This is the translated version from a chinese article. Click Here to read the original chinese version.

José Martí International Airport, the solitary gateway between Cuba and the rest of the world, stands not just as an airport but as a reflection of the island’s intricate web of political and economic entanglements. For both Cubans and foreign visitors, crossing this threshold feels less like a mere transition and more like the beginning or end of an entire journey. The shadow of the Cold War lingers palpably over the airport, draped across its deteriorating structure like a veil of forgotten history. When we landed, the passengers bursted into applause—an outpouring of emotion for the safe arrival. And then, as if the exuberance itself had been too much, a prolonged silence fell. Faces pressed against the airplane windows, straining to glimpse the Cuba they had long imagined, yet still unsure of what they might find.

As the country’s sole international airport, one might expect José Martí to exude a certain majesty. Instead, it disorients. The small, worn-out building stands almost in defiance of expectation. From the moment we stepped off the plane, we were ensnared in a tangle of bureaucracy. The customs hall was a bottleneck of confused travelers, the air thickened with disorganization. Tourists, looking helpless and bewildered, were plucked from the crowd for random questioning about the stamps in their passports, as if those stamps carried the weight of their souls. Only an hour earlier, the green fields of the Cuban countryside had stretched beneath us, bathed in golden light. But now that same world had disappeared behind a fog of confusion, the revolutionary fervor reduced to administrative chaos.

No one arrives in Cuba without some forewarning of its fragile infrastructure, and perhaps this is why the frustrations were endured with a strange acceptance. Cuba demands patience, everyone knows that. But after two hours in the customs line, patience frayed. The luggage claim system had broken down. Seven hundred travelers, from two flights, crowded into a cramped room with only two conveyor belts—belts that have now stopped moving entirely. Suitcases spied across the narrow space, forming a barricade of possessions, while the rest of our luggages remained lost in some unseen abyss. It was a scene that mirrors Cuba itself: a country where its people, caught in the machinery of a stalled situation, never quite know when—or if—things will move again.

In the stifling confines of the arrivals hall, the scent of sweat and the hum of anxious voices merged into an oppressive atmosphere. This, surely, was not the face Cuba wished to show the world, yet here it was, impossible to ignore. A young Spanish student, with a voice that cutted through the disarray, took command. He organized the disoriented passengers into groups, cleared a path so that the beleaguered airport staff could begin sorting through the sea of luggages. Order, slow and laborious, beginning to return. Six workers, cramped in this claustrophobic space, began the Sisyphean task of reuniting nearly a thousand suitcases with their owners. It reminded me of another nearly impossible task: that day in November 1956, when 82 revolutionaries embarked on their own daunting mission, determined to reshape the destiny of millions on this very island.

We finally left the baggage hall, long after darkness has fallen. In Cuba, time dissolves into something abstract; here, it is not time that the people lack, but rather everything else. Our six-hour delay became a forgotten page in the long, meandering journey of two plane-loads of travelers, leaving us stranded in the timelessness of José Martí Airport, as if our journey itself had become suspended in its interminable, elusive rhythms.

Geography holds no intrinsic bearing on a nation’s importance in the world. Cuba, with its mere 110,000 square kilometers of land, is often difficult for many to even locate on a map. And yet, this small island has captivated global imagination, defying its size to become a prism through which time and system can be examined. To speak of Cuba is to step into a dense web of political and social complexities that ensnare even the most seasoned visitor. The weight of history, entwined with the immediacy of daily survival, disorients and overwhelms. Here, topics that travelers might avoid elsewhere—economic sanctions, political machinations—are unavoidable, as present as the humid Caribbean breeze that clings to your skin.

Currently, the classic cars driving through Havana mostly hail from the 1950s and ’60s. After Castro overthrew the Batista regime in 1958, wealthy Cubans and foreigners, sensing the rise of high walls, fled, easily transporting their money across the strait while leaving behind their vehicles and properties on the island. These antique cars, having changed hands multiple times over seventy years, have traversed the cobblestone streets of Old Havana, skimmed past the cane fields on the outskirts, been damaged by hurricanes, and corroded in the sea breeze. The lack of automotive industry and spare parts has turned Cubans into skilled mechanics for repairing these vintage cars. Today, Havana’s classic cars, aside from their color, shape, and interior design, no longer sport their original parts. Much like the city’s constant repairs, Cubans are eager to embrace innovative concepts for their environment, though the arrival of these innovations varies slightly by region, especially in a nation besieged by the ocean.

