Havana

Havana is the Caribbean's grand theater, still giving the performance of the century with the original set. Waves burst over the Malecón onto 1950s Chevrolets; ballrooms crumble in slow motion behind marble staircases; and four colonial plazas hold the old town like the corners of a bed. Nothing here is restored to look old — it simply never stopped being itself.

The sensible traveller walks Habana Vieja plaza by plaza in the morning — the Cathedral's stone waves, Plaza Vieja's second-floor cameras —, gives the afternoon to the Malecón as the light turns gold toward El Morro, and the night to whatever music finds them first: it will not take long. Sleep in a casa particular; the hosts are the country's best guidebook.

The Guide's honesty: bring cash and patience — cards are a rumor in many doorways, and lines are a national sport —; the double economy is confusing by design: ask your hosts, not the street; and Havana is not a museum with actors: it is eleven million real lives' capital. Curiosity yes, spectacle no.