By Jessica Dur Taylor
It’s not that we hadn’t fallen in love with Cuba, her slender crocodile figure and rhythmic hips, her bawdy street corners and crumbling veneer. We had. We’d been all the way to her furthest tip, braving a five-hour bus ride over the sumptuous mountain curves, to Baracoa, where Christopher Columbus first planted a crude wooden cross in the New World. We’d cruised the urine-streaked streets of Carnaval and roughhoused with the Atlantic. We’d even encountered museum guides and shop owners whose desperate eyes said what we could not. This is not socialism, my friend, this is not freedom.