Saturday encounter with history at the casino campestre

I want this to be a piece of my memory, a heartbeat of this Saturday I spent with my little girl in the heart of Camaguey, because sometimes you live for years in a city and you do not look up, you do not hear the whisper of the old columns, and this Saturday everything was different.

From the moment we left home, the morning sun enveloped us with that golden and sticky light that Camaguey spring has. I had promised my daughter an adventure, a journey to the past without having to get on any time machine.

We arrived and, although the name evokes images of playing cards and roulette wheels, the reality is much more poetic, because this place, for those who do not know it, is one of those green lungs that the city gave itself in other times. My goal was not the gardens, although they are full of shade and birds; my goal was the gazebo, that structure that rises in the middle of the park like an iron and cement bride that time has dressed in rust and memory.

Seeing it face to face was a soft blow to the chest. The gazebo is deteriorated, yes, there are parts where the paint has peeled off as if the city's skin were shedding after a long summer; it has railings that show bare metal and some floor tiles that tell cracks as if they were wrinkles. It is like an elderly lady, tired but dignified, who still preserves the elegance of her glory days.

That is what Camaguey has, that every brick, every column and every step has a story to tell if you stop to listen. I, who have been distracted for so long, finally stopped and sat on one of the stone benches surrounding the gazebo, with my little girl by my side, and I told her about how this place was a meeting point for entire generations. I told her about the tea afternoons, the serenades, the lovers who sealed their promises under the roof of this structure that now slowly crumbles.

This Saturday I understood that this visit was not just a walk but rather an act of love, because showing my daughter the history of her city, even in its most fragile and rusted parts, is teaching her that what is old is not waste, it is memory, and it is telling her that it is worth taking care of what others built with effort and devotion.

We walked around the gazebo as many times as a carousel has turns, then we tried to get closer to the trees that surrounded it, we touched them, we felt them. Then we sat on the nearby grass and it was such a simple and such a profound moment that I knew this Saturday would be engraved in her memory and in mine, as one of those days when the past and the present shake hands.

That was my Saturday: an encounter, a hug, a promise with the history of Camaguey, my little girl's and mine, meeting under a gazebo that still awaits its rebirth.

_{✨ 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈! ✨
𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒂 𝑪𝒖𝒃𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐’𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑯𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒂𝒓.
𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 100% 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏-𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 (𝒏𝒐 𝑨𝑰).
𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝑳𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒊.
𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕? 𝑼𝒑𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒚! 💛}