The moment I stepped into Varadero, I was captivated by the minty water—the gradation of blue and green seemed to melt the starlight of the entire Caribbean Sea onto the waves. Barefoot on the sugar-like sand, I felt not only warmth but also the gentle touch of coral powder. Local fishermen paddled their wooden boats close to the shore, pulling still-twisting lobsters from buckets and grilling them, the butter dripping sizzling on the charcoal. Lying under a sunshade, sipping iced pineapple rum, watching palm fronds write in the breeze, I suddenly understood the Cuban saying, "We are so poor that only happiness remains." As the setting sun silhouetted the sailboats, someone played "Chan Chan" on a saxophone in the distance, and the sweet aroma of sea grapes wafted through the salty air.