Note: This post reflects my personal observations and conversations during my time in Cuba in 2015, along with reflections I wrote later in 2021. It is not meant to be a complete or authoritative view of Cuba, but rather a perspective shaped by the people I met, the places I moved through, and the realities that stayed with me.
When I first wrote this reflection in mid-July 2021, Cuba was once again in world headlines as protests spread across the island. It was not the first time Cuba had seen unrest in the decades since the revolution, but this moment felt especially intense. From what was being reported at the time, long-standing economic strain, the effects of the U.S. embargo, the post-Soviet economic reality, and the added pressure of the pandemic had all pushed daily life into an even more difficult place. Reading that news brought me back to things I had seen, heard, and felt during my own time in Cuba in 2015. So rather than trying to explain Cuba in some broad political way, I wanted to reflect on a few of the hardships that stayed with me most.
What I Observed About Daily Life in Cuba
The Cuban Salary
One of the first things that really stayed with me was how little many people told me they earned.
From the conversations I had while in Cuba, I was repeatedly told that the average monthly salary for many Cubans was somewhere around 20 to 30 U.S. dollars. I was also told that doctors often earned somewhat more, but still not what most outsiders would consider a livable amount. Hearing numbers like that firsthand was difficult to process. It immediately made me think about the impossible choices people must face when even the smallest everyday expense has weight.
I saw people wearing worn clothing and shoes that were falling apart. One of my hosts was pregnant and struggling with the reality of not even having clothes that fit comfortably. I remember one taxi driver telling me he needed new shoes because his were nearly done, but if he bought them, he would not have enough money left for food for himself and his family. As he put it, he would not be able to “finish the money.” That line stuck with me. It captured the kind of calculation that, from what I understood, many people were constantly making.
The Food Market Experience
One memory that still sits with me happened while returning from Viñales to Havana.
Our drivers needed to stop and eat, and I could tell it was not just a casual break. It felt urgent, and they asked from the heart if they could stop. My mom and I were completely fine with it. We were simply taking everything in and appreciating them for getting us across the country. After waiting in the car for a few minutes, I got thirsty and walked over to buy a bottle of water. What I found was a rough, worn food market with ham and cheese sandwiches sitting out in the open while bugs flew over them. The atmosphere was uncomfortable, not because anyone was unkind, but because it was obvious I stood out there in a way I had not in the more tourist-facing parts of Cuba.
My driver was not too pleased that I had stepped out of the car, and I understood why. It seemed like one of those moments where the distance between the Cuba many visitors experience and the Cuba many people live every day became impossible to ignore. On one side there was the version of the country presented more comfortably to outsiders. On the other side there were places like this, where the food looked barely sufficient and the conditions felt deeply sobering. That moment broke my heart.
Private businesses are NOT private
Private Businesses Are Not Fully Private
Before going to Cuba, one of the things I had heard most about were casas particulares, the family-run guesthouses that function almost like Cuban Airbnbs. They are one of the best ways to connect with local people, and during my trip I stayed in eight different casas. Each one was unique, intimate, and far more personal than a hotel could have been. In that sense, they gave me one of the most meaningful ways to connect with everyday Cubans.
At the same time, I also came away with the impression that the idea of fully “supporting local families” through these stays was more complicated than it first appeared. In Trinidad, while my mom and I were having breakfast in a patio area, I saw someone arrive carrying documents and sit with my host. From what I could gather, they seemed to be reviewing guest numbers and money connected to the accommodation. When I asked who it was, my host explained that it was a government official involved in collecting information and funds tied to what the casa earned. I cannot claim to know the full structure of how that money was handled, but the impression I was left with was that even the most personal, seemingly independent spaces were not completely outside the reach of the state. That complexity stayed with me.
Connecting to the Internet
Another thing that stood out to me was the challenge of simply getting online.
At the time, public Wi-Fi hotspots had been introduced in many city-center parks. People would buy prepaid internet cards and use them to connect for a limited amount of time. I remember seeing many Cubans sitting in parks on benches, using their phones to browse the internet or video chat with loved ones. There was something beautiful in that, especially knowing how meaningful even a brief connection could be. But there was also something revealing about how difficult and limited that access still felt.