The Malecon at dusk is my favorite pastime in Havana. Compared to the narrow streets and crowded scenes of Old Havana, the Malecon has a Hollywood aura. The golden sunlight can mask all signs of age and decay, while the broad ocean offers a temporary escape from the troubles behind. At the end of Prado Avenue and the intersection with 23rd Street, the afterglow from the new city on the left casts a golden hue over the Malecon, adding an air of historical melancholy to the passing classic cars. Visitors can spend sixty dollars to rent a classic car for an hour’s tour along the Malecon, a sum equivalent to three months’ salary for a Cuban. Most of these vintage taxis are Chevrolet Impalas, which are far better maintained than the cars owned by ordinary Cubans. If a Cuban possesses a private vehicle, it is usually a Soviet-era Lada. Cubans need new cars, but with import duties reaching nine hundred percent, repairing old cars is their only means of transportation or economic gain without assistance from American relatives. Tourists favor the Impala for its pleasing color, but also because, even at its inception seventy years ago, the Impala was a favorite among America’s affluent middle class. It represents the pinnacle of American automotive aesthetics, with its elegant curves reflecting the British gentlemanly grace of previous generations. In the early to mid-20th century, Havana, a hub of decadence in the Western Hemisphere, saw its streets filled with Impalas, which became witnesses to the city’s splendor. Many Hollywood stars once rode in Impalas to one party after another. As the clamor subsided and the waves erased the past, the Impala’s allure for tourists lies in its embodiment of nostalgia and class aspiration. The name Impala derives from the black-faced impala of Central and Southern Africa, with which I had countless encounters in the South African wilderness—running, leaping, their nimble forms like sprites of the savannah. Most Cubans today are descendants of African slaves who once ran alongside impalas on their homeland’s soil. African ancestors accompanied impalas in their hunt, while Cuban descendants embrace the Impala due to the blockade—a coincidence spanning the Atlantic and time. What remains unchanged is their stubbornness and perseverance in seeking life amidst despair.

“My name is Marco, welcome to my restaurant!”

In the narrow alleys surrounding the Havana Cathedral Square, there are countless restaurants, most of them family-run. Marco’s job is to stand in the square, drawing in customers. Yet, this most traditional of marketing techniques no longer holds much sway over today’s prepared tourists, who have learned to combat the unexpected with silence and technology.

Every morning, Marco and I would cross paths in the square, and each time, from afar, he’d shout, “Don’t forget to come eat at my place!” It wasn’t until my final evening in Havana, almost by chance, that I found myself in the restaurant where he worked. At seven in the evening, the old city of Havana isn’t brightly lit, but the island’s night brings a certain comfort, perhaps from the sense of security that comes from being surrounded by the sea, or maybe from the flickering light of televisions escaping through the cracks in doorways along the narrow streets. As I rounded the corner into the square, I unexpectedly ran into Marco on his way home.

“You still haven’t eaten at my place!” He flashed a wide, white-toothed smile.

“Your name is Marco, right?”

“You remembered my name?” He looked genuinely astonished.

“Of course. You shout it across the square every day.”

Social life in Havana isn’t fluid. Most people’s lives are like the grapevines growing in the volcanic hollows of Lanzarote Island — chance and luck determine the majority of the people you’ll speak with in your lifetime. Perhaps Marco was another vine growing in my own hollow, and our casual conversation nudged us toward his restaurant.

The restaurant was very small, smaller than any other I’d known in Havana. Inside, there was only the kitchen and a cashier’s counter, while outside, five neat tables were arranged. Besides Marco, there was only one other worker, a Black woman who didn’t speak English and smiled at me warmly, almost shyly. Business didn’t seem good that night—of the five tables, only two were occupied, including mine. At the other table, three elderly men sat, playing their guitars. The menu, too, was unremarkable, as if all Havana’s restaurant menus had been designed by the same graphic designer and printed at the same shop. The menu, rather than the chef, seemed to dictate what food the restaurant served. Out of habit, I ordered the lobster, a dish hard to go wrong with in any restaurant in Havana. Marco, with a cheerful spirit, took my order and brought me a daiquiri, asking if he could join me at the table.

