Personal Narrative: Bejucal In Havana
Bejucal in Havana in Cuba is an escape, an affliction, a mark down, a sparkle, a story, a routine, a dream, a paradise. Bejucal is a small town with an enormous sense of community. It is surrounded by vibrant green mountains, tall palm trees, fields of crops with cows and horses in the distance. Long streets with colorful houses along the side, majority of them with paint chipping off. Houses in aqua, pink, white, green, and yellow. A lot of the town looks run down, every road full of pits covered in dirt and rocks. The roaring sound of 1950-1960s style Ford cars passing by, leaving behind the smell of gasoline with loud music playing, and passenger seats at full capacity. It truly is going back in time. The aroma of rice and black beans as you walk pass every home. In the whole town throughout the day, every door and window are open battling the sun’s heat. Cuban music playing in those homes the entire time. This is how I spent my summer for the past six years.
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The job of the first person that wakes up is to open all windows and doors of the house. You can smell the cooking of eggs, and the making of Cuban coffee. Inside of my aunt’s house I smelled the breakfast she cooked, the flowers from her backyard, and the scent of soap from the bathroom. The hills surrounding the town reflected the rising sun’s light on the dewy grass. The sound of horses galloping enters the house as they pass by. Noises gradually increase throughout the day, but as the day dies out so does all the sounds. At night the town is quiet. The streetlights were dim, but the moon was as white as paper and the stars bright as diamonds. Families are in their homes, eating, talking, playing dominoes, or getting ready for bed. I enjoyed nighttime because my family always stayed up late to talk and laugh. Every night was the same routine. I ate, showered, and laughed until I was
The job of the first person that wakes up is to open all windows and doors of the house. You can smell the cooking of eggs, and the making of Cuban coffee. Inside of my aunt’s house I smelled the breakfast she cooked, the flowers from her backyard, and the scent of soap from the bathroom. The hills surrounding the town reflected the rising sun’s light on the dewy grass. The sound of horses galloping enters the house as they pass by. Noises gradually increase throughout the day, but as the day dies out so does all the sounds. At night the town is quiet. The streetlights were dim, but the moon was as white as paper and the stars bright as diamonds. Families are in their homes, eating, talking, playing dominoes, or getting ready for bed. I enjoyed nighttime because my family always stayed up late to talk and laugh. Every night was the same routine. I ate, showered, and laughed until I was