Monday in Matanzas, the threshold of the week.
When the sun climbs over the rooftops and the clocks strike the hour, Monday ceases to be an enemy and becomes a threshold.
Monday dawns in Matanzas with the murmur of the San Juan and Yumurí rivers. The Bacunayagua Bridge welcomes the first passengers, while the city opens its colonial gateways and the streets fill with hurried footsteps.
The sun rises over the bay, tinting the tranquil waters with copper, a reminder that here everything begins with the rhythm of the sea. Vehicles circulate, and conversations blend baseball with market prices. Students cross the tracks with heavy backpacks and early laughter, while vendors arrange their wares on makeshift stalls.
Monday in Matanzas has the feel of a dress rehearsal: everyone resumes their role, every corner becomes a stage.
In the offices of the historic center, papers circulate once again like navigational charts. Monday is a ritual: open agendas, laptops, pending notes, agreements written on clean pages.
The viaduct is a gathering place for those seeking a breeze to clear their minds, for those running to shake off drowsiness, and a few who pause to gaze at the horizon stretching out over the sea.
The city breathes amidst the sounds of street vendors and greetings. “Good morning,” at the door; “How much does it cost?” at the market; “Let’s get started” at the school. Monday becomes a collective pact: Matanzas agrees to kick-start the week, even with the weight of the early morning and the hope of something new.
When the sun climbs over the rooftops and the clocks strike the hour, Monday ceases to be an enemy and becomes a threshold. It is the creak of an old door opening into a courtyard: a space to persevere, correct, and try.
Here in Matanzas, Monday inaugurates the story of each week, and you are the protagonist.
Written by Yannier Delgado.
