balconies in Centro Habana |
open-air booksellers are all around this square, the Plaza de Armas |
a bride leaving the Castillo de la Real Fuerza |
on a scooter, a wheeled framework clinch-nailed of scrap wood, at evening on the Paseo de Martí |
a tiny fraction of the Necrópolis Cristóbal Colón
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he spoke no more English than I spoke Spanish |
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ruins old enough crumble to a kind of soil |
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