That first night in Havana, fresh off the plane, having cleaned up and regathered my wits, I was finally properly introduced to & greeted by the group. I got caught up with a mojito — the first of many — and after a “development” in the schedule — the first of many — we piled into a bus and went to a house on the Rio Almendares, called Río Mar — River & Sea.

I was seated right on the edge of the balcony, with a wide-open view of the river, and the western terminus of the world-famous Malecón (Boulevard). It was a fancy, expensive, riverfront home, and the owner — except, not the owner — had some financial help from Miami in opening the restaurant. And a pleasantly confusing observation: whereas in America, such prime real estate would be the private playground of millionaires and yacht owners, there was not a single private dock behind any houses; no sailboats; no water craft.

We dined with views of a smooth, wide-open plane of water. We were steps away from the waters of the Straits of Florida (and the Malecón, of course).

The fare at Río Mar was, not surprisingly, both from the river and from the sea; a choice of fish and lobster were presented (being a novice at Cuban cuisine, I eagerly and immediately decided on the lobster; you can get caught up on Cuban lobster in another essay), in addition to the near-universal choice of chicken. Rice and black beans, shredded cabbage, fried taro root, boiled yucca (a starchy root vegetable with the consistency of a potato), all of which were exciting and new and I was eagerly tasting, not realizing that any given meal in Cuba would cover roughly 90% of the total flavors I had tasted throughout the trip. If Cuban cuisine is anything, it is consistent.

Our dinner was a feast — which will be another relentless consistency; we will end up having to tuck each collected meal into increasingly tighter arrangements of chairs in restaurants straining to seat so many customers. We were stretching and digesting, after coffee, on top of dessert, on top of dinner, on top of appetizers, on top of mojitos mojitos mojitos (and for some, on top of wine), all of that on top of whatever it is in the water in Cuba that makes all the colors so vibrant.

A group of San Francisco liberals confront and admire an impressive, block concrete building across the street, on top of which there is a banner that reads “Años 57 de Revolucion,” with a guard at the front steps. We asked one of the restaurant staff about the building — “What is that building?”

And he said, it is a place where people work. And then he said, it is a place to buy things.

The San Francisco liberals struggle to understand. Buy… things?

“Like Walmart?”

The name does not compute. He blinks, cocks his head.

“A business place, I think,” I say.

He nods. “Business.”

We ended the conversation as mystified as when we began it, except that once on board the bus that would return us to our hotel, we tried to imagine a culture void of brands, where concepts like “business” were hazy and confused.