Veronica Vega’s diary

A friend and colleague with Havana Times told me that most of us who write for this magazine are “whiners” (himself included). We both noted that this is an attitude that isn’t entirely sincere, since if life in Cuba doesn’t also give people reasons for joy, who could put up with it?

After being delighted by the opening ceremony of the London Olympics, as the traditional competitions began, with these came my frustrations – because in sports, inexorably, someone wins and another one loses.

On three separate occasions it has happened to me. When going into the Coppelia outdoor ice-cream parlor, I have promised myself each time to never come back there again! Nonetheless, the other day when I was passing by there, and saw the line was short I began to either distrust my memory or to have confidence in that eternal relativity of events.

Bradbury came to me through a friend during those times when I still had black tea and the invocation of a book along with the music of Vangelis, which were enough to undertake a long journey.

It was that time of day when the thermometer soared, when electronic equipment demanded air conditioning or else risked burning out, and when everyone who was forced to wait in the open — but having at least a minimum freedom of movement — took refuge in some small island of shade.

Here in Cuba, if any extenuating circumstance provides some measure of relief against the waning of desire, the fatigue caused by the sun or an environment that exudes abandonment, it’s the conversations one hears involuntarily.

I remember that when I was a little girl, I liked to walk around outside our apartment building and search through the grass for treasures that chance would place in my path: a piece of gold-foil paper, a button in a peculiar shape, a piece of a toy… (8 photos)

A writer read an essay that began with: “I was born in a country that no longer exists.” I ignored the fact that she was born in the former German Democratic Republic since I had no doubt that she was talking about Cuba. But what was most curious was that I wasn’t alone in having that impression.

My son is sad because his best friend Leo, who now lives in Miami, — despite their having shared years and games, secrets and dreams, despite their last embrace, teary eyes and attachments that made them exchange e-mail addresses and promises — he has not sent a message.

As the popular saying goes, “You only value what you’ve lost.” It’s a sad statement – right? But since I’m trying to be fair, I always add that memories too are created and later recalled through the prism of nostalgia, with plenty of those memories becoming adulterated.