The last time I was in Havana, a woman punched a man in the mouth. It was 3am, which is always prime time to be punched in the mouth by a woman if you are going to get punched in the mouth at all. Eleven o’clock feels too eager, too hopeful. Three in the morning? That's when accounts get settled.
This was 17 years ago. The man who was punched was me. I was 30. And the charming woman with the fist of fury was an ex I adored, but who would occasionally fly into a murderous rage. I fed off her storm because I was young enough to mistake turbulence for love. Her rage was as intoxicating as her beauty. Something must kill a man, right?
Three weeks ago, I returned to the scene of the crime. This time with a woman whose storms are quiet. We had left a function and were looking for a nightcap.
While the world bends to change, Havana stands defiantly. It was a Thursday, and it was vibrant but not full. [Fridays and Saturdays are a zoo.] Michael Soil’s artwork now adorns the walls, which fits perfectly with the general mien of Havana.
The ecosystem remains unchanged: same cast. A weathered European—probably collecting his pension from Pembrokeshire—held court with two scrawny and scantily dressed girls. Music was excellent as usual.
“One time I got punched in the mouth by an ex, outside those very doors,” I told my lady. She found that hilarious. She said, “You must have deserved it. I can’t imagine how annoying you were at 30.” I said I have always been a good Seventh-day Adventist (SDA) boy who just met the wrong girls.
There’s something narcotic about nostalgia in places like Havana. Havana is a time capsule, a hologram, a mirage of dreams. When I stood in the washroom, I wondered how many men had stood there and thought they had nothing but time.
Now it’s 2025, and Havana’s knees remain as strong as they were 20 years ago.
