JOURNEY

To finish the moment, to find the journey's end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom.  ~

Ralph Waldo Emerson

A CHILL IN CUBA
Carolyn B Healy

The scene -
Hotel lobby, Havana

• A polished wooden bar ringed with rattan stools, bathed in soft light
• Polished mosaic tables arranged at the base of a spectacular marble staircase; a wide balcony overlooks the entire lobby
• Potted tropical plants sit everywhere
• A guitar player roams from table to table

The main characters:

• Five American travelers:
• My husband David and me who can best be described as touristy looking Midwesterners
• Our two new trip friends, Sue, a gentle 70 year-old former bank CFO who looks about 45 and her wisecracking friend Linda, who could also pass for 10 or 20 years younger than she is
• Matt, late 20’s, the baby of our humanitarian tour group, as all the other travelers are 30 to 50 years his senior. His gelled hair and dark blue eyes make him stand out from the other young people in the lobby, as does his formal Southern gentleman manner.

The supporting cast:

• An amiable bartender who shows off a bit in the production of his drinks and engages customers in pleasant banter, just like your local bartender at home
• A cranky expressionless waitress upon whom it seems lost that she has one of the best jobs in Cuba, in that she works in a ritzy spot where she can receive tips in CUC’s, the dollar-like currency usually reserved for foreigners
• A fluid assortment of other patrons, all Europeans and Canadians, sampling cigars and local drinks MORE . . .

CRAYON CIGARETTES
Ellie Searl

Wild-eyed Sally waved the serrated bread knife in front of Ed’s face. I could see her through the crack in the kitchen d oor. Her untamed hair flew around and she spat venom. “If she comes in here, I’ll kill her. I hate her guts, and she better watch out!”


Ed knew how to handle Sally. He remained calm. “Sally, give me the knife. . .”


She made small jabbing motions toward his throat. “I hate her! She’s a pig! How can you stand her?”


“Sally, you don’t mean that.” His voice softened. “Do you really want to hurt Ellie?”


Sally was secretly in love with Ed, so she backed off, heaving the knife to the floor. It clatter-bounced on the tile and skittered under the stove.


Sally was part Cree, part French Canadian, part Scottish, and part unknown. I’m not sure which part of her wanted to kill me – probably all of it. She was thirteen, tall, skinny, abandoned by her family, and mad. She was mad at me because I wouldn’t let her go out. It was a weekday – a school night. The girls weren’t allowed out after supper on school nights. Not Cindy, not Carol, not Ellen, not Leez, not Tony, not Lauren, and not Sally - especially not Sally, who didn’t understand her emotions and couldn’t control an ounce of them. MORE . . .
(Drawing by Katie Searl Bodnar - Age Five)