Author: Irina Pino

“The sun will burn out, whether we like it or not.” In other words, it doesn’t matter what we do in life: everything is a meaningless illusion, because nothing endures. It is difficult to believe such admissions of hopelessness come from Woody Allen…

I had never gone to Havana’s Las Vegas cabaret before. I only went there that night to accompany a professional photographer who was interested in taking pictures of the performers in the show.

As for me, the peculiar sound of Indian music, the country’s dance traditions, the texture and colors of its fabrics, the sari (a garment worn by women), the delicacy of its pottery, these are the beautiful things I like about the country.

I was reading an article about people who rent out rooms where couples can make love, or have sex. I wonder whether this service is offered to all couples, as, but from reading what the owners explained, it appears only for heterosexual couples.

When my son turned one, I was unemployed. Thanks to a government official my husband knew, however, we managed to find a day care center (Circulo infantil) for him. That was at the end of the 90s, when private day care had not yet been authorized. I started to work shortly afterwards.

A get-together with friends is always an interesting encounter, a context in which feedback flows and spiritual mingling makes us better people. The hours pass and one barely notices it. Several months ago, my friend Veronica organized such a get-together.

As women age, they begin to require a certain dignity that experience alone cannot afford them. What is experience, after all? It is the succession of the mistakes we make in life. And one never learns – there is simply not enough time to do so.

Chaos, war, plagues and disease continue to spread around the world, advancing hand in hand with exoduses, separations and death. I often wonder what will become of me. It is an unavoidable question that gets me thinking every day.

I had just bought some things at Havana’s Galerias Paseo shopping mall and, thinking I could use a break and some air conditioning to replenish my energies, decided to sit at the lobby of the Hotel Cohiba across the street.

I recently saw Oliver Dahan’s 2003 film My Own Love Song for the fifth time. As soon as the credits start (to Bob Dylan’s Forgotten Heart), I begin to feel that I am watching something that will help me understand human nature.