Say you're going to write a book about music. Or, better yet, not even a book, but a review. You see a concert, you go to a show, you hear a song on the radio, and all of a sudden you are summoned to rehash your experience. Let's make it a song, just to keep it simple.
Sounds easy enough, until you realize that there are an infinite amount of things you could write about. You could reduce the song to its genre characteristics, discussing how the song either contributes to, advances, or woefully imitates conventional schadenfreude. You could discuss your personal reaction to the song, providing anecdotal references to support your case. You could approach the song from the perspective of an experienced musician, discussing the musicianship and technical prowess of the song's author or authors while relaying to the layman the difficulty of executing such a track. These are only but a few angles you could take.
But then you realize that not only are you attempting to objectively review, judge and critique someone else's work, but that by contributing to this dialogue, you yourself are opening yourself up to others only to be reviewed, judged and critiqued yourself. You want to write as objectively as possible, but the very judgement you render on a song or artist may bely your own limitations. Ideally, you approach the truth as closely as you possibly can, but then you remember that famous quote, "writing about music is like dancing about architecture."
Now try extrapolating this to your experience in a country. Not just any country, but a country that probably has more misunderstandings and enigmatic qualities per square inch than any other on earth. As such, Cuba is more like a post-modern version of an enigma: an image maintained out-of-focus by a photographer with a cautious eye. You may be able to focus the lens once in a while, but chances are you will end up missing almost everything in your pursuit for momentary clarity. Thus, the challenge is enormous.
A former professor once stated, "The longer you stay in Cuba, the less you really understand it." Andrei Codrescu's short stay in Havana was such a frighteningly articulate flash in the pan of clarity that I was able to overlook many of the things that he might have missed. He asked the right questions, talked to the right people, and generated such a deceptively clear picture of Cuba that I'm not even sure he really missed anything. His book is not so much about Cuba as it is about the confusion, bewilderment and enchantment that comes over most visitors as they wash up on her shores. It's not a review of a song, it's a meditation on the process of reviewing a song.
I hate to say it, but it is entirely possible that Ay, Cuba is a wholly terrible introduction to Cuba. Fortunately, it is a fascinating and charismatic elixir for the Cuban visitor's detox process. I recalled more moments, feelings and observations after reading his book than I ever had before over the last four years.
When the book is finally written on Cuban history in the latter half of the 20th century and into the 21st, it may shed light on our (the visitor's) utmost puzzlement. In the meantime, Ay, Cuba is about as good of a placeholder as you can hope for.