Friends and countrymen, I come to you deep within the throes, nay, the recesses, of a holiday hangover. I mean, I’m really going through it. Never have I ever been on a holiday so divine that even when I came back, the ghosts of good times past still haunted me. Sure, Greece was amazing – but I was ready to come back. Dubai was shiny – and I was ready – and exhausted – by the time we came back, because we really tried to fit in everything you’re supposed to do when you go to Dubai in like 5 days. Everything being – seeing the Burj (we saw it but didn’t go up it because it cost hella money and it was like the second last day of the vacay when funds were running slim), seeing the dancing fountains (amazeballs), doing the desert safari (not my cup of nausea-inducing tea), going to Wild Wadi Water Park (one of the top 3 highlights, and also, the inauguration for my 2016/7 bikini), and so on, and so forth.

But Cuba. Cuba took my breath away, and it is absolutely refusing to give it back. This is my third article on Havana in a week (the others are here and here, where I’m trying to sound like a grown up). I don’t even know where to begin when I want to tell you to go see Havana for yourself, and of course, dwell within the irony that that Camilla nani song is actually true. YOU DO LEAVE HALF YOUR HEART IN HAVANA. See? I’m even cornier. Ugh.

I’ve invented a new word for what I’m feeling – that feeling when you come back, and you’re home, and home is great. but it isn’t Havana, you know? You are now officially once again immersed in your life life – the paying of bills instead of the laying out of beautiful breakfasts (see below) – the hardest decisions being what are you going to do today – the relaxed feel of being so incredibly far (31 hours far) from anyone who knows you or your name, other than the cute habanero you met last night…

The window (of our Airbnb in Vedado) perfectly encapsulates this feeling. Nostalgia and soul pain, basically, with a dash of mild privilege and basic resistance to adulthood. It’s literally the opposite of wanderlust. It’s wanderlistlessness. Hello, wanderlistlessness, my old friend. (it hasn’t stuck yet, and the violins aren’t playing, but I’m sure it’ll catch on)