The Cuban writer Leonardo Padura In some photos he wears a t-shirt that I love. Made of black cotton, with white letters that say: “I’m a shitty nostalgic,” a phrase from his Havana detective Mario Conde. Indeed, homesickness is poop and hopeless. I repeat it to myself every time I pass one of those posh kiosks, still counted, that have appeared as strange amanitas of the pandemic in this part, aseptic stalls, with signs in English (smoothies’, slowdrinks’, healthy snacks’) , where They offer coffee to go in paper cups, cool magazines, and select art books. The least of it is the paper press, the sale of which has plummeted due to the technological revolution and new consumer habits. I read in a report from the city council that in the city remain 285 active kiosks, out of a total of 338; that is, 53 remain closed waiting for an opportunity to get out of limbo. Obeying the sobado dictum ‘of the “renewed or die”, The Chinese couple who run one of the newsagents in the neighborhood have decided to add atypical merchandise to the usual newspapers, so that in summer they offer flowing t-shirt yarn dresses and now wool caps and scarves for the cold. They also sell second-hand books and vinyls. The other day I entertained myself rummaging through the box of records, which surely must come from some recently emptied old apartment: the magic guitars of Los Indios Tabajaras, Ray Conniff, El condor pasa ‘and things like that. What was heard in the musical thread of the dentist back in the 70’s. Again the sticky tunnel of time.

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