Siempre quise entrar al Hotel Arsenita. En mi último viaje a Gibara pasé varias veces frente a él, con esa sensación rara de lugar abierto… pero cerrado a la vez. Decían que estaba funcionando, pero nunca vi una puerta invitando de verdad. Me dio pena insistir, preguntar, tocar. Ya sabes cómo es uno cuando no quiere molestar.

Un lugareño, de esos que hablan bajito y saben mucho, me dijo algo así como: “ese hotel es como Gibara misma, se deja mirar primero, lo demás viene después”. Y me quedé con eso.
Así que no entré, pero me quedé afuera mirándolo con calma.

El frente es una joya. Blanco, elegante, limpio, con ese aire antiguo que no pesa. Las columnas altas le dan un porte serio, casi solemne, pero los balcones delicados, las barandas trabajadas y las ventanas con celosías lo suavizan todo. Bajo el cielo azul intenso, el edificio parece posar. Desde distintos ángulos cambia: de frente impone, de lado acompaña la calle, desde abajo se siente enorme, y desde la esquina parece una casa grande cuidando el barrio.

Son justo ese tipo de fotos las que me encanta tomar: frentes silenciosos, edificios que no se mueven pero cuentan cosas, líneas rectas con sombras duras, blancos que contrastan con el cielo, detalles que casi nadie mira cuando va apurado. Fotografías sin gente, donde el protagonista es el tiempo.

Tal vez algún día entre.
O tal vez no.

Y está bien así: hay lugares que se disfrutan mirándolos desde afuera, como una buena historia que aún no toca ser vivida.

English Version

I always wanted to go inside Hotel Arsenita. On my last trip to Gibara, I walked past it several times with that strange feeling of a place that is open… yet somehow closed at the same time. It was always advertised as open, but I never really saw a door that truly invited you in. I felt shy about insisting, asking, knocking. You know how it is when you don’t want to bother.

A local, one of those who speaks softly and seems to know a lot, told me something like: “That hotel is like Gibara itself — it lets you look at it first, the rest comes later.” And that stayed with me.
So I didn’t go in, but I stayed outside, taking my time to really look at it.

The front is a gem. White, elegant, clean, with that old soul that doesn’t feel heavy. The tall columns give it a serious, almost solemn presence, but the delicate balconies, the ornate railings, and the louvered windows soften everything. Under the deep blue sky, the building seems to pose. From different angles it changes: from the front it feels imposing, from the side it blends into the street, from below it feels huge, and from the corner it looks like a grand house quietly watching over the neighborhood.

These are exactly the kind of photos I love to take: silent fronts, buildings that don’t move but tell stories, straight lines with strong shadows, whites that contrast with the sky, details most people miss when they’re in a hurry. Photographs without people, where time itself is the main character.

Maybe one day I’ll go inside.
Or maybe I won’t.

And that’s okay, some places are meant to be enjoyed from the outside, like a good story that isn’t meant to be lived just yet.

Source

The cover was made on Canva.

All the photos are taken and edited by me on Snapseed.

English is not my native language, I apologize if you find any mistakes in the translation.

Translated with DeepL.com (free version)

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