The patchwork masonry catches my eye. I walk closer and see her looking out from her window onto the street below. I hold up my camera to ask, by gesturing, if I can take her photo. She smiles, laughs and points to the wrap on her head, as if to say “Really? Me? But what about my hair?” I smile back. No matter, señora. It’s morning in Cuba, I still can’t believe I’m here, and everything is beautiful — including you.