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While being too tired to update an instagram status; falling asleep in a reclining chair at five am in an empty airport I promised myself that I'd bring my mother back to show her the Eiffel Tower. The sound of piano music woke me up. The sun shone behind the winter clouds, making Paris misty and magical. I watched the planes come and go through the giant windows and listened as a little Asian boy played Fur Elise to perfection. And then the sounds of a grumpy stomach reminded me I needed food. I had been struggling with my weight for about four months by then and realized that being on holiday meant I could go all out. Thus the search for Macaroons begun. Dad was watching the luggage, Mom trying out every perfume in the airport store, Keyla obsessing over a Mont Blanc bag, and I was indulging in every flavour Macaroon I could find. After an 11 hour flight with our usual flying routine: wine and CSI, I looked out the window to see a billion tiny lights flashing in the nights sky. Havana. We've landed in the Caribbean. The hot air sticks to my face and arms. The palm trees sway in the light breeze. It's not enough to offer relief. We drive through the streets of the vibrant city. Exhaustion is imminent. Our home for the next 28 days is tucked away in an alley. The houses here are stacked like bags of flour upon one another. There is always noise. I fall asleep with the sounds of a domestic dispute happening next door. The beating of hammer against a hard surface brings the morning. Close the window that faces the next house or you'll find your neighbour looking at you change, close enough that if they reached out they could touch your window sill. Worried about standing in the street, or in the alley outside the house. There is an outside wash room. Mom allows me to use it. She’s put an old wooden chair and a metal ashtray out for me. I have found my haven. The first smoke of the day lightens my head. And opens my mind to write. I'm addicted to malt. It's a sweet coke-like cool drink. Today I see the family. We’re visiting my grandmother's grave. Her resting place just happens to be a big tourism site. The Christopher Columbus cemetery, properly named El Necropolis de Cristobal Colon. Its famous for its many elaborately sculpted memorials. People from all over the world visit and place flowers sold from the corner on random graves. It shall be a somber morning. We shall clean abuelita's granite bed. My jetlag is gone and It's the 31st. New years means throwing water into the street to cleanse the year. For me it means cooking for 50 people. To show I haven’t lost my Cuban roots. Although I hardly knew anything about this place. I send Dad to spend the entire morning looking for ingredients. We hope the butcher has pork today. Go to the cart with stuff on it in the middle of the street for Yuca (a delicious root), plantanes or sweet potato, whatever he can find. We get family to help wash, peel and cut with really blunt knives. This is when I begin drinking wine and spend 15 minutes trying to light the gas stove with plastic matches. Its time to make the important decision of making congris (a traditional dish of white rice and black beans together) or serve it separately which means more bowls to wash. I freak out that the water tank is running out and pour another glass before adding cachito into my drink to make sangria because I'm seeing double near a burning gas stove. In the midst of the chaos, I cannot forget to feed my three year old godchild who thinks my name is “Madrina" (godmother) The meal is prepped and I can enjoy my family as much as I can. It will be years before I see them again.