Escaping Rum, Cigars, and Belligerence in Cuba

In December of 2014, in a fit of wanderlust, my partner and I caught the least expensive flight possible out of Thunder Bay, Ontario. This put us in a low-end, all-inclusive hotel in Varadero, Cuba.
Early one morning, we found ourselves awaiting a vehicle to bring us to Havana. It was our fourth day in the country and we were looking for a change in scenery from the endless flow of rum, haze of cigar smoke, and 18-year-old belligerent boys whose idea of travel was poisoning themselves for ten days straight. We wanted to avoid the overheated and overfilled tour buses that left twice daily from our hotel.
The night before this, I talked to a local gentleman in regards to an alternative method of arriving at the nation's capital. He responded with a smile,telling me to be on the corner of Avenida Las Americas and Avenda Tra at 7:00 am. He assured me that his friend, whom I assumed was the driver, was “very safe, no worry, very safe.”
It was especially humid for that time of day, the ever-present aroma of saltwater and sound of distant flamenco guitars were intoxicating, when a cream colored 1957 Chevy Bel Air pulled up beside us. We quickly realized that the driver spoke very little English, and our Spanish is sadly lackluster. Luckily, there was also a younger woman who would be riding with us to interpret and to inform us of historically rich places. After my partner and I entered the backseat, noting the original leather and lack of seat belts, the engine rumbled to a start and the vintage car pulled onto the now-empty road.
The Bel Air screamed past beaches and smiling children playing with battered soccer balls. As we passed Matanzas, a city named after a massacre orchestrated by the Spanish Conquistadors, the raven-haired woman in the front seat pointed out her childhood home. The streets of the city were lined with memories and roughly drawn faces of the revolution; namely Che and Castro.
Approximately half way between Matanzas and 'La Habana', we found Cuba. We were breathing a concoction of asphalt, gasoline, and clean island air, feeling the hot sun on our shoulders and listening to various versions of 'Guantanamera' that were blasting out of the transistor radio. One can learn much about a country from the roads that run through it like veins. On Cuba's Central highway, I came to the conclusion that one of the best ways to discover this nation's vibrant culture is in the backseat of a 1957 Chevy Bel Air.