Havana is the hot, touristy showroom of fascism. Fascism, as it turns out, can be cute and fun to talk about on vacation. But, it doesn't take much looking to see very little is real here. The old Chevys are actually new Hyundais; the tourist currency is not the real currency; the splendid capitol is a prop; the Havana of today is not the Havana Hemingway knew.

Havana is the land time forgot, not because time forgets, but instead because time was clubbed, drugged, and thrown in a corner until it didn't remember Havana. The buildings are old and forever condemned to appear so by the para-illuminati organization, UNESCO. Americans can sometimes go, sometimes not.

Havana both loves and hates America. And, that hatred is the way you can tell the love is pure. Cubanos drive their '57 Chevrolets and drink Coca Cola from glass bottles singing Sinatra. They are in love with a young America. America when she still fit into her little black dress. What would Cuba say if it could see America now? It got a glimpse in the 90s with Ms. USSR's passing. Older, less care free, not so fun. But, Havana is good at reminding us memory is what you make it.

The tour guides do not know history, they know stories. Cuba, has no history, only stories.

The bartering in Havana does not have the insane desperation you see in the third world. Fidel hats sell for $1.50, no bartering. That is because this is not the third world, it is the second world. The people are not desperate, they are simply not allowed to succeed.

Havana, despite rampant mismanagement from the top, is a beautiful display of great management from the bottom. The citizens have taken it upon themselves to make their city great. They take what little they have and make it great. Poor, but great. Their smiles are often real.

This piece on Havana is part of a larger, and mostly unpublished, series on travel to inspire exploration.

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