There’s a city that happens besides us without touching us. It is a Havana that talks of “Parmesan cheese” of “centimeters of turf” and “weekends in Cancun.” It’s another town that barely mixes with ours and looks nothing like the scenario of landslides and deficiencies that forms our environment.
Both “Havanas” coexist and at the same time negate each other. Those who live in one can’t imagine -in all its expanse- the other city that completes it. One runs quickly on wheels, while ours ages at the stops, waiting for the bus. The sweet Havana of opulence moves itself west, especially towards the area of Miramar, Cubanacan, Atabey and Jaimanitas. Mine, grows by jumps towards San Miguel, Diez de Octubre, El Calvario and Fontamar.
When both cities coincide and collide, they can’t comprehend each other: so far apart are the realities where they live. While one complains of its old Ikea furniture and of the difficulties in transporting the “moving container from the port,” the other one rocks in the aged chairs inherited from the grandparents and submerges in the black market.
My deteriorated Havana buys retail, talks softly and smells like sewage waters, while that city where ministers, high officials and diplomats dwell, moves between canapes, receptions, and exhales a delicate aroma of moisturizing creams.
I prefer, however, the decrepit city that I haunt everyday, since at least it is coherent and transparent like what remains in it. We have made it in our image and likeness, or rather, we are the ones that imitate it in its resignation and its misery.