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Cuba - the island of optimists

27 May 2008 • Travel time: with 28 February 2007 on 15 March 2007
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Cuba - the island of optimists

Modern Cuba began for me with Havana, a city that once gave me, a quarter of a century ago, unusual impressions. Today, when I again found myself in the same places, the smallest details of that still "Intourist" trip suddenly surfaced in my memory. And I really wanted to talk about this unusual, living in defiance of any logic, country. Which of the two trips do you prefer? The current one or the one twenty-five years ago? To say that over the years something has changed a lot on the island would not be entirely true.

All the same old, neglected, dilapidated houses, huge American cars of the fifties of the twentieth century, the same ones with wings that look like birds. They are still on the move, there are simply no others, although sometimes a brand new Mercedes will flash through the gap in the street, but this is rather a mirage, a ghost.


And on the other hand, globalization, so hated by Fidel and his followers like Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez, has already tightly wrapped its web around this one of the few islands supposedly building socialism that has long gone out of fashion.

The dictatorship remained, but in comparison with the numerous terrorist, bloodthirsty Islamic, and not only Islamic, regimes, although undermined by time, but still the absolute power of Castro, it looks like a simple misunderstanding, a toy and it can be seen with the naked eye that this whole ridiculous system is approaching to its end, along with its aged leader.

In predominantly Christian Latin America, there were and are much more terrible and much more bloodthirsty regimes.

In the meantime, rather by inertia, this "island of freedom" is in the world media in the same company with North Korea and Iran, which, having driven their people into poverty, are developing nuclear programs at full speed.

But what about Cuba? A small, warm island with cheerful and, despite the hard life, friendly people. To a modern Western tourist, far from history and politics, Cuba appears as an ordinary "banana republic", poor and neglected, just like other countries in this region.

In the Caribbean, poverty has long been the norm. And this does not surprise anyone. And Cuba, having retained a certain part of the advantages of socialism, especially in the social sphere, greatly benefits from, for example, Haiti, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and even such giants as Mexico and Brazil.

First of all, a Western tourist sees here an excellent recreation infrastructure, hotels of well-known world chains, many kilometers of clean sandy beaches, good service, and so on and so forth - everything that is necessary and familiar.

At the same time, the very background of this paradise is supposedly an ominous communist dictatorship, in fact it is more symbols in the form of numerous posters with a hand clenched into a fist - "Fatherland or Death", portraits of Che Guevara - the great-grandfather of modern terrorists and an angel in comparison with them.


That notoriety about the Castro regime, which has been dragging on since the late fifties of the last century, is now more of an attraction for tourists, "action" for an additional fee. Of course, this does not make it easier for a simple Cuban. But who and where thinks about it?

Moreover, in fifty years several generations have grown up who do not know another reality.

And those who, risking their lives, still try to look for it in the neighboring, just some two hundred kilometers, the richest monster, this monster carefully sends them to their "homeland", knowing full well that they are returning these people not to their native "villa" , and, at best, in prison.

And for a foreign tourist here is a paradise. Tropical exotic, seasoned with heavily faded communist symbols. four and five star hotels, duty-free, cabarets and restaurants with crazy prices. Is that the former "Hilton" retained its "communist" name "Havana Libre". But inside, it's the same Hilton that struck me years ago with its lobby with fountains, huge crystal chandeliers, white leather furniture and rows of shops selling outlandish goods. One, for example, was filled only with crocodile leather goods, the other with luxurious diamond jewelry sparkling in an elaborately illuminated shop window.

All this splendor was sold only for convertible currency, and our exchanged pesos could buy only what was supposed to be a simple Cuban without cards, that is, almost nothing.

But it was terribly interesting, despite the 30-degree February heat and almost one hundred percent humidity.

And the most important thing is that they thought for us - where to take us, what to show and constantly monitored so that not a single ram strayed from the herd. And there was someone to follow.

So, I found myself in a dilemma. To talk about modern Cuba or about that twenty-five years ago - after all, the first impression is the most interesting and unforgettable.

Perhaps I'll start in order, and then we'll see.

From the Mediterranean to the Caribbean

Wow combination. Is not it?

Even the world's largest cruise companies do not organize such a trip in one flight, except perhaps around the world.

No, it's not about geography.


The beginning of the eighties of the last century. I already have several foreign trips to the "fraternal, socialist countries" of Eastern Europe.

