On El Prado (nostalgically)

Talk a walk down el Prado. To the right is the city of today, the dirty streets and buildings with crumbling and cracking paint; to the left is the old city, the city Havana puts on when guests are coming to visit. El Prado is the dividing line, a division of: road rumbling with cars that were made anachronisms four decades ago; trees that are old and gnarled, bent and twisted over the boulevard; the boulevard itself a mixture of black and white triangles forming squares and diamonds. In the mornings, people walk the slick black and white tile to work, letting the older folks sit by the side undisturbed, watching the younger men and women march off to work. Later in the day, kids play games with their classmates on el Prado, giggling and running and tagging and sliding. When the sun has finally worn itself out, the benches are lined with people of all ages and origins, sitting and watching the beggars and hustlers work the occasional group of tourists who edge cautiously down the walkway. It's as if they're afraid of getting sucked into Havana Centro with all its chipped paint and pickup games of streetball (sticks and medicine bottles, not bats and baseballs).

But let go of Havana Vieja. Get sucked down the side-street with all its buildings stuck in states of slow decay, with little bits of crumbling cornerstone littering the sidewalks and threadbare dogs darting in around the cars that may or may not be following some kind of rules on the road. Brush past the young, buff guys (there are no real potbellies, no beerguts, in Cuba), and excuse yourself respectfully past the older gentlemen in jackets. Duck through the on-going game of stickball, don't mind the boys whipping out little kid curses at you, give them some gum if you've got it. Wander and sticks to the areas you don't know. You might be surprised where you come out of the concrete jungle (the heat makes this analogy all the more valid).

Calle Hamel, where the local artist Salvador Gonzalez Escalona has changed his home street into a huge canvas.

The Malecon, where the Atlantic ocean is held away from the city by thick, old concrete and stonework; where the fishermen are replaced at night by lovers and partiers.

Revolution Square, where you can stand between the famous gaze of el Che and the staggering monument to Jose Marti.

... hmm. That's enough for now.