Unlike the Marco I had always known in the square—cheerful and bursting with energy—he now sat across from me at the table, looking utterly exhausted and melancholy. He asked me about daily life in China and the impressions Chinese tourists left on him. I was surprised by his fluent English and puzzled as to whether his daily grind offered him any relief in life.

“Thirty dollars, every month, for eleven years. I haven’t taken a single day off. From nine in the morning until ten at night,” he said, sipping his lemonade, with a shy smile as he revealed his income.

This was the typical wage for most workers in Cuba, so I didn’t express any shock. “Have you ever thought about living somewhere else?” It was a common question in Cuba’s social circles, no matter where you came from, regardless of gender or class. “Of course. But how could I leave?” Marco’s answer was nearly identical to that of every Cuban I had spoken to. For the past seventy years, Cubans have never stopped supplying the media with stories of escape. Refrigerators, cars, rafts—anything could become a tool to cross the Florida Straits. From the very beginning, the northward journey in search of a dream never had a dreamlike hue. Under the U.S. Cuban Adjustment Act, known as the wet-foot, dry-foot policy, over the past five years, 12% of Cuban citizens have chosen the riskiest but most accessible route: illegal passage by sea to the U.S. The Florida Straits are notorious for their high winds and rough waters year-round, with nearly 50% of these refugees drowning or being swallowed by the sea. And yet, like lobsters waiting to be plunged into water, Cubans still leap into the ocean. Marco, too, might one day become one of those lobsters. There is no clear answer between the right to life and the freedom to choose, but when life delivers its final blow, people will plunge into the abyss without hesitation.

“Geography is my fate. I could have been anyone…” He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly jumping up to greet passing customers, his daytime vitality returning in an instant. In a life so thoroughly predetermined, the most terrifying thing is to watch other cultures and ideologies pass by your own existence. Marco’s pursuit of language and the outside world was his form of resistance against this trap. No one can offer a reasonable solution to this dilemma, and so Cubans, in their daily lives, have devised countless creative ways to resemble the version of themselves they imagine. They are like schools of sardines, dancing wildly beneath the calm sea, displaying a thousand shapes and forms, effortlessly shifting between light and shadow. This, I thought, was the true essence of Cuban vitality.

As I said goodbye to Marco, the three guitarists at the next table were softly playing Buena Vista Social Club—the perfect Cuban farewell. Under the faint light of the streetlamp in the midnight square, his thin frame seemed even more gaunt, yet the strength of his wave felt like it could stir up a hurricane. And, incidentally, it was the best lobster I had ever eaten in Cuba—perfectly cooked in a small kitchen hidden deep within the alleyways.

Lobster is considered one of the four great gifts of nature to Cuba, alongside cigars, rum, and sugarcane. Yet, unlike the other three, lobster arrives at the table with a speed and simplicity that belies its luxury status. Many Cubans have turned to lobster fishing, a trade requiring little more than the right opportunity. The equation is straightforward: catch lobster, get cash. Along the Malecón, Havana’s iconic seaside boulevard, these fishermen gather, embodying a curious contradiction in a country that, in its own way, has chosen to close itself off from the world. The Malecón, stretching along nearly half of the old city’s coastline, becomes a boundary between land and sea, between civilization and nature, offering itself with an unusual openness to the outside world. Despite Cuba’s natural harbors, the embargo has left much of the coastline barren of ships, revealing a vast, uninterrupted expanse of water. Those who sit atop the stone walls of the boulevard can gaze out and lay claim to everything before them, imagining another life—one that exists beyond these shores.

