We arrived just as the rest of the world was leaving, the detritus of a three day long carnival still strewn about the city streets and parks. The city caretakers, still perhaps reeling from the festivities themselves, set about the task of its cleanup slowly, groggily.

The taxi dropped us off at the very end of the line, at a spot called Punta Gorda. On any other day, this would’ve been the local hanout, but today the speaker in the park blasted bad reggatón to an empty auditorium. The tides lapped up on vacant shores.

We worked our way down the line of guest houses – not home, too expensive, full, not interested. At the final house on the point, we came across an old viejita contemplating the world from behind three quarter inch steel bars, which guarded her patio. She didn’t seem to notice our presence. I snapped my fingers. Ramona jabbed me.

“Hola, buenos dias.” “Buenos.” The words escaped her lips like the final sigh of a steam engine coming to a stop. We explained that we were looking for a place to stay.

“Jon Jairo!” She brayed out the name and presently a shirtless buddha belly appeared from the shadows of an inner doorway. “May I help you?” said the stomach. I explained that we needed a couple rooms for the night, and the belly gave its price. “Quieren verlas?” “Si.”

Jon Jairo stepped out from the shadows – a well-tanned kind-faced man with thick silver hair and a broad white grin. He unlatched the gates of fort knox and beckoned us in.

We passed between two shuddered doors into a room whose ceiling stood at least twenty five feet tall. At the rear, a bathroom door stood open. Julia promptly bolted in and vomited into the sink.

“We’ll take it.” I said. While Julia stayed behind clutching porcelain, we decided to take in the town. We traded in a few CUCs for the local pesos and went to watch Spartacus on a tiny TV inside a massive theater, the small crowd huddled close to hear the tinny set while a few dubious characters lurked back in the shadows.

When we returned, Jon Jairo had house guests. He beckoned us in to a garden at the side of the home, into a circle of strangers sitting under a trellis of vines from which hung passion fruit. Jon Jairo made frenzied introductions as he slapped down two glasses and filled them with rum. He pushed them toward us, along with a bowl of Palomitas and a jug of Tu Kola. The next thing I knew he was seated next to me with an old wooden guitar resting on his stomach, slurring a song of his own device, in which we were given shout outs.

The crowd, I worked out between Heroes de Vallanato’s “Abrazandome” and John Lennon’s “Imagine” was all family. A son from Santa Clara who hadn’t visited for two years, another from Miami whom Jon Jairo hadn’t seen for ten, and a third who apparently lived with Jon Jairo somewhere in the depths of the massive house, also a musician. “We used to play together,” Jon Jairo boasted. They all had in two attractive wives, who spoke little but smiled often.

Jon Jairo was the main attraction. His music even managed to summon Julia from her sickened state and to the table. On her cheeks a bit of color returned and she even managed to eat some food, singing softly to a couple american songs. Jon Jairo’s happiness in that moment, reunited after so long with his three sons, was infetious, and I couldn’t help but feel that I’d been invited in to witness something true and good.

How long are you in town for?” I asked the son from Santa Elena. “Only for the day. My flight leaves in a few hours.” “I also leave today,” said the son from Miami. He’d been in town for about two weeks. We continued to eat, drink, and be merry, and at length retired to our respective rooms to rest. When we emerged the house was still. Outside the sun was setting. The sky was ablaze, blacking out the form of Jon Jairo, leaned against a palm with a bottle of rum in hand, watching the world spin round. On the hood of a nearby car sat two spaniards. As we approached, Jon Jairo reveled, announcing that we were Spaniards too. The couple winced and passed a knowing smile. Jairo took another draw of rum. He clapped me on the shoulder and pointed out across the bay.

“That over there is a museum. It used to be a palace. And that there is a refinery. Big ships will sometimes sail through the channel here. But you have to know the bay. One miscalculation and you’ll run the ship aground.” I ask him if he knew the bay. “I fished for twenty years. In the mornings fish, in the night I played in a band. Tell me what more could you want? What could you find out there,” he nodded out past the bay, “that you could not find here?”

“Why did you stop?” I asked. Jon Jairo surveyed the sea at whose shores he’d spent his entire life. “I guess all good things end.”

We sat and watch the sun get swallowed by the sea. In the dusk and silence Jon Jairo at length laughed, a throaty chuckle that turned into a bellow. “What’s funny?” I asked. “I just realized I told them you were from Spain. You speak horrible Spanish.” We laughed about it. Jon Jairo sighed and stared into the empty bottle of rum. Overhead the silhouette of an aircraft passed, perhaps the very plane that carried his beloved sons.