My steps to inner Havana begin down, a long marbled-stained stairwell in a five story building, or an otis elevator on its last leg, trapping its unknowing victims for hours on end. Eventually, they both lead to another clausterphobic hallway with a hoobit-like door, and Pedro - a filthy, yet happy dog, who waits for his morning bicuit. I pass the bus stop, cross Linea Street where I flag down a 1950's Cuban-American taxi to the Malecon. The windows are rolled up, as reggaetone blasts through the car and every Cuban is dancing. Barely breathing, I wait patiently to arrive to Billy's house for more coffee and conversations about art, cuban life, politics, and beautiful women. Lost in conversation and fogotten time - as time on the clock is irrelevant - a mere feeling leads and pulls us away onto the streets. We walk up San Nicolas and Animas streets through the local markets witnessing the happenings of many events. It takes us an hour sometimes to just walk a block or two, as we greet friends, neighbors, and people we photograph. Along the way, my senses are breaking down and anlyzing sounds, pleasant and unpleasant aromas, textures of clothing, fruits, or stone, the taste of the ever changing air, and looking, as my eyes are always open.