As I walk out of the rickety old airport, I picture Hemingway walking through these doors, looking at the paint peeling off the walls. The air is already buzzing as I flag down a taxi; they all look as though they are about to fall apart. All of them except the vintage beauties in shades of powder blue, dark fuschia and lime green that line the airport parking lot.
These ones look as though they have been polished excessively since the minute their elegant pieces were assembled like artwork together. I had a feeling these two different types of taxis were going to be a representation of this electric city. The flashes of color contrasted with the dirty and old. Oh, how right I was about to be.
Somewhere that had experienced two independence wars, a revolution, and a US trade embargo must shake the very core of its ground with character
I speak in broken Spanish with the taxi driver. He tells me about his family through drags of a cigarette, carelessly flicking the ashes without aim. It’s obvious I didn’t opt for the shiny leather seats of the vintage Cadillac for my journey to my apartment. My eyes stay locked out the window, picturing what was to come as I got closer to the city centre.
I expected the history to shine through the streets, because somewhere that had experienced two independence wars, a revolution, and a US trade embargo must shake the very core of its ground with character.