Interesting post on Generation Y, straight from the island, contrasting the two Havanas: the one in which the officials, the diplomats, and the foreigners live, and the one Cubans inhabit. As I read Yoani Sanchez's references to the Havana where they discuss "Parmesan cheese," "Ikea Furniture," "the weekend in Cancun," while in her Havana she rocks on her grandmother's chairs, navigates the black market for food, and speaks in whispers, I am struck by how much the careless, overheard conversations must sting. She ends the post maintaining she would not want to live in the other world:
I prefer the decrepit capital, crumbling more each day, at least that one is coherent and clear about what it holds inside. We've made it in our image and likeness, or more likely, we are the ones who imitate its resignation and its misery.