It’s mid-March, on my first night in Havana, and I’m walking on crumbling sidewalks to the home of a Cuban couple. Carlos is a distant cousin of a friend in New Orleans. He has a state job in the music business and earns extra money doing private jobs on the side; his wife is a private translator. Read the full article.
The man escorting Patricio Bustos fumbles with his keys. Bustos doesn’t complain. After all, he has waited a long time for this. What’s a few more seconds? The heavy, steel door swings open at last and Bustos steps into a cement courtyard the size of a tennis court, surrounded on three sides by a blue, one-storey building. "Read full article"