Old Havana preserves in its streets an intense life that is hard to find nowadays. Most of the things that happen in this old Cuban neighborhood take place in public space.

I traveled 273 kilometers, sometimes planned, but mostly guided by pure instinct. A total immersion experience. Up and down 2,508 steps in the lot where I slept, sweet potatoes, pasta, tomato, bread, coffee, fruit, my food, the endless cycle. Going out very early every day in search of characters that lived between comedy and drama in an ever-changing and surprising scenario of colors, lights and shadows.

The state of my shoes seemed to scream that I was integrating, although every now and then someone would whisper “cheindemoni” (change money) and remind me that I was a passing tourist. I persisted in my attempt to absorb it all, but the sensations of Havana went far beyond the visual. Sounds, smells, textures, temperatures. On that trip, I devoured images with my camera, almost like an addict.

One magical day, I began to hear the call: “Hey, Argentinean!” and I began to recognize faces that recognized me. It was already my neighborhood. I was home.