Unlimited ice cream for communists

Gaby and Laura were our perfect ambassadors to Cuba for three reasons. First, they were
extremely excited that this trip was even taking place: it was a small miracle that all of Gaby’s best
friends in college decided to fly to Cuba and experience Gaby’s new home. Second, Laura had lived
in Havana her whole life, and Gaby was a Sagittarius like me, which meant she was a master of
travel and exploration. Their collective mental map of the city was studded with a commendable
constellation of dive bars, breakfast cafés, and cultural sites.
Gaby and Laura were waiting for us with a yellow taxi van when we exited La Havana
International. We all squinted our eyes reflexively, having zoomed from a 40-degree chill in North
Carolina to 80 degrees of direct sunshine.
On our taxi ride through the outskirts of Havana, everyone was hypnotized by the view
through the rose-tinted windows. Everywhere I looked was cinematic. Men wearing only gym
shorts and flip flops smoked cigarettes on the balconies of magnificent old mansions, with mint
green gilded facades and patches of disintegrated plaster. A small gray-haired woman rested on a
park bench and sprinkled rice on the ground for the street cats swarming at her feet. A lady in a
bright blue dress rolled a wooden wagon full of fresh-cut flowers in every color down the uneven
cobblestone streets.
But the very first thing I noticed took me completely by surprise: picturesque vintage cars
everywhere. We passed a parking lot where each and every space was occupied by a hot pink
convertible.
When Americans think of Cuba, they visualize old cars. We imagine an entire rainbow fleet
of Beetles and Bugs and Volkswagens. Based on their camera rolls, it seems like all tourists and
visiting photographers encounter a lime green punch-buggie around every corner. I, a selfdescribed
“woke traveler,” had rolled my eyes at these images. How basic, how reductive, how
cliché!
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