Late Afternoon in a Typical US Neighborhood

By Pedro Pablo Morejon

HAVANA TIMES – Some evenings, after half an hour of training, I go out for a walk, covering one or two miles.

I take my wife along, and we explore Westchase, the area where we live, perhaps the most Anglo-Saxon part of Tampa.

You hardly find any Spanish speakers here. Most of the residents are very white, blond, Caucasian, and well-mannered.
We enter one of those middle-class neighborhoods.

At first, she is apprehensive, feeling as though we are invading someone else’s territory, but I ignore her unease and move forward, so she follows me.

Each neighborhood transports me to the image of those residences I used to see in movies when I was in Cuba. Images that match the present reality. They are beautiful and spacious.

You don’t see anyone on the front porches, unlike in Cuba, where people are out on the porches, curious or rather gossiping, watching any passerby who doesn’t belong to the neighborhood. In fact, the houses here lack porches.

The streets are empty. Occasionally, a child rides by on a bicycle or a scooter, all carefree, well-fed, seemingly happy.

Watching them stirs a mix of tenderness and pain, especially when I think about Cuban children, who, unlike these, don’t know what it’s like to regularly enjoy chocolate, cheese, juice, fruit, or any treat.

By now, my partner is more relaxed. We’ve only seen two people, who from their garages, on the other side of the street, say “Hello” as a welcome.

They don’t feel invaded by these two intruders.

From so much exploring, we lose our way on a dead-end street.

We see a woman walking her two dogs.

The typical US citizen loves having pets, especially dogs. This culture respects animals.

A paradoxical thought crosses my mind. A dog in the United States is happier and more loved than a human in my country.

We approach her. Despite having a GPS, I ask for directions to practice the language, and I apologize for my rudimentary English.

“I’m Cuban,” I explain.

She, blond, peach-colored, kind, displaying a spotless smile, shows us the way out.

“Please, tell me slowly,” I ask. She repeats herself, and I understand only half the words, but I manage to decipher the sentences.

I thank her, and we walk away toward the main street, with the strengthened feeling that I have arrived in a country of well-mannered people.

Read more from the diary of Pedro Pablo Morejon here.