DJ ALEX GUTIERREZ

  ¡Dar Una Vuelta! The Great Cuban-American Art of Driving Nowhere on a Sunday Ay, mi gente, let's talk about the classic Cuban family outing back in the day: paseando , or as we called it, dar una vuelta . Translation? "Taking a drive." But not just any drive—this was the budget-friendly masterpiece of entertainment when gas was cheap (like, 50 cents a gallon cheap) and money was tighter than my abuela's perm. Picture this: It's Sunday afternoon in Miami. We've just finished lunch at home—arroz con pollo, frijoles negros, platanitos maduros, you know, the usual "rice with something" that kept the grocery bill low. No need to spend on restaurants; the only expense was gas for the family chariot. My papá, Alejandro Sr., would round us up like cattle: "¡Vámonos, que vamos a dar una vuelta!" And just like that, the whole familia—mom, dad, kids, maybe even a tía or two—piled into the car. First things first: We had to dress up. It was Sunday...

 Esmeralda Kepest was born in a small Romanian village where fortunes were read daily, skirts were always long, and soap was considered more of a rumor than a requirement. A gypsy by blood and by body odor, Esmeralda grew up believing true love would magically appear. Unfortunately, after scaring off half of Eastern Europe, she realized love might need… better weather. So in 1942 , armed with a suitcase, jangling bracelets, and absolutely no deodorant, she sailed to Cuba , because in her words, “Cuban men forgive everything.” Historic miscalculation. In Havana, Esmeralda was a vision,big eyes, mysterious smile, flowing dress, " Tremenda Jeva" by any standards until the breeze kicked in. Men would approach confidently, flirt for three seconds, then execute emergency exits worthy of wartime drills. One had to suddenly “check on his mother,” another remembered a “dead dog,” and one simply ran away yelling, “Ay Dis Mio !!!” But Esmeralda was no fool. She was a gypsy, strategi...

It’s funny how an old picture can pull you straight back into a moment you thought time had buried. Suddenly you’re not just looking at it—you’re there . You feel the same rush, the same ache, the same quiet hope you carried then. All those emotions and experiences, the ones that shaped who you became, come flooding back at once. This picture did that to me. This was my inspiration. Chapter 1 I wasn’t very popular in high school. Not tragically unpopular , more like Cuban-background-noise unpopular. I was there, but no one acknowledged my existence unless they needed an extra chair or to chase the ball when it went out-of-bounds.. I hung around some popular guys, hoping popularity was contagious, like the flu or bad cologne. Nothing rubbed off. For most of 10th grade (which I hear they now call freshman, because apparently everything got renamed), I was completely invisible. At lunch I’d sit quietly, pretending to be deep in thought, while eavesdropping on the table next to me liste...