“Everything Will Happen” sang Matt Monro

February 17, 2026

HAVANA TIMES — I don’t know about others, but for me this song by the very distinguished English singer, who placed so many musical numbers on the hit parades of Spanish-speaking countries between the 1960s and 70s constitutes, provides a certain way of soothing present uncertainties, rages, and anxieties.

And so, here I am — until a few months ago an agile and vigorous “dirty old man,” abruptly propelled into the sad transformation of an ailing elder, turned into a spectator of the galloping decrepitude of a city that was once dazzling in its vigor. Deciding what to write today, choosing among the many distortions of reality in my everyday landscape and the few possibilities for not making the sequels of chikungunya any worse.

It turns out that, to briefly summarize my most recent story, I usually spend one week in my house, where I have my workshop for wood carving, making some rustic ceramic figurines, painting my canvases, writing my books, etc. Then another week when I go to Old Havana, where my wife lives. Something that is like going to another country because in the so-called Historic Center of the City: the electricity almost never goes out there — unless it’s a failure of the national grid. There is almost always running water; there is piped in gas most of the time and, since it’s upstairs, there is less noise or interruption than in my house in Lawton, “right on the street,” with a junior high school on the corner…

Not everything is rosy! Also, sharing time with another person who likewise belongs to the guild of “those who live alone,” since in her home she imposes her understandable, logical rules; one has to help with… almost everything! At least wash the dishes, help make the bed, someday take out the trash, make breakfast, go out to buy bread, and even bathe every day…

The fact is that when I begin to long for my freedom within the limits of wild independence, I return to my place. There I have to buy the rationed goods they sell us when they are available — which I can’t afford to miss — and, naturally, make an appearance at home so people see me and know I still live there, and no one gets the idea that it’s an abandoned dwelling and wants to move into it.

In these recent days of intense cold — if we consider the average low temperatures for this time of year here in Havana — and given that I’m in a relapse of this chikungunya illness, instead of going to my house I’ve sheltered for a few days in Juanelo, a neighborhood bordering Lawton, where my son lives. This in order to cushion the blow that living alone in Havana represents “in these ill-fated days for liberty and decorum,” to put it in words that I imagine Cervantes himself might have written.

The lack of gas for cooking, problems with the water supply, and power cuts make it unlikely to secure the certainty of daily meals in my house.

After about a week, at midday that was less cold but sunny, I dared to go by my house to pick up some things I needed. The walk was shorter if I passed by the bus terminal in my neighborhood. It caught my attention to see the wide vehicle entrance and exit closed off with a fence made of about four panels of metal bars — something I had never seen there and which, naturally, would be terribly inconvenient to remove every time a bus entered or left. Given the situation of very few buses in existence, plus the already well-known fuel supply problems, that alarmed me, because it was one more step down the slope.

The next day, already back at my son’s house, I checked on my phone the WhatsApp group through which one gets information about the state of transportation: where the buses are, whether they’re going to run or not, since sometimes they’re broken. In short. And so it was: the bus terminal was paralyzed. Later, an announcement was issued declaring the total shutdown in Havana of public transportation “until further notice.”

Even so, just yesterday I saw on WhatsApp that some long-distance routes, at other terminals in the city, had three departures scheduled per day. No doubt it’s a great effort. Others say it’s the height of absurdity — though they don’t say of what.

Seeing that, at my house, under these circumstances — and not feeling in optimal health — I took advantage of the fact that my son had work errands to run in Havana to help me with my backpack and the extremely expensive cost of the trip in a private car, to return once again to Old Havana.

And in this wandering periodically from one side to another like a pendulum, everything keeps passing, because in the end, as the song says: Everything happens— and everything will pass.

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