Author: Irina Pino

Years ago, the small 16th Street beach in Miramar, Havana, was a very popular spot. People, particularly the very young, travelled far to go swimming there and enjoy its peaceful atmostphere. It was a place where beauty and youth met.

School started a week ago. Some inertia still stands in the way as kids gain more and more impetus and the drowsiness of the summer break wears off. My son is now in the 10th grade. This both pleases and worries me.

To think while listening to music, to look back on the time that has passed, to engage in reflections that make us appreciate our existence more – this is not accidental, and it occurs when we enjoy things that make us more aware.

She has high blood pressure and has a blood pressure monitor on a small table next to the door to her house, in case she has to leave for the hospital in a rush. She checks her blood pressure obsessively several times a day.

The unconventional teacher in the film Dead Poets Society is the kind of educator I never had. Before seeing the movie, in fact, I never knew a teacher could be like that. At no time in the course of my education did I meet anyone like Mr. Keating.

Old Havana is like a postcard full of picturesque characters, each with a story to tell. Sometimes, they need only look at us to tell us these stories. It doesn’t matter where you run into them, they can turn up in the spot you would least suspect.

My brother has moved into my apartment. Differences with his partner led to a breakup, and he asked to stay at my place temporarily. This happened several months ago. At first, I thought he would work it out, renting out a place or finding a friend’s to stay at. But he’s still here, and will be so indefinitely, it seems.

In a remote town lives a 40-year-old woman, beautiful still. She is a simple housewife who looks after her husband and teenage kids. Her work in the house and the farm is all she knows. By chance, she meets a National Geographic photographer…

Birthdays can be either highly memorable or highly forgettable. Some can even be very painful, particularly when they coincide with the death of a friend or relative. Most of the time, however, one looks back on them with joy.

Sundays ought to be like an emergency exit: the possibility of fleeing from the daily chaos that steps on our heels throughout the week and swallows us up without mercy. Quiet time, the pleasure of doing what we like, breaks the doldrums of routine.