I also noticed that in some places, people with laptops had found ways to help others bypass some of those limitations, allowing locals to tether into a connection more freely. I cannot speak to the technical side of what exactly they were doing, but what struck me was the resourcefulness behind it. From what I understood, even the cost of internet access could be out of reach for many people. It was one more example of how people adapted and made do within a system that often felt restrictive.
The Divide of Tourism to Everyday Cubans
One of the clearest things I felt in Cuba was the divide between the tourist world and everyday Cuban life.
That exists in many countries, of course, but in Cuba it felt especially visible. There were spaces clearly meant for tourists and other spaces that belonged more to ordinary daily life. The two worlds touched, but they did not always feel integrated. Part of that divide, at least at the time of my visit, was tied to the dual-currency system, with one currency tied more closely to tourists and another used more commonly in everyday Cuban life.
Toward the end of my trip, when I was running short on the tourist currency I had been using, I learned that I could exchange it for the national currency. That helped me stretch my final days in Cuba, but it also gave me at least a small glimpse into the kind of budgeting and constant stretching many Cubans had to do. It was one thing to know intellectually that tourism and local life were separate in some ways. It was another thing to feel even a small part of that contrast in practice. The impression I was left with was that tourism brought money into Cuba, but that did not necessarily mean that money flowed easily or fairly into everyday people’s hands.
Hitchhiking and the American Classics
Traveling through Cuba also gave me a very different relationship to the road.
Whether moving by taxi, bus, or shared ride, it quickly became clear that there were simply not many cars compared to what many outsiders might expect. I remember stretches of highway where I saw very few vehicles at all. I also saw many people standing by the roadside, clearly waiting and hoping for a ride. From what I gathered through conversations and observation, hitching rides or improvising transport was simply part of how many people got around when public transportation was limited or unreliable.
The old American cars that outsiders often romanticize as symbols of Cuba also looked different to me once I was there. They were beautiful, yes, and iconic in their own way, but they also represented necessity, adaptation, and survival. From what I understood, many people driving them did so through work arrangements or service roles rather than as straightforward personal ownership in the way many visitors might imagine. Like many things in Cuba, what appears charming or nostalgic on the surface can sit on top of a much harder reality underneath.
Lost Family Connections Abroad
Of everything I learned while in Cuba, the thing that hit me hardest had to do with family.
I met people who had family in the United States and elsewhere who remained in contact and helped support loved ones from abroad. But I also heard stories from people who had family members leave Cuba and never really return, emotionally or otherwise. What stayed with me most were the people who were still waiting for a call. Some spoke openly about feeling forgotten by a son, daughter, nephew, or another close relative, yet still carried hope that one day they might hear from them again.
For me, that was one of the most heartbreaking things of all. Beyond economics, shortages, and systems, there is the pain of separation. And in a culture where family means so much, that kind of distance felt especially devastating. That was one of the clearest reminders that hardship is never only material. Sometimes it lives just as deeply in absence and silence.
Final Thoughts
Final Thoughts
When I first wrote this reflection in 2021, Cuba was going through another intensely difficult moment. But what stayed with me was not only the political backdrop or the headlines. It was the people I had met years earlier, and the way certain conversations and observations had never really left me. Even in what felt, at the time, like a relatively ordinary stretch of life in Cuba in 2015, there were already signs of strain, resilience, and limitation that were impossible for me to ignore.
I do not claim to define Cuba through this post, and I do not pretend that what I saw is the full picture. What I can say is that I listened, I observed, and I carried those voices with me back in 2015.
No matter where anyone stands politically, it is ordinary people who live inside the consequences of systems, shortages, and silence. The Cuba I remember is full of warmth, beauty, personality, and human connection. It is also a place where many people I met were navigating realities far heavier than what most visitors ever see. This post is simply my attempt to honor that honestly, with care.