Closer to Morro Fortress, where the bay narrows, the waters remain calm and still, perfect for fishing. Every afternoon until sunset, fishermen gather here. There are no boats, no nets—just fishing rods, the best equipment they can afford. To a newcomer, the scene might seem impossible to categorize. Children as young as eleven or twelve cast their lines alongside elderly men in their eighties, their bodies bent but their hands steady. The structures of learning and labor, so central to other societies, have been replaced here by a singular focus: the pursuit of lobster. Even a proper fishing rod is a rarity; most of these fishers use nothing more than a knotted bundle of fishing line. They stand perched on the stone walls, one hand gripping the tangled thread, the other gently releasing it into the water below. Despite their rugged appearances, there is a surprising elegance in their movements, a finesse in their hands that echoes the precision of Havana’s ballet dancers.

Nearby, a few sea fish lie scattered on the ground, destined as bait. Unlike lobsters, these fish hold little value in the market, saved instead for a humble family meal. The demand for lobster from tourists is immense, with a fresh catch fetching up to five U.S. dollars—a significant sum in a country where the average monthly income is about twenty dollars. This lucrative trade drives men, women, and even children to seek out the elusive crustaceans. Most days, they return empty-handed, their resolve weakened by the stillness and solitude of the chase. But when they succeed, even a single catch becomes a source of pride, allowing families to face the hardships of the north with renewed hope.

In Haruki Murakami’s The Elephant Vanishes, the slow-moving elephant finds itself out of sync with the fast-paced world around it. The lobster, however, is quicker, more elusive—a creature that escapes, even in a world distorted by circumstance. Cuba, caught between its past and an uncertain future, seems hesitant to fully embrace change, like an elephant stuck in the mud yet still chasing after a cheetah. The lobster fishermen, in their quiet determination, preserve a rare sense of freedom in Havana, though this freedom comes with deep isolation. And yet, in the delicate lines they cast into the sea, there lingers a quiet reminder that life here is not without possibility. On this island, where time crawls like molten asphalt, there are still new things under the sun—fleeting moments of luck and choices that suggest something more.

In the early morning, Havana exudes a serene yet vibrant atmosphere. The island, cradled beneath the shelter of palm trees, has slept deeply through the night. As the first light of dawn appears on the horizon, the ocean’s mist lifts the grime from the streets, carried away by the fresh breeze. At this hour, Cubans flood into the narrow streets of the old city like a new surge of blood revitalizing a dormant body, bringing the city instantly back to life. People rush to shop, for under the planned economy, the limited supply of affordable goods turns time itself into a form of currency. Outside the state-run stores in the old city, long queues form in the mornings and afternoons, with everyone clutching their food ration tickets. Under normal circumstances, patience would yield a fixed amount of essentials at a nominal price—such as twelve eggs per month for a family of four. However, after nearly three years of disruptions, food supplies have dwindled drastically, and standing in line no longer guarantees a meal.

At the entrance of a state-run store in the heart of Old Havana, the line stretched to around two hundred people, but the store staff clearly had stated that only enough provisions remain for four families. Polite Cubans did not jostle or argue, but silence enveloped the crowd. In a sea of victims, mutual accusations and insults offer no solutions. In the face of food scarcity, the usually loquacious Cubans fall silent. Those at the end of the line did not leave; tonight’s dinner might be uncertain, but they possess ample time. If not here, where else could they go?

Cuba’s planned economy and its food rationing system were born from the intention of “equality,” yet in economics, equality and efficiency are an eternal conflict. The choice of social systems often falls into the predicament of being unable to achieve both. With the state-run stores falling short, Cubans turn to the free markets run by local cooperatives. These markets, essentially small tricycle carts with a blackboard displaying the prices of vegetables and fruits, offer a modest selection: onions, scallions, tomatoes, greens, garlic, and cucumbers, often of poor quality. This is the daily fare for most Cubans, bought with pesos that only stretch so far. In recent years, the Cuban government has made some reforms to address the scarcity issue, such as opening foreign exchange stores where tourists and residents can purchase a broader range of imported goods—food, appliances, and hardware—priced in dollars or euros. These goods are often considered luxuries for many ordinary Cubans, with tourists and foreign embassy staff becoming the primary beneficiaries. In an island focused on tourism for revenue, the daily needs of local residents are sacrificed for the sake of country’s image and reputation.

