La Clave

The quiet of a lonely room. A skittish protest at 

the hassle. A gauntlet of two governments, a hand 

outstretched to pull one through. Emerging from the 

womb of custom, a sea of waiting faces. Familiar night 

of stars and moon with taxi talking (oye, si me 

resuelves lo del celular te llevo de gratis..) 

See Ramon's Virturist.com tour

Light beams through darkness; peeling paint on a column, a small dog sleeping on a porch, the puffs of 

diesel exhaust from a rumbling truck, long avenues of 

sparse traffic, an arrival to season's cheer. Andrew 

leading 'la negra' in a snaking conga line at the 

Saratoga Christmas party. Washing machine salesman 

fleeing, arms flung up, audibly muttering, "alabao..Yasmina!..Escondanse!" 

And what of the Russian follies?...the register of irritation on Carlos Manuel's face as he faced the music and she danced a jiggle and shake. A gasoline sports car pulling in for 'petroleo' but no hose in that tank- "I'm wery nerwous...I've nehhwwer done this 

before" said for the tenth or twelfth time. Midnight 

swims at Gatsby mansion. No woman, no cry. 

Said I remember... tours of the Old Havana. Many, 

all experienced as one loving caress of eyes, hand and 

being. The Saratoga, el Parque de la India, the school 

and lamp-posts like me all bearing testament to rescue 

from ruin. 

Can you find la clave? Many good dinners and 

trips to Pinar. Dawn rising o'er a sleeping Vinales, 

the sun pulling a blanket of mist from the rich red 

earth and her up thrust mounds so gently 

revealed… Hello my beauty… awake! 

All the crowded incident set to a leisured 

pace, unfolding as a picnic of delight. And you in all 

this,' la clave' pulsing rhythm.. marking pace.. always 

you. Me, you... always... "Thank you". 

Love, 

Ramon 

From 2008 November 28