Once, on the notice board of our company, I saw a small piece of paper with an invitation to a Mediterranean cruise.

In those years, such an announcement, openly hanging on the door of the trade union committee, looked like just a joke, nothing more.

So, continuing to joke, I went to the trade union committee and suddenly they "accepted my documents" for the trip.

It's all simple now. A plane ticket (now you don’t even need it, there is an electronic one), a voucher for a hotel, sometimes a confirmation of an order for a car. That, perhaps, is all. The main thing is the availability of money.

Then the word "documents" had a completely different meaning.

The most important and the only one was called "characteristic - recommendation" and began with the words about the "moral stability" of the recommended, although it was not specified to what and to whom.

Everyone had to sign this important paper - the head of the department, the Komsomol secretary, the party boss and the top leadership.

Then the second stage of the "execution" began - the commission of "old Bolsheviks", which met in the district committee of the then most important and only Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

This commission, which consisted mainly of retired former Chekists, of course rejected me. Although morally stable, he has not yet matured to represent the Great Country in the Mediterranean states such as Turkey and Greece. Which is to be expected.

Coming out of this "purgatory" I ran into the secretary of this same district committee, my neighbor, and asked for help, not really hoping for anything.

But the patronage helped - within five minutes, the same "old Bolsheviks" recognized me as fit to represent our Motherland in the face of an insidious enemy.

Further, this "document" moved through various "closed" instances, and soon I was called to Intourist and informed that I would not go to the Mediterranean Sea.

No comments.


But, an exceptional case for that time, they offered a replacement - a trip to Cuba.

Well, it was not the worst option, rather the opposite. It was just hard to believe.

And only on the train that was carrying our motley group to Moscow, I stopped doubting the reality of what was happening.

The group itself was assembled in strict accordance with the Instructions of the Authorities - most of them were the working class with free vouchers, plus a few thieves and I, it is not clear how I got here without any connections. Apparently too big and clumsy bureaucratic computer failed.

February - the start time of our three-week trip - was cold and snowy.

So snowy that due to drifts, our fast train arrived in Moscow twelve hours later than the schedule, and only by eleven at night, we found ourselves in the luxurious lobby of the Cosmos Hotel, then still completely new, built by the French for the Moscow Olympics and filled in this late hour by an unusual audience for us.

Here, in the lobby, one could smell the aroma of good coffee, unfamiliar but obviously expensive perfumes and good imported cigarettes - in general, the smell of foreign countries, not the socialist one, where I had already been before, but the most real, as it seemed to us then, capitalism.

However, I really wanted to eat. All the supplies of food taken on the road were eaten up on the train, for those extra twelve hours of delay that no one expected.

At night, two night bars worked in the hotel and, of course, they accepted only convertible currency - dollars, francs, pounds, lira, but not rubles, which even then were popularly called "wooden".

And in the morning, hungry, we went down to the restaurant and ended up at the buffet. It was the first such breakfast for me, and for the whole group too. You can imagine how much we ate there.


Moscow International Airport "Sheremetyevo - 2" sparkled with its novelty. Here, too, as in "Cosmos", unusual, foreign smells hovered, another world began already behind passport control. And, although rubles were accepted in "foreign" cafes, the prices there were sky-high.

And ahead of us was waiting for a "piece" of capitalism.

In the world of capitalism

I understood perfectly well that I was going to an ordinary "socialist" country.

Let it be exotic, let it be in another hemisphere, but with the same totalitarian system, with the same order as we have.

But along the way, there was an opportunity to plunge a little into the world that seemed ideal to us then, capitalism - at least a little, a little, but still ...

After five hours of flight, our huge IL - 62 landed in the capital of Morocco, the city of Rabat. The airport lane for such a colossus was a bit short.

The plane slowed down like a scorcher on a highway, so that, if not for the belts, we would all be in the cockpit.

Here, in Rabat, refueling and crew changes took place.

We went to look at the "horrors" of capitalism. Didn't have to search long. They started right after we went down the old, rickety stairs to the airfield.

After a dank Moscow winter, it was very pleasant here, warm, but not hot, seventeen degrees. And around - unfamiliar smells of flowering tropical plants and a light breeze from the nearby Atlantic Ocean.

The field of the capital's international airport was barely lit, the contours of some building appeared in the distance. And there is not a single plane around, except ours.

