I was just in Cuba last month. It strikes me that so many people have so many different experiences there. I've heard people talk about how much they love it, and other that wish they hadn't visited. I had a very interesting experience, and in trying to sum up my thoughts, wrote this short story. I hope you all enjoy.

HAVANA

The stink wafted past me, the acidic smell of urine with a touch of rotted trash and fish, in the hot, stagnant air, with only my lit cigarette providing some relief from the odor. I walked down the street, a few blocks from the rich in their mansions and the tourists in their hotels, past the soviet-style buildings teeming with life.

The people poured into the street, escaping the hot, stale air of the concrete block buildings. Kids gathered in a small courtyard opening, playing baseball with a piece of wood for a bat, and bases made of old metal plates. The optimism of carefree children on display, yet to get the look that the adults had on their face; one of uncertainty and worry. I felt a drop of water hit my forehead and looked-up. A fresh batch of clothing had just been hung, on the clothes lines travelling across from roof to roof.

What was this place, I thought of so many stories of beaches, cocktails and fun, but that was the world presented to the tourists, which clearly wasn’t real.

Block by block as I walked into the city, the fancy cars had given way to old soviet imports and then rust buckets that could hardly putter; the nice suits had given way to rags; the cheerful music and sounds of the city center to the suppressed hum only an oppressed society has.

Too many cops. Every corner, every alley, every street. Always present in their military style, black uniforms to keep the people safe and in line. Though they were conspicuously without firearms, it was clear from the stoic, hardened gaze on their faces that they would have no issue beating you to death with a baton. More cops, they seemed worried by my presence. I had walked too far. It was time to go back to the fairytale.

I looped back towards the old town, letting concrete block fade back into Spanish colonial architecture, and the putrid smell slowly transformed into the inviting scents of fried plantain, churros and flowers. The police sank back into the shadows, obviously worried about worrying the tourists, but still keeping an eye on every person and every movement.
I walked out into a square, with gorgeous pastel buildings, bustling stores and busy cafes. It seemed like my five-block walk had teleported me to a whole different world. I sat at the café and ordered a coffee. Looking at the throngs of happy, loud tourists, blissfully oblivious to the real Cuba that was just out of the reach of their telephoto lenses.

Three old men came and sat on the corner, pulling out a guitar and a few old drums. The music flowing from their toothless mouths filled the street. They sang the music of old Havana, the one idealized by Hemingway. A breeze kicked up, rustling the palm fronds; a few pastel 1950’s Chevy convertibles pulled up, looking like they had just driven off the lot. The world had become a postcard. This was the Cuba everyone dreamed of. I sipped my coffee, and I lit a cigarette, taking a nice slow drag. This is a wonderful place, I thought.

I looked up across the skyline and saw the tops of those soviet-style concrete block buildings, clotheslines stretched from roof to roof, contrasted with the pastels and liveliness of the square. I put out my cigarette. They were two different worlds. One of historical memories, glitz, and glamour. The other of modern reality, hunger, and struggle.