time really passes by very slowly. The illusion that the time has stopped, gives you a rare gift: time to contemplate. Before the ravages of time destroy you from the inside.

At first glance, you get the impression that Havana doesn’t care. That it has made peace with the fact that it has lost itself. But if you look closely, you will see that it still hopes. That one day it will find its missing pieces again. Before the ravages of time destroy it. But then again, maybe I’m wrong. And it’s just my imagination.

“I’m the one you find deep in that move, that drives your body and your senses, I’m the heat inside, when rhythm and love collide, Cuba, let me introduce myself Cubaaaaaaaaaaa!”

I had this chorus in my mind, playing over and over again. This one song… over and over again. I was walking down the beach front. The sky was clustered with gigantic clouds. Every once in a while the sun peeked through. Just for a brief moment. I felt like in the movie Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights. Not really sure why. Because there were no clouds in the movie. In the movie the sun was shining and the ocean was sparkling. But there was this feeling of melancholy. And it was still there. I felt it walking down the beach front.

Now I know that this is what quietly crawls into your subconscious in Havana. The melancholy, hiding deep in the heart of Cuba, weaved in its essence. The essence of Cuba. Once you feel it, you start seeing it. It’s everywhere. In the ruins of Havana. In the ruins of once mighty houses. That still make her so unique and special. The melancholy you feel in ruined streets of this once magnificent colonial beauty. That dazzles and inspires.

The melancholy you feel when you notice that there are no ships, yachts and boats. Even though you are on an island. The melancholy you feel when you realise that people can create unbelievable things and destroy them in a heartbeat. The melancholy you feel in their songs and dance.

The wind starts blowing from the ocean. The waves splash on the front. The wet and salty drops of the Caribbean sea wake me up from my daydream. The sun spikes the clouds and I snap yet another dramatic photo. And there is that chorus again. “I’m the one you find deep in that move, that drives your body and your senses, I’m the heat inside, when rhythm and love collide, Cuba, let me introduce myself Cubaaaaaaaaaaa!” Oh, this beautiful melancholy.

I confess. I had to wait. I had to think. I had to let it unfold in its own pace. I had to go through my photos, notes I during my time in Cuba and let the feeling unfold. The feeling for Cuba.

When I first saw the streets of Havana, a thought crossed my mind. Maybe my intuition was playing tricks on me. But this feeling or this thought never left my subconscious.I thought to myself it was hurt. Deeply wounded, torn apart, stuck in a time warp.Torn between its former glamorous beauty and an uncertain future. A little pain snuck in my heart.

Heavy gray clouds were hanging over Havana that day. The wind was blowing and there was tension in the air. The ocean seemed angry. The waves were slamming against the shore. The wide avenue along the town promenade was wet because of them. Every now and then the sun came out to play. But the clouds were stronger that day. Only the cars chased away the grayness of the day. You know, the old American ones. Pink, red, golden, turquoise,… Every now and then a Russian Lada or Fiat 126 raced by.

Time goes by differently in Cuba. Slower and in its own pace. You start drifting along with its flow. And that feeling starts to unfold. The feeling for Cuba.