“Do you need to exchange money?”

This was the most common opening line from stranger Cubans on the street to me. The rapid devaluation of the Cuban peso and the yearning for foreign currency have led Cubans to eagerly offload their pesos. The exchange rate offered by banks to tourists is not particularly favorable, roughly 1 US dollar for 25 Cuban pesos, whereas private rates can reach 160 pesos. This discrepancy highlights the significant rift between official policies and the needs of the people in Cuba today. Private currency exchange is illegal; each neighborhood has a handler who skillfully identifies tourists seeking to exchange money. With a mere glance, without a word, both parties agree on an ideal rate in dollars or euros, then step into a residential building for a minute. Inside, the staff quickly count out the Cuban pesos and hand them over. The process is swift, accomplished in silence, a task that would otherwise require a tedious bureaucracy at official institutions—a remnant of Cuba’s Cold War mentality. These privately exchanged foreign currencies are quickly converted into food, hardware, and sanitary supplies, as well as spare parts for ships and cars, or even used to pave the way to Puerto Rico and northern countries. These street exchange men are “The Boys” in Cuban parlance, a vital link connecting tourists and locals along their otherwise parallel paths.

Havana is a vertical stage. The densely packed apartment buildings stretch towards the Caribbean, and under such high density, privacy in living is a mere illusion. Carlos hanging laundry on the rooftop can step directly into Luis’s bedroom next door; Monica dancing and listening to music on the second-floor balcony overlooks the steady stream of antique cars and rickshaws below; Sebastian watching television on the ground floor can hear the raucous tourist restaurant just two meters away. Cubans do not worry about buying property; all housing is allocated according to need, and its quality is a matter of luck. These buildings, dating back to the colonial era and the early twentieth century, are the legacy of Spanish imperial ambition in the Caribbean and the opulence established by northern neighbors on the southern island. After the Castro government made tourism the centerpiece of Cuba’s economy, well-preserved buildings were converted into hotels and restaurants, while those in poorer or deteriorated condition became residential blocks. As with most aspects of Cuban life, the type of house one ends up with is largely a matter of chance and randomness. While exterior walls can be repaired, internal spaces cannot expand with growing family sizes. Families spanning generations solve this by continuously dividing their living space, even the entrance of a ground-floor apartment is partitioned into several separate areas. In the 1930s, Westerners frequently inhabited these lavishly decorated homes, and Spanish colonizers also marked their territory here. Today, ordinary Cubans still live in homes that are not truly theirs, dividing already cramped spaces. Some problems do not resolve themselves with the departure of outsiders.

The dense buildings and narrow streets can create a sense of visual oppression, making the numerous green plazas in Havana oases of respite. The Plaza de Armas is my favorite spot in Havana besides the Malecón. Despite its name, which evokes violence and roughness, Plaza de Armas is the most understated of Havana’s four main squares, once serving as the city center in the 16th century. The square’s centerpiece is a garden, with the Governor’s Palace on the west side, where towering royal palms and lush tropical plants occupy the central and surrounding areas of the square. The lack of dining options around the Plaza de Armas adds to its charm; it is not a tourist hotspot. Shaded by trees, the quiet square becomes a favored resting place for Havana’s residents. In the early morning and afternoon, the tropical sunlight filters through the foliage, scattering tiny diamonds of light across the ground. Couples sit silently on stone benches, an elderly man strums his guitar without ostentation, friends gather around chatting among the greenery, and students in white shirts exchange a phone. When the whole city is cloaked in heat and noise, the Plaza de Armas’s discreet presence mirrors every elderly person silently sitting along the streets. They have plummeted from the city’s peak, becoming invisible members of the world.

In the center of Plaza de Armas stands a statue of Céspedes. In 1868, Cuban landowner Céspedes led a revolt at his Demajagua plantation, freeing his enslaved Africans and arming them to resist Spanish colonial rule. By 1869, Céspedes was elected as the first president of the wartime Republic. The wartime Republic lasted less than ten years, from 1869 to 1878, but the significance of its changes did not lie in the duration of the events. During those ten years, Cuba abolished slavery, promoted religious freedom, and liberated several eastern provinces. On an island almost built upon slavery, black slaves regained their rights to choose their lives; they became revolutionaries, writers, musicians, and the pioneers who first ignited Cuban cultures. Without Céspedes, Cuba might not have had the Buena Vista Social Club, nor the chance for Alicia Alonso to shine on the world stage. Today, Cubans silently gaze up at Céspedes in the sunlight each day, perhaps hoping for another chance to choose their own lives.

