Graphic by Sana Amin/The Gazelle

HAVANA, Cuba — It’s hard to go anywhere in Havana without seeing those little white paper snakes littering the streets. You see it especially in Vedado, a beautiful gridded district decorated with lines of overgrown trees, their roots breaking up the panels of the sidewalk. People with the tendency to trip on perfectly straight surfaces — like me — have to resort to glancing at their feet every couple of steps. That’s how I started to see them everywhere: little white pieces of paper folded into skinny cones.

I never know where to look when I'm walking, anyway. My eyes seem to shoot directly into someone’s eyes — I have an impressive aim, really — so I soon mastered the walking stare. I look right through crowds, focus on shoulder movements, notice the small details: pockets, bags and shoes. The best days are the days when I don’t wear my contact lenses and my focus range stays within a meter, and nothing matters as the world blurs by. I don’t have to decide between continuing to smile or putting on a serious expression. Yet, sometimes, the looks of young men force me to stay serious. I’m pretty sure I would blush if they looked me in the eye.

Helmo says that Cubans are very sexual. “Not sensual, sexual. Do you understand?” he said. He’s the director of the Ludwig Foundation in Havana where I take most of my coursework. In the streets, people look.

Alberto, the man who operates the darkroom at the Foundation, told me he thinks that the difference between Cuba and Europe is that here, people look into everyone’s eyes when they pass each other on the streets.

“We don’t just mind our own business and look away,” he said.

Alberto also makes me promise that I’ll leave the laboratory by 10 p.m., for my own safety.

I always reply in Spanish when people ask me where I’m from, but the people who approach me continue to speak in broken English anyway. I thought I would pass as a local because I have brown hair and a tan complexion, but the two cameras slung around me give me away.

Cubans chew their sentences the same way the Andalusians slur their words in Sevilla, where I spent most of my middle school years. Once, on my way home from running by the Malecón, an older man ran over to my side of the street and approached me from behind.

“Melinda.”

I was alarmed – how did he know my name? Frightened, I spent seconds thinking about where had I met him, until I realized that I never had. I had simply misheard. “Muy linda,” he said — it meant very pretty.

Lately, I've started carrying earphones around. But I can hear it even through the music. I see fingers pointing at me. I feel bad for listening to music on my way to class because I should be absorbing all of Cuba.

Every tenth block or so, I spot one of them. “Maní, maní,” a vendor shouts out rhythmically. As a Spanish loyalist, I always mentally translate what he ­is saying to cacahuate, my preferred translation of peanut. “Maní, maní, maní, maní.” He could pass as any other man on the street; he has no cart, no signs. He is holding a bouquet of white cones, and scans those around him: children in uniforms, the woman in the U.S. flag dress that is two sizes too big, the driver in the mint Chevrolet, the last man in line to collect his pension. His loud musical calls cancel out the hissing crowd. Many are persuaded by his calls as they rummage through purses and pockets to locate loose change, others contemplate whether to do the same. In his calls he picks no favorites, doesn’t consider appearance; peanuts are for everybody.

I’ve never purchased my own paper cone full of peanuts, partly because I am skeptical that more than a handful of nuts can fit into the packaging, and partly because I don’t know how much it costs. “Maní, maní, maní.” The price is never mentioned; everybody knows it. As I glance at the chanting man and look at what he is holding in his hands, I feel myself blend into the crowd. I keep on walking with ease.

When catcalling gets to my nerves, I look down at the rugged pavement and my eyes meet the empty paper wraps on the ground. I’m comforted by the tokens of those fleeting moments when all eyes are on the peanut vendors.