From the ladder to the terminal, we walked along an unusual road, rather a living corridor. It was formed by standing on both sides, almost close to each other, soldiers armed with machine guns.

So it was until the very entrance to the terminal, the same building, the contours of which I saw from the stairs.

Near the door, in thickets of tropical plants, there were also many armed soldiers. Thus, under escort, we entered the world of capitalism.

After all the passengers were inside, an old Arab man in a red Moroccan fez appeared, locked all the outer doors and solemnly retired.

The Rabat airport transit hall consisted of two adjacent rooms, each thirty meters, no more.


Scraped walls and ceiling, several rows of seats, not armchairs, but something like benches with backs.

Here they placed about one hundred and forty people, almost right next to each other.

But there was a bar and a toilet.

The wall behind the counter was adorned with a large portrait of the king of Morocco in military uniform, adorned with many decorations and several rows of aiguillettes. The rest were shelves filled with suspicious-looking bottles - at least none of these drinks were familiar to me.

The bartender, a tall, mustachioed Moroccan, gave everyone a small bottle of Coca-Cola on account of Aeroflot. At the same time, he somehow remembered everyone and no one managed to get a second, free portion, although there were those who wanted to. For an additional fee - please. But the bartender contemptuously turned away from the Soviet rubles, demanding dollars, francs or other "normal" money.

Only one guy did the bartender a favor by giving out this pathetic bottle in exchange for a few collectible metal rubles. By the way, even then their price was much higher than the face value.

In the toilet, consisting of two booths, two parallel queues lined up, according to gender. Those who had already undergone this procedure came out with a strange expression on their faces and strongly advised the rest to visit this unique institution.

Directly outside the door was a tiny cubicle, most of which was taken up by an old, cracked toilet half-filled with stinking scum, and the walls were littered with many cockroaches, huge, and even with wings. For the visitor, after the toilet and the animals, there was very little space left. There was no such device as a sink and a faucet with water for washing hands.

An hour later, our huge IL - 62, skillfully taking off in a short runway and rounding the tiny, brightly lit Rabat, flew over the night Atlantic Ocean, taking us away from the world of African "capitalism" to the bright expanses of overseas "socialism".

First day in the Western Hemisphere


Ten hours of flight over the Atlantic Ocean. We are returning to yesterday in the literal sense of the word.

Below, on the endless expanse of water, the lights of ships began to come across. And then the earth appeared. The sixteen-hour flight Moscow - Havana has been completed.

José Marti Airport. No checks and customs.

After all, representatives of the Big Brother arrived, what claims can there be.

So we walked through the arrivals hall almost without stopping.

But how they shook Canadians, Japanese and other imperialists, who, to my surprise, turned out to be quite a lot here, even more than in Moscow.

Coming out of the terminal building, which looked like a Soviet provincial airport, we kind of dived into the thick, humid, hot air.

Despite the dead of winter, even now, at two in the morning local time, it was warm to say the least.

But for tourists who got stuck on the train just a day ago due to snow drifts, such a February metamorphosis is only part of the exotic that was expected in advance.

The guide who met us - a fat Cuban of a completely European appearance, whose neck was surrounded by several rows of golden chains, was verbose and spoke excellent Russian. He radiated optimism all over, glancing over the Russian girls. And, looking ahead, I will say that he found himself a lady of the heart for the three weeks that our tour lasted.

The bus was cold and the air conditioner worked. We were driving along a beautiful multi-lane highway - the legacy of our northern neighbor - the United States.

The first thing that struck me when entering Havana was the streets filled with people and the mass of cafes open at this night hour. True, tomorrow, that is, already today, was Sunday.

Finally we arrived at the hotel with the proud name "National".

The spacious lobby, where huge crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, was also crowded despite the late hour. I have never seen such splendor - marbled walls, a shiny granite floor reflecting the sparkling crystal of chandeliers.


True, later our guide said that a completely different hotel was intended for Soviet groups and even showed it. But, fortunately for us, this hotel was under renovation and it looks like more than a year. So we ended up in the National, one of the most luxurious hotels in Havana - then and now.

Today this hotel has five stars and, of course, exorbitant prices.

"National" was built in 1930 and looks like American skyscrapers of the Prohibition era.

We were immediately warned that air conditioners have been here since "pre-revolutionary times". Therefore, they must be handled very carefully, otherwise we will have all the delights of a tropical winter in our room.

