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Third World Affair

We met in front of Hotel Inglaterra at ten. It's probably the most famous hotel in Havana, with its decadent and ornate faade a desperate testament to a lifestyle long past. The hotel boasts a casino Batista used to visit, rooms once occupied by politicians, movie stars, and gangsters, and a lobby host to the grandest New Year's Eve party in 1959, before Cuba fell to Castro after the "Triumph of the Revolution."

"Adonde vamos?" I asked as I bounced down the steps, then met him with a kiss and a smile, curious to know our destination.

"Un lugar," he replied with an air of mystery, gently slipping my hand into his, rough and strong, his life in Cuba. He laced his fingers through mine, and with this simple yet assuring gesture we began our journey.

We wound our way through the maze of streets in Old Havana. He'd pause on occasion to point out some landmark, some meaningful point of reference unblemished by the ever-present advertising I'm so accustomed to at home, and I'd memorize it to hold in the album of my mind. I had to use my imagination to envision the buildings in their forgotten splendor; but even in dire need of repair, they seemed to stand in defiance to the inevitable disintegration. When we'd stop, he'd slip his arm around my waist, pull me closer, and turn my face to look directly at what he saw. He was so proud of his city, so full of love for the beauty it displayed and respect it commanded. At each turn onto a new street, it seemed he knew everyone a friend, a cousin, some more friends. "Pichi, que pasa?" "Pichi, que honda?" La Habana Vieja was his world, and I was his lucky guest.

I loved the tour, and that I was privy to this world that still remains forbidden to most Americans, but the cobblestone hundreds of years old played mercilessly on my gorgeous new sandals. I begged him to walk more slowly. "Mis zapatos, amor," I said, pointing to my feet. He stopped and looked at the Gucci's with delight, his eyes betraying the rarity of such a frivolous item. And to think, this was just one pair of, oh, thirty that I owned. He looked at his own shoes without shame, and paused to allow me to adjust my buckle. I felt selfish.

Onward again, generously at a slower pace, we made one final turn onto yet another brick street. I could hear Cuban Salsa penetrating the air with its distinct pulse. Cuban Salsa is soothing and inviting, despite its furious tempo punctuated by loud horns and intense drums. We arrived at an iron gate with a complicated

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