For a moment, I believe it to be sleeping, an odd moment of peace in contrast to the pulse of the rest of Havana. Then I realize that I am perhaps the only one who has paused to notice.
It is not so much that it is chaos here, like that you expect in a Moroccan market or a New York subway. It is more that Havanans are just so busy living. The line between the public and private is hardly even a line, but more a series of vague fuzzy dashes.
People are living everywhere- in the tops of formal looking ornate buildings, amidst crumbling walls. Their lives leak out into the streets. In fact, the streets are their front yards, sidewalks serving as baseball fields. They hold conversations from their narrow balconies with the people below, as though they are merely across a table from one another. The sidewalks are skinny, and as you squueze along, you can often see into open doors into their front rooms, people having dinner two feet from the curb. Women stand in their doorways, expectantly, less than arms length from all who pace by. Couples kiss each other frantically beneath dropping roofs, mere steps from their friends. Even this home we stay in, up two precarious flights of stairs, is separated from the open hallway by but a wrought iron fence. The walls of the home aren't entirely sealed in from the overlapping roofs, like a bungee corded tarp.
Yet, despite these missing walls, they just live. Unlike us, they don't lock two doors behind them before they face the world. The world is always just there.