5" Candies clack against cobbled streets as you high tail it out of Havanna and head for el campo. Bottles of rum and sacks of lime you're spiriting out of town make you look like scurvy riddled sailor, but where you're going there isn't a bodega in sight. Maybe you've ruffled some party feathers and need to lie low for a couple of months--or decades: either way life on the outside has never smelled sweeter than in Nicolai's tobaccinous retreat. Behind the harvesting barn, you writhe; candies kicked off, hemline rising, tinny salsa beating out from a reassembled radio. Searing caramel smoke wraps your wrists and drapes your glistening decolletage--better adornment far than those big city bijouxs. Just when you've truly lost yourself, a clink of ice and a sweet, white flower is tucked behind your ear. And then you realize,you're not running from anything; you've arrived. So revel.