The porter brought our suitcases into the room, but did not receive a tip - we just didn’t even know what it was then.

The room consisted of a huge room with an area of ​ ​ about forty meters, a small hallway and a huge bathroom.

From the window of the eighth, and in fact the tenth, floor, a view of the city, immersed in the darkness of the night, opened. Here and there the neon signs of the hotels glowed, the largest of which was the Havana Libre.

The time was messed up and I didn't want to sleep.

My neighbor turned out to be a young guy, a miner. We thought, thought and opened the "stash".

In those days, everyone traveling abroad, to "socialist" countries, was allowed and even strongly recommended to take two bottles of vodka with them for all sorts of "friendship evenings". And I was always chosen as the group's caretaker, rightly believing that someone like me would not encroach on public reserves. And here he took a bite.

My neighbor and I decided to celebrate the arrival and for this we opened a group "stash".

So, without looking, a bottle of vodka left for chocolate, also public.

It was the same tropical night outside, dark and damp.

The sky began to turn a little gray and suddenly, as if someone had turned on the light, it became completely light and an unusual sight opened before us.

Below was a huge city. Numerous skyscrapers of various shapes rose up all around. Behind them, a piece of the famous Malecon was visible, and further - the turquoise, stretching beyond the horizon, the Atlantic Ocean.

You couldn't take your eyes off this view. But still we decided to go down to the ocean.


Hotel "National" is located on the shore, but not directly on the embankment, but on a small hill, so to get to the Malecon, you need to bypass the neighboring block. And on the hill itself there is an exit from the lobby, right into a tropical park, where white marble sculptures are scattered between unknown plants.

There are also many curly benches for relaxing in the shade, which stands here throughout the day. The hotel had several restaurants and each one is unusual in its own way.

For Soviet tourists, there were no such concepts as just breakfast or half board. We were supposed to have regular three meals a day and, which was especially unusual, breakfast, lunch and dinner were held in different places during the day. Our guide after, for example, breakfast reported where we would have lunch. Then this system became more understandable and predictable.

Poor, hungry Cuba fed us so much that in these three weeks I gained five kilograms in weight. And this is with a very active lifestyle.

Dinner usually took place in a small restaurant, which was located below the level of the lobby. The walls of the hall were finished with dark green silk with a gold pattern, and against this background the white furniture in the retro style stood out.

The whole process was accompanied by classical music performed by a small ensemble of three people - two Africans and one European - double bass, violin and piano. In combination with the interior, this music somehow relaxed, soothed and relieved fatigue after a hard tourist day.

We wanted to stay in this environment as long as possible, but no one hurried us, sit as long as you want.

Dinner was most often held at the Terrassa restaurant, whose hall curved around the side facade of the hotel, and huge semicircular windows created the feeling that you were sitting not in an air-conditioned room, but on an open veranda on the seashore.

But the main attraction here was the buffet.

Now, having traveled enough around the world, I can say that I have never seen such a thing.

Here, I'm sorry, I can not refrain from describing.

It all started with salads - several dozen types - fish, meat, vegetables, fruits and some other unknown ones.

Next came the soups, the most diverse, in about the same number of varieties.


They, these soups, as well as main courses, were handed out by a dozen Cubans standing behind the counter, mostly of African origin, dressed in something similar to respirators - God forbid, some kind of infection.

Following the main dishes were tables filled with huge trays with dozens of types of cakes, pastries and other sweets.

The picture was completed by picturesque mountains of fruit, often unknown, although there was also any familiar, often from books, "nonsense" such as bananas, mangoes or pineapples.

And then - juices, ice cream and everything else.

In addition, on the tables, at each device, there was an obligatory bottle of beer.

If you want more, please just tell the waiter, who, despite the fact that the buffet implies self-service, there were quite a few in the hall.

I didn’t want to leave this restaurant either, as well as the one with music, but for a different reason - after such a dinner it was impossible to tear my butt off the chair.

There was something surreal in all this abundance in the midst of a starving country.

Moreover, in front of the entrance to each restaurant, I constantly noticed a small group of thin, poorly dressed Cubans. It turned out that they were waiting for the leftovers from our food. And they were not always received, because after the closure, the staff of the local catering sector took away everything that was left, barely dragging heavy bags on themselves, but at the same time absolutely not hiding it.

