Havana

The classic Latin colonial plaza meets Marty McFly travels back to Hill Valley 1955.  That is Havana.

Yank tank Thunderbirds rumble down the cobblestone streets in front of towering gothic cathedrals.  Salsa music floats through the alleyways while lovebirds stroll hand in hand with chocolate ice cream cones.  Panaderías sit next to old school barber shops.  Big-booty black women walk alongside gangs of Danny Zukos with gelled hair and wife-beater tank tops.  

When I burst out of the salsa club with the flautists (my host and her friends) giggling with our elbows linked, a convertible Chevy Chevelle overflowing with people rolled up, and the guy leaning out asked us where we were going and why we didn’t hop in with them.  The next thing I expected was for everyone to burst out in choreographed dance and song about summer nights.   Instead we went to the boardwalk on the shore and listened to shirtless trovadores on acoustic guitars.  

Every day in front of the statue in the main plaza, the men gather to debate, fifteen at a time, arms waving, fingers jabbing, back hand clapping, forehead slapping, all shouting at the same time.  It looking like a typical South American machista pow wow, but they’re not fighting about soccer or women--they’re talking about baseball. 

The juxtapositions are endless...