In Cuba, the sun is always shining. And even when it’s not, a sheen of sweat still covers you from head to toe, courtesy of the ever-present humidity. Your skin feels sticky – a mixture of blanketed exhaust, Havana’s population density, bumping into sweaty bodies on the street, and flesh flush on flesh in too-crowded cars and buses. Shirts stick to backs, sweat drips down faces, legs and cleavage. You feel so covered and surrounded by the heat you can smell it, and it smells like Havana.
Amidst the desert of humidity and exhaust exist plush oases. Bursts of air conditioning in the most unlikely of places; Daily ice cream cones so cold that nothing beats the crisp coolness of the first bite; and a sip of fresh juice with just the right amount of pulp. But above all, that moment when you’re riding in a botero from school, having a seat next to the window, getting a face full of fresh ocean air, blown in through your window. The waves beating against the wall of the Malecón, spraying onto the road as cars swerve to avoid it, sending gusts of ocean breeze through the open car. Nothing beats this in Havana.