My mind has been wandering to Havana lately, which is interesting since I know nothing about Cuba aside from a few movies and the occasional Hemingway story. So for no good reason I've fixated on Havana as the place for a Brand New Me.

There is no poverty, violence, or Castro, and there are no guns; instead it's filled with dignified greying men in white suits and panama hats, old money and faded glory staging a bloodless coup. Mr. Robert Redford squints at me from beneath the shade of a sidewalk café. It's that kind of place. There's peeling plaster, tiled roofs on solid open houses bleached by the sun, giant Cadillacs and Lincolns from the 60s slowly drift by, carrying their passengers to courtyards, gardens, mysterious chambers and anterooms.

The fishing is good in Cuba and this matters to me because I'm a different kind of guy now. I no longer hide out behind a computer screen amidst the chaos & nonsense of New York. Things are bright and simple here - I know this as soon as I arrive at José Martí International Airport. I claim only two bags that contain the following: 5 short-sleeve collared shirts (a polyester/cotton blend), two pairs of pants, a typewriter, a sketchbook, and some toiletries. It's all need. All of the data disks, file boxes, printouts, and gadgetries were lost in the fire.

I wander into town and take a clean Spartan room at a cheap villa - it's called something colorful, like 'El Tropico Cabana', and it has a palm tree logo in the early-60s Miami dingbats style. In fact, from my small balcony I can see that wonderful yet kitschy Magneto font everywhere I look, with the slight serif links between - I quickly push these thoughts out of my head. That was another useless life. I set up my typewriter, hang my shirts in the closet, and tape a few pictures of loved one over the nightstand. I fall asleep early, with the distant sounds of a parade or celebration drifting through the open window.

My sleep is heavy and sound - the dreams have finally stopped. I would dream of violence because I know nothing of it and this frightens me. I've never thrown a punch yet suddenly I'm on the Gaza Strip - the name alone conjures an endless night on a vast airfield lit by klieg lamps. Soldiers from all wars, all causes march in formation - a sea of jackboots, extended clips, shrapnel and high powered arms. The armies surround me and ask who I'm fighting for - I'm too busy worrying with a laptop to answer. But tonight I only dream of soft muted colors and the occasional childhood memory.

I wake at dawn and the room is filled with bright cool light and it's heavy with the scent of pear trees. I throw back the white sheet and jump into an impressive round of morning exercises. It's time to find a job. On the street I buy a paper and an orange from the fruit stand on the corner. By ten o'clock I've taken a job in construction and already I'm hard at work repaving a sidewalk. I work steadily and my mind does not wander - and why should it? There's nothing to think about and no one to argue with: either the sidewalk is properly paved or it's not. Break up the old cement with a sledgehammer, mix up and pour the new cement, then smooth it out with a 2x4 and go home. It's simple, meditative even. My muscles snap and stretch and things finally make sense.

After work I return to my room at the El Tropico Cabana. I shower, put on a fresh shirt, and go down to the sidewalk café where I drink lemonade in the evening shade and squint back at Robert Redford. I listen to the conversations of the old men playing dominoes and I make notes on napkins. Back in my room, I start typing up a short story about the fruit vendor on the corner.
Weeks pass: a steady clean cycle of oranges, construction, lemonade, and typing. On the weekends I stroll through the city, taking pictures of the markets in the Calle Obispo with an old Kodachrome camera that bought with my first check from The Atlantic Monthly - they published one of my stories. The comparison to The Old Man and the Sea was inevitable, but after that I ignored the reviews. At night I read the classics, and the occasional biography or history checked out from the library at the Plaza de Armas.

I'm soon promoted from repaving sidewalks to rebuilding the broken churches in Old Havana. More stories are written and some are published. I keep a low profile and send the checks to my mother. I'm more interested in learning how to repair the tile roofs.

Things are clear and my mind is organized. Someday I'll be joining those old men in a game of dominoes. Everything is finally in its place and I now know that if anyone tried to take it away from me, I would defend it.