A Beach Encounter and the Evening That Followed

We’re lying on the beach when I notice a local girl some distance away — darker skin, light blue bikini, quietly sunbathing. After a while, she walks into the sea and stands there. I follow, step into the water nearby, and after a moment of silence, start a conversation.

I invite her to join us for a card game on the beach. We choose “Turakas” — a classic Estonian card game — and attempt to teach it to her. She never quite fully understands the rules, keeps playing the wrong card, and we keep correcting her. But that’s part of the fun.

Her name is Rosalia (25). She lives in Havana and studies philosophy. She’s spending time in Varadero at her family’s house. For the second year in a row, she’s been taking English lessons — two hours a day, four times a week — but still struggles to speak it. “It’s difficult,” she says. So I speak to her in Spanish, Marek in English, and she replies in a creative blend of both.

After a few rounds of cards, two local young men approach us. One of them turns out to be her boyfriend. We continue chatting and agree to meet later that evening near a snack bar. Rosalia gives us her phone number.

At 10:30 p.m., we meet again. Rosalia arrives not only with the two guys but also with an older woman. We don’t dare ask, but assume it may be her mother. At first, they stand somewhat awkwardly away from the bar. I invite them to join us at the table.

Almost immediately, everyone orders drinks — Rosalia, one of the guys, and the older woman.

We sit, listen to live music, and watch a show. When the drinks are finished, the bill arrives: 18 CUC (about 15 euros). A bit surprising, since drinks seemed cheaper the day before. But in Cuba, table service usually adds 1 CUC per drink.

An awkward silence follows.

I ask in Spanish, “Am I paying for everyone?”

The local guy responds bluntly: “I have no money.”

Marek has clearly had enough of the situation and simply pays the bill. Later, I reimburse him for the others’ drinks.

We move closer to the stage outside and enjoy the music among other locals. Eventually, Rosalia says they have to leave — they’re returning to Havana early the next morning. Everyone thanks us politely.

As we say goodbye, Rosalia lingers behind for a moment and once again emphasizes something she had mentioned earlier:

“I live alone in Havana.”

Marek later reminds me she had also said that her boyfriend might be going to the army soon.

Earlier that day, we had wandered through Varadero’s streets and parks — past souvenir stalls, horse-drawn carriages rolling beside old villas, tourist taxis cruising along the main road. We had walked for hours along the beach toward the tip of the peninsula, watching the sun sink slowly into the sea.

Further down the coast, near the large hotel zone, the beaches were almost exclusively filled with tourists. On the way back, we passed a luxury hotel pool. A quick Google search: 150 euros per night, all inclusive.

Varadero feels like two worlds overlapping — local life and tourist life, sometimes blending, sometimes colliding.