To rid themselves of colonizers required bloodshed and sacrifice, yet the cultural landscapes forged during the colonial era are deeply entrenched in Cuba, firmly rooted in the land. On the border between Central Havana and the Old City lies the renowned Paseo del Prado. Designed by the French landscaper Jean-Claude Nicolas Forestier in 1772, this avenue was originally a proud thoroughfare where Havana’s aristocracy paraded in carriages, receiving the adulation and admiration of the public. It later became a ceremonial route for soldiers during the wars of independence. The Prado stretches from the Capitolio to the Malecón, its once-muddy path paved with bricks and bordered by towering, lush trees—a gift in the perpetually hot Havana. The buildings flanking the boulevard are essentially a compilation of Havana’s architectural designs, with Baroque and Islamic styles mimicking the high rises of Madrid, Paris, and Vienna. Though they have deteriorated and some are in ruins, the facade’s design and colors still reveal the ambitions of the past rulers. This avenue, cutting through the city center and gathering Havana’s most emblematic landmarks, is named after its Madrid counterpart, situated 8,000 kilometers away. Madrid’s Paseo del Prado boasts Europe’s artistic triangle—Guernica, The Naked Maja, and the Retiro Park radiate the light of civilization. The Spanish colonizers once aspired to create such a treasure trove in the Caribbean but underestimated how freedom could stifle the art they envisioned. In the mid-20th century, the Prado was a stage for Havana’s cosmopolitanism and avant-garde, where Karl Lagerfeld once transformed it into a Chanel runway. Now, it has given way to a simpler existence. The avenue serves as a cooling space for locals, its faded splendor absorbed into daily life. The models of the past have been replaced by ordinary citizens, and the most dazzling structures of the Western Hemisphere now dry clothes under the sun.

As “equality” became the core of Cuban society, the Prado lost all class significance. Any given afternoon sees the marble benches along the boulevard filled—sisters gossiping in pairs, taxi drivers napping in the shade, painters making their living in the middle of the avenue. Cuban life offers few surprises, and the passage of time seems to hold no value. The people of Havana on the Prado appear as if in a slow-motion film, moving languidly, their expressions revealing no emotional tumult. Even when faced with an Asian face, their curiosity manifests as nothing more than a whistle. The Prado resembles the galleries of Madrid’s Prado Museum, each stone bench like a picture frame, its occupants the subjects of a living tableau. Their emotions are subtle and subdued, requiring the observer to sit patiently and watch as joy, sorrow, and quiet contentment slowly unfold.

As the Prado nears the seawall, Havana’s youth transform it into a skating rink. In a country where leisure is a luxury, skating is a rare indulgence. Yet acquiring a pair of skates is no simple matter for ordinary Cubans, often requiring months of savings in foreign currency to reserve them at exchange stores or receiving them as gifts from relatives visiting from the United States. This is one of the few places in Havana where one can feel the pulse of youth, passion, and dynamism. In a country where time seems almost suspended and societal processes move slowly, the skating youths are like active volcanoes in a desert, a refreshing evening breeze in the sticky tropics. It is here that I truly sensed the joy and sunlight that should be inherent in a Caribbean island. These young people, still untouched by major life decisions and not yet part of the political machinery, presented the most genuine spiritual state of the residents of this tropical paradise from seventy years ago.

The evening breeze sweeped through, and from the nearby apartment buildings, a wave of jubilant shouts emerged. A family gathered in the bedroom, watching a live game of the World Cup—Argentina has scored.

Like Argentina, the Cuban people often describe themselves as those born to suffer. Just as everyone in the city found pride in the Argentina football team, this family too rediscovered their place in the world through the sport.