How those people, waiting for leftovers, got inside the hotel, despite the many open and hidden guards, remained a mystery to me.

After a long flight and a farce with the transition to local time - and the difference with Moscow is eight hours - immediately after breakfast, most of our group turned off, the rest were brave - this was expressed in combing the surrounding area in search of shops. But those single ones that were found were closed on this Sunday.

And, in the end, these brave men joined the rest, who were getting a portion of sleep, wasted during the journey.

Everyone slept so soundly that, having gathered for a walk in the evening Havana, I could not find a companion for myself and set off alone.


Directly from the main entrance to our hotel, one of the central streets of the Cuban capital began, bearing the number 42. It ran perpendicular to the ocean, cutting through this part of Havana - the Vedado district.

I headed back, but by a different route, and soon felt that I was lost. Ahead was a small, almost unlit street, on both sides of which stretched tall, blank, white-painted fences.

Having walked from a dozen meters, I heard screams coming from nowhere, like human ones, but they were more wild, bestial. Imagine a situation. Late evening. An empty alley lit by a single dim lantern and that bestial howl from the darkness.

Raising my head, I saw that from above, on the fence, with their legs down, some people were sitting, a lot of people, and they were making these wild sounds.

In general, behind the fences, on both sides of the road, there was a psychiatric hospital.

Having almost run through the rest of the street, I found myself in a huge square and immediately recognized it.

Yes, behind the lunatic asylum was the central square of the Cuban capital - Revolution Square.

It was here that Comandante Fidel delivered his speeches, which lasted for five, and more often more than an hour. At the same time, from five hundred thousand to a million people were usually gathered here.

Standing under the scorching tropical sun, these poor people were forced to listen to verbal nonsense, while not even having the right to leave for natural reasons.

True, with age, Fidel slowly reduced the duration of his monologues. And, I must say, he is a great orator.

Revolution Square is a huge field, with buildings of various types and purposes peeking out from the surrounding lush vegetation, including the same madhouse.

In the center of the square there is a rather strange monument to Jose Marti - a giant stele that goes into the clouds, and at its base - a tiny old man - a poet, a hero of the Cuban people, an outstanding fighter for the independence of the island.

The walls of the few buildings that can be seen from this field are full height decorated with portraits, mainly of Fidel Castro and Che Guevara.

The latter is true more.

From here, from Revolution Square, all excursions in Havana begin.


But it will be tomorrow.

And today I stood alone on a field, empty at this late hour, and accumulated strength for the last foot throw to the hotel.

Havana - view from above

The hot tropical sun flooded with its light the boundless ocean and the huge city spread below.

He beckoned and attracted - go down faster and plunge into me, as if into sea waves.

Havana is a large metropolis with a population of two million. It stretches along the coast of the Atlantic Ocean for many kilometers and can be conditionally divided into three parts.

Our hotel area, Vedado is a typical North American city.

Straight broad highways intersect at right angles.

Streets perpendicular to the ocean are indicated by numbers, and parallel - by letters.

So they say - the corner is 23 and G is a typical chess layout, transferred here by the northern neighbor.

Almost all Havana's skyscrapers are located here, which, together with the panorama of the Malecon, create the image of the city. Views of the area, taken from the ocean, represent Havana as a cluster of high-rise buildings, a typical city of the United States.

My acquaintance with Havana began last night from the main street of this area.

However, this "American city" is only a part of the Cuban capital and far from the largest.

The next zone, into which the Vedado area smoothly flows, occupies most of Havana. This is actually the real face of the city - Centro.

This area is densely built up with high-rise buildings of the early twentieth century and their architecture is very reminiscent of the cities of Spain.

This is what the center of Havana looks like - American - Spanish.

All these areas are united by the famous Malecon promenade, which stretches along the coast of the Atlantic Ocean. This is a symbol of the city, linking together not only the districts of the Cuban capital, but also the Cubans themselves - black, white, mulattoes - a people who have retained their natural optimism, despite the long years of dictatorship.


All the most important events, holidays, carnivals, in general, the entire cultural life of Havana is the Malecon.

Here at one time there was one of the most prestigious places in the city and therefore the most architecturally interesting buildings were built along the coast.

Wealthy people who owned these apartment buildings competed with each other for originality. Sometimes it just got to the point of absurdity.

So one of the homeowners built here, on the embankment, a multi-storey building in memory of his dead daughter.

