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We crammed 21 people and their luggage in a bus to go from the airport to central Havana. This is the noise of that bus struggling along the road, being passed left and right. Ray, our driver, sometimes made adjustments with a wrench while driving.
On our first night, some of us walked the three or four blocks down to the fabled Malecón. The tide was low enough that one man was out fishing from the rocks in the dark. You could see the flash of foam in the wash of light from the cars, streetlights, and restaurants behind us.
A hip young brewery next to the art market on Avenida de Puerto had wide, opened doors and a central space for bands and dancers.
We ate meals together on the tin-roofed terrace of Alina's house. This is the sound of her and the other ladies on the lower level preparing dinner. The terrace is open to the street, so some street noise slipped in as well.
From Alina's terrace, we could see the balconies and open windows of the other buildings on the street. Just across from us, a middle-aged couple kept a bright green parrot it, feeding it and kissing it and laughing when it mimicked our whistling.
Walking in the streets of Trinidad, almost a full day's trip to the southeast from Havana. This 500-year-old city was brimming with life at dusk: a market carpeted broad plaza steps, and singing and music leaked from every direction.