California scream, part II: los colores de tí

Beyond the chantilly hills, a few weeks ago.

I was literally deaf and this – obviously – was feeling anything but nice.

Coming for vacations?

Yes, I replied, unnoticed, as the officer rushed into stamping my entrance on my passport.

A meticulously built and organized land was then revealed, while I was putting on my best efforts to ignore all the yelling doubts, fears and issues bubbling inside.

My friend did keep his word, to my immense relief. A travel partner was then found.

A beautiful commune and a fairly larger space for me to lay all over, surrounded by the disturbing madness of the metropolis. That, however, was a pretty little island of quiet paradise where I could calmly close my eyes, meditate and pray for my – not yet coming – recovery.

Meanwhile, and regardless anything, the fantastic world around requested us outside – and we answered its call.

There was, however, no need to rush, for the day was beautiful and the spring would not allow the flowers to decease.

Slowly we should move, for it was no use to run.

Slowly we would stroll. Slowly we would come back from contemplating the numerous eye-catching spots scattered around the city.
Slowly we would figure out.

Despite our unhurried pace, those were no peaceful times.

By the time we reached the old town of Havana, a different side to a youth scream was met – it was revolution, set all around us.
On a young impetus, they rised up against the silent war, shouting blurred shadows of the old words in the communist manifesto.
As any enraged young, at any cost they would fight. They would crack the government, they would drop blood of innocents, they would make mothers cry.

Nonetheless, as loud, hazardous and destructive as it could have been, the heavens kept us safe while my own manifesto – the California scream – was still resonating even louder.
The revolution passed unnoticed.
We were left unharmed, indifferent to random alarming reports on a mute television.

And our hearts, they kept in oblivion, but not for too long.

Days earlier, on the county-commune in the capital metropolitan area, lost inside the mirrored high rises of post-modern architecture, we saw the picture of another life.

On a sunny afternoon at the coast town of Havana, wandering around the colourful quietness of those 1950s-ish crooked streets, we finally understood.

There is another life to believe in, deeper colours to chase after.

And then the ocean smiled to us, luring us in by its imposing beauty and the welcoming warmness of its dark sands, which, sadly enough, contrasted to the intense coldness of the waters. A trap, that is.

Still, waves of good vibes reached my inner chains of energy as the tides licked my bare feet.

The colourful paradiso island was left behind as the couch ventured itself back into the continent.

A different existence, a richer and ancient culture.

And the – not yet conclusive – quest after the perfect specimen of local female beauty.

Buds painting their own travel book in purely funny colours.

Not long after, on a comet, I would eventually feel the good airs, the epilogue to my homecoming.

It was time to, in a strongly felt relief, hit the road.

The adventures were ending.

California scream silently faded in the distance.


tbc.