The building with its front side, consisting of coffins stacked on top of each other, mixed with shipwrecks, looks towards the ocean, like a mute reproach of this water element that swallowed up the poor girl.

Day or night, all the time on the Malecon life does not stop. From early morning, children parapet dive, bathe or swim on black car tubes, and old people go fishing. But already in the afternoon you can see couples in love enjoying the sun and salty wind from the ocean. And in the evening this place belongs entirely to Cuban youth. Throughout the 3 kilometers on the Malecon and in the streets and squares adjacent to it, a variety of music sounds, numerous youth campaigns arrange impromptu concerts, street cafes are filled with visitors - a real fiesta!

The outskirts of Havana are endless districts of villas, each, like the waterfront houses, rivaling the others in originality and opulence.


In the Havana suburb of Cojimara, stands Hemingway's villa. "This is a place where it is pleasant to return from everywhere, wherever you are, " the writer said of his Cuban home. Now here is a museum, and once the writer's friends came here. Together they enjoyed swimming and playing water polo in the deep pool. To cool the water in it, a whole truckload of ice was poured into it. But the main attraction of the estate is the Pilar yacht bought by the writer at the Brooklyn shipyard. During the Second World War, the US Navy stuffed the yacht with all sorts of weapons. For two years, the writer fought on it, dropping depth charges on German submarines on duty in the Caribbean.

And on this day, the second in Cuba, while others were basking in the pool, we, despite the thirty-degree heat and almost one hundred percent humidity, set off on a hike through the hot city.

But here, in Cuba, it was winter. What then in the summer?

At ground level, the city looked different than from the hotel window. It seemed that you were in some kind of fantastic, otherworldly world. It is as if time has stopped here and this has happened since the transfer of power to the "revolutionaries - liberators" led by Fidel Castro.

But with what joy the residents of the capital, and from the most diverse segments of the population, entering the city of bearded "partisans" met. And they got what they have.

The Vedado area, the new Americanized center, still looked pretty decent. Here, in addition to many hotels, the main government agencies, the Cuban television building and part of the embassies were located.

Despite the fact that Cuba and the United States did not have diplomatic relations, the former embassy - a huge multi-storey building near the Malecon - actively carried out its former functions, albeit under the flag of Switzerland. Only now this institution is called "Representation of the interests of the United States. " Relations are severed, but interests remain and, obviously, on both sides.

Moving from Vedado to the Centro area, you find yourself in a chaos of narrow streets.

The picture here is rather depressing. Beautiful old multi-storey buildings, smoky and neglected, are gradually decaying, some of them have already collapsed, while others, in which they still lived, were close to it.

Walking along these streets, one could look inside the houses.

Due to the hot climate, all apartments were built with windows on two sides, which gave at least some air movement inside.

Sometimes it even comes to blows. Fidel Castro himself is a passionate baseball fan.


At the intersection of these streets, there were often small bars filled even at the height of the working day. And they drank there by no means beer, but something stronger. And it's in this heat.

Each bar had access to two streets, and therefore we often shortened our path, passing through them, but trying not to linger.

Approaching the Paseo del Prado, the boulevard where the pompous building of the Academy of Sciences rises - a copy of the Washington Capitol, by the way, beautifully restored, apparently thanks to the son of Castro, then the chief Academician, we saw a small crowd on the opposite side of the street.

As it turned out, in the multi-storey building located here, rotten wooden floors between floors collapsed and, apparently, there are victims.

But who's to say.

We only saw how the unfortunate tenants tried to save their simple belongings - pillows, blankets, mattresses.

Judging by the small crowd, this sight was apparently common here.

Having examined the magnificent, but, unlike our neighbor the Capitol, the smoky building of the Liceo Theater, we continued to move parallel to the ocean in the direction of the historical center.

Strange, but along the way we almost did not come across shops, only, mostly vegetable shops from which there was a heavy smell and a fetid liquid flowed directly onto the sidewalk, in which scrawny negro children were busy.

A few blocks later came Galliano Street, the former main shopping thoroughfare. But why the former?

All the high-rise shopping malls on both sides of the street were open, as were the many shops in the adjacent lanes.

We went to several of these department stores and again the same depressing picture appeared before our eyes ..

In Cuba, there was and still is a system for distributing consumer goods by cards, only today this list has increased significantly.

After all, at that time almost all the main

Translated automatically from Russian. View original
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