Why communists imagine themselves to be revolutionary is a mystery. Whenever they gain power in a country, it comes to a dead stop and sits there as other countries pass it by. I do not think that communism generates poverty; rather it finds it and preserves it. It has certainly done so here.
On Havana’s malecón, the seawall that parallels the
shore, the waves roll in and hit the sudden obstacle, sending towering
explosions of bright white spray far into the air, occasionally soaking
the unwary pedestrian. Across the highway that follows the malecón is a
cheap open-air restaurant, the DiMar. A steady breeze from the sea pours
across the tables. A tolerable shrimp cocktail, topped with mayonnaise,
costs a few bucks. On a couple of evenings I drank a beer there,
watching Cuba go by. It wasn’t what I had expected.
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