That Saturday, the Caipirinhas Tasted Like Memory

There was something about that Saturday that made it different. It was mid-2024, and the sun of Camagüey caressed the colonial walls while the murmur of the city moved lazily under the heat.

A friend and I had decided to meet at the Café del Hotel Santa María, as we had so many times before, but this time it wasn’t just any gathering—it was a farewell. Soon, she would board a plane to reunite with her family in another country, and though we celebrated for her, there was also a lump in our throats—the kind that forms when you know shared everyday moments will turn into memories.

As always, we ordered caipirinhas, because there was no better cocktail for us: the ice clinking against the glass, the sweetness of the lime, the sharp hit of sugar, and that spicy kick of rum that made us laugh more than we should. The caipirinhas were our accomplices in afternoons of venting, silly laughter, and confessions that only surfaced after the second drink.

"Remember that time when…?" one of us would begin, and the other already knew the afternoon would fill with revived anecdotes, gossip, and past loves analyzed with the wisdom that time brings.

That day, however, there were more silences between our words. They weren’t uncomfortable but laden with everything we didn’t need to say—the fear of distance, the uncertainty of when we’d see each other again, the unspoken promise that, no matter what, this—us—wouldn’t change.

We were surrounded by tinajones, those giant clay jars that are symbols of my Camagüey. There they stood, imposing and silent, like guardians of others’ stories. I liked to think that, somehow, they would also keep the echo of our smiles, our toasts, that afternoon when time seemed to pause for an instant before taking something—or someone—away with it.

I hope wherever you go, there are caipirinhas. I know there will be, but none will taste like these.

After paying the bill, we walked to a poetry reading. I don’t quite remember what was read that day, but I do remember how the borrowed words resonated in us. Maybe because poetry always ends up being a mirror, and that day, that Saturday, everything—the verses, the wind, even the street noise—seemed to speak of goodbyes.

Today, over a year later, I think of that Saturday every time I pass the Hotel Santa María or every time a caipirinha finds its way into my hands. Truly, real friendships have this quality: they never fully leave. They linger in the corners where we were happy, in the flavors we shared, in the verses we read together.

And though life may take us down different paths, there will always be a tinajón in Camagüey, and a half-empty glass of caipirinha, to remember her by.

🍸

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_{✨ 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈! ✨
𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒕—𝑰’𝒎 𝒂 𝑪𝒖𝒃𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐’𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑯𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒂𝒓.
𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 100% 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏-𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 (𝒏𝒐 𝑨𝑰).
𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝑳𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒊.
𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕? 𝑼𝒑𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒚! 💛}