The last time I was on an island it was Cuba. The night was hot and tropical and mysterious. Palm trees illuminated against the night sky left lingering shadows of strangers waiting for rides in the middle of nowhere.A cab buzzed me recklessly through the heavy black air, over Soviet built roads and past billboards of anti-American and pro Socialist propaganda and though the decrepit streets of Havana to my borrowed bedroom home.A bed with only a top sheet and 2 pillows, a tiny fridge and a window overlooking a roof top with a kept rooster would be by home for 2 weeks.
Tonight the island adventure is with air so crisp and puffs of breath that keep me an unwelcome company. Yellow street lights glare down on crunchy snow and make the trees pointy and stiff without their leaves. A bus dark with strangers keeping to themselves and glancing suspectantly at each other makes it's way along show homes and prefabricated siding with manicured trees and cascading rock landscaping services. Tonight my borrowed bedroom will be a ruffled and flowered with puffy blankets and meant for 2. But it's just me on the island.
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