“The man can be defeated but not destroyed,” the old fisherman’s monologue from The Old Man and the Seainadvertently becomes the most fitting description of the Cuban spirit. In literary history, many city names represent their writers: Istanbul stands for Orhan Pamuk, Dublin for Joyce, Prague for Kafka, and Havana for Hemingway. Hemingway spent more than a third of his life in Havana, and Cuba’s seas and rum spilled onto the pages of The Old Man and the Seaand Islands in the Stream. The mutual enrichment between city and writer often endows a place with more mysterious romance. Readers, while delving into the text, are in fact visiting the city itself, even if they have never set foot on that land. To walk between the lines requires a deeper engagement with the paragraphs, feeling the city’s emotions, and experiencing those moments of chance, elusive, eternal, fragmented, and alive. For readers, Havana is a book written by Hemingway with concrete and stone. Its streets, bars, glamour, and decay each have their own rhythm and pace in the book, embodying Hemingway’s revelry, pain, fear, and belonging.

One cannot ignore the El Floridita and La Bodeguita del Medio, the bars that Hemingway crafted as his own chaotic joy in Havana, now essential destinations for tourists reconstructing their imaginations. I hold no particular interest in such tourist landmarks, and moreover, these places no longer reflect the Hemingway of yesteryear. During my time in Havana, I never stepped inside either. Yet, every evening, as Havana’s neon lights replaced the glaring sunlight, I was still moved by what I saw. The neon sign of El Floridita, now shining alone in the darkness with no other buildings nearby to share its brilliance, gleamed like the solitary old fisherman chasing the glowing fish in the deep sea at night. Hemingway’s works can be seen as an extension of Havana’s urban spirit. Buildings may crumble, people may die, and cities may be erased, but the spirit and consciousness of humanity endure in books—this is Havana’s biological continuity.

In the alleys not far from El Floridita and La Bodeguita del Medio, if one looks closely at the walls, one can see graffiti of various sizes reading “2+2=5?” This slogan first appeared in George Orwell’s 1984. When everyone believes a lie to be the truth, the lie becomes the truth. This dystopian mathematical equation, etched into the stones of the city alongside Hemingway’s footsteps, allowed me to see the old fishermen preparing to cast their lines into the sea at every sunrise and late at night. This is biological aging, yet it is the beginning of Cuba’s life-sustaining resilience.

A question will inevitably await an answer.

On my last day in Havana, I sat at an outdoor café in Old Havana’s square, listening to a father-and-son band. The father played the guitar and sang, while the son played the violin. Compared to other street musicians, they seemed to fulfill my idea of a Cuban band, blending elegance with melancholy. There were no flashy instruments—just the rough texture of the voice evoking the initial shock of Cuban jazz to the world. During the Christmas season, a few tables around me, occupied by European and American tourists, requested some familiar Christmas songs. I asked for “Dos Gardenias,” and the old man seemed quite surprised. This was likely not a popular choice among tourists in Havana, nor did it fit the festive mood of the season. The father said to me, “This is a very sad song. Are you sure?”

“Of course.” It was the only song I wanted to hear in Havana.

Even on a professional stage, the old man’s voice would have been remarkable. Cuban music doesn’t require much technique; Sincerity is sufficient to move. I was delighted to rediscover my initial impression of Cuba on my last day there, touched that the singer could swiftly find the depth and emotion of his homeland’s music within moments of performing Western pop. Yet, I was also saddened by the realization that in a city with little space for display, it seemed that a Havana artist’s life might be spent catering to others’ tastes just to survive.

This is a very sad song, but the best art does not necessarily come from joy and happiness. Cubans understand this more deeply.

The beloved singer Omara Portuondo once sang in “Veinte Años”: “We look so sad because this is our life.” “Veinte Años” has been repeatedly sung across Latin America, and the Cuban favorite Buena Vista Social Club has also shown the world the meaning of loss and longing countless times on the international stage.

Yet, as I parted from the land I once loved deeply, I still wish to say: May you not be sorrowful, may you hold no regrets, may they give you what I could not. You once ignited the fire deep within my soul. May you always be fervent, may you always be spirited.

The road is long and distant; farewell for now.

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Email：chalffy@chalffy.com

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