It’s all about people
It was Summertime 2013 and I had been in Cuba for nearly 15 days. I was totally fascinated by Cuban culture, its history, music, dance and the warmth of its people. I was enjoying all sorts of local experiences: mojitos in salsa clubs, sunset in Havana’s Malecon, the Carnival in Matanzas, taking a ride on a carriage in Trinidad and getting free salsa classes at a restaurant in Santa Clara.
But Cuba just can’t stop surprising you. I was wandering around Santiago’s City Center when I ran into a bookstore. The physical space was tiny, filled with dusty books and a million small objects. An old man promptly introduced himself, and explained that at that place, “La Escalera”, musicians sitting at the top of a small stairway play for an “underground” audience.

He also explained that his merchandise consisted mainly of secondhand books. I told him how I’ve always loved used books, because I wonder which stories they might be hiding beside those that are printed on their pages. My imagination gets even wilder when they’re autographed or when I find any personal notes inside the book. He replied that this was precisely why he opened the bookstore in the first place.
After that, we engaged in a what became a memorable conversation. Conrado was a man probably in his 70’s, and had seen many things in life. We discussed about the Cuban revolution, from which he had many memories.
He was a highly cultured man, able to stand up for his opinions. He was incredibly rational, and yet, passionate about his ideas. He always wanted to be a teacher, but life made him a bookstore owner instead. I said: “right now, you are being quite a teacher to me”, and he gave me a broad smile.
We kept chatting and he offered me a chair and a cup of coffee. After a while, I discreetly — or maybe not so much — looked at my watch. I already had been there for one hour. He asked me why I was in a hurry, and I realized I didn’t actually have anything better to do. I told him that is funny how we are led to believe that we don’t have time even when we sometimes do.
I stayed longer, and what I got weren’t salsa classes, but lessons of history, literature and humbleness. In exchange, all he asked for was a postcard from Rio, my hometown. I sent it a few weeks later, along with a picture showing both of us. I will never know if I got the address correctly, or if it was ever delivered. But I truly hope it was.