How to Stay in Havana without Dying in the Attempt
Almost two decades ago I arrived in Havana convinced that, after finishing my five years of university, I would return to my native city, like a Spaniard who returns home with the wealth of knowledge, the audacity of the capital and a certificate I would hang in my parents’ living room, over the TV set, just beside the Sacred Heart. Naïve…. It was a brutal shock, not so much because of the indescribable early morning train ride from Sancti Spíritus, practically being thrown onto the platform of the Central Station, but rather because of the 20 flights of stairs without an elevator that awaited me in the student dorm of F and 3rd, an old den of initiations, the building where I would stay for five intense and licentious years. I only needed a week in that place, retracing the stairs on an almost empty stomach, to promise and swear to myself that there was no way I would stay in Havana where the people, as my grandmother used to say, became “physically and spiritually lost.” Perhaps it was the bohemian nights, the readings of Mayito Wolf or the late nights preparing my thesis, but the truth is that I...