Second Home

I've spent the past little while trying to figure out why it is that I love Latin America.

Really, there's no logical reason as to why I feel at home in Latin America. My heritage (British with some Irish) is about as far from Latin as they get. Until university, I didn't even know anyone who had come from Latin America. But one trip to Cuba, and I was hooked.

When I think about my trips to the south, the memories rush back in a tangled flood of garbled images. A woman dancing with a dog in her arms, in some dive bar in Costa Rica. Touring a cigar factory in Dominican Republic. A shot of aged rum poured out on a dusty counter. Sunsets. Cigars. Beaches. Shouts of excited Spanish. The streets. The smells. The sights.

Is it the climate? The culture? The state of mind that I find myself in when I'm embarking on that kind of a vacation?

I don't know.

But I do know that, one day, when the good fight has been fought, I'll find myself a small, secluded stretch of beach and start up the best damned cigar bar in the world.