14ymedio, Xavier Carbonell, Salamanca, 6 October 2024 — Yes, I also got carried away by nostalgia and went to a Cuban restaurant in Madrid. I’m not going to say which one, because the life of an emigrant is hard, and setting up a business – a pitiful one, but I’m getting ahead of myself – is already quite indigestible. But a fish dies by its mouth and so did I. In general, since I arrived in this country I have led a fairly private life. I have gotten together with few Cubans, more out of my unfriendliness than my lack of patriotism, because abroad there is a taste for the national junk that I fight against like hell.
I will never forget that waiter who, idiotic and melancholic, wanted me to give him a box of Ramón Allones cigars that I had brought from the Island. They were limited edition cigars, in green cedar packaging, a farewell gift – I would never have been able to pay for those jewels – the last one of which I burned down a few weeks ago. But look, the lad didn’t want to smoke. He didn’t tolerate the taste or smell, but he inhaled the butt. He wanted the box, the ark of the alliance, to deposit the remains of his Cubanness. I promised him that I would send it to him as soon as I had a chance.
Everyone knows that Madrid is the new Miami. The lycras and flip-flops, the despicable “asere qué bolá” (whasup, dude?) that any Cuban offers as a password of origin, the watering hole and the gossip, have taken possession of Chamberí, Puerta del Sol and Barajas. In the clueless Spanish imagination, Cuba was at first a land of promise, then a communist paradise and now – as in Dian Fossey’s famous book – a good place to have a mojito among gorillas. My newly arrived compatriots fervently cultivate their image of the noble savage, or at least the savage part. They change country, but not what’s inside their heads.
I paid the price of being waited on in my accent and enj
