It is late in Old Havana, and Calle Obispo is shrouded in darkness as Jorge, who fears giving his real name, walks down the narrow street. Once a fashionable shopping avenue, Obispo is now lined with decayed buildings. Jorge passes a tourist store, where three young Cubans are staring at a window display of souvenirs that would cost them the equivalent of several months' salary. At the corner, a young man whispers, "Pizza, pizza," hoping to attract customers to an illegal private restaurant. At 20 pesos, the price of a pie equals what Jorge earns in two days. Light spills out...
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