![]() The walls are covered in hanging pots and utensils, the economy of space solved by ingenuity. The appliances are old and clearly well used, knobs broken off, piecemeal parts strung together. ![]() The kitchen is tucked in the back, a surprisingly small space for the amount of activity taking place inside it. I follow the smell of food, making my way down the chipped marble staircase to the lower level of the house where the paladar is located. The sounds of the kitchen reverberate throughout the house, the footfalls of the residents in the apartment upstairs thudding through the worn ceiling. Minutes later I shut the door behind me, venturing out into the hallway. I grab a scarf from my bag, using it to tie my hair back. ![]() My hair’s prone to frizzing in humidity, and it’s risen to the occasion provided by the Cuban climate, the black strands cascading down my back in a wild mix of curls. I force myself to step away, slipping back into the room, running water over my face from a sink in the corner, fixing my makeup. ![]()
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