Irina Pino’s Diary

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.

Some of my son’s high-school friends often come over to my house to play video-games on our computer. Sometimes, the noise they make becomes unbearable and I want to throw them all out. On other occasions, I try to have a chat with them to find out what they’re into.

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.