¡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, después de todo. Cuban rules: You wear your Sunday best, even if you're just circling the block. For papá, that meant his one good guayabera—the same shirt he wore to church, weddings, and every other "special" occasion. Mamá made sure we kids were scrubbed clean, hair combed, shoes shined. And the talcum powder? ¡Dios mío! Extra heavy on Sundays. Papá would dust himself like he was baking a cake, so by the time he got in the car, he looked like a ghost and smelled like a baby powder factory exploded.
Now, the car: A 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, baby! That big American boat with the vinyl seats that stuck to your legs like glue in the Miami heat.
Those seats were scorching hot after sitting in the sun—your thighs would sizzle like bistec on a plancha. The AC? It existed, but it took forever to kick in back there. No worries, though—the cigarette smoke got to the backseat first, rápido como un cohete.
Before starting the engine, ritual número uno: Papá lights up a Kent cigarette. Windows rolled up, of course. ¡Salud! We'd all choke a little as the car filled with that haze, but hey, it was the '70s/'80s—smoking was practically a food group.
Then came the soundtrack. Papá had exactly three 8-track tapes in rotation—his holy trinity of easy listening.
Depending on his mood:
- Ray Conniff and the Singers (for when he was feeling nostalgic)
- Henry Mancini's Greatest Hits (romántico mode)
- Or Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass (when he wanted to pretend we were fancy)
No reggaeton, no disco,just trumpets, strings, and choruses that made you feel like you were in an elevator to heaven. The tape would click every 20 minutes, and we'd hear the same songs on loop for hours. ¡Qué rico!
Off we went, cruising slow like we owned the road.
Mamá sat quietly in the front, staring ahead like a queen on parade. The route? Aimless, but with highlights. We'd roll through Coral Gables, those beautiful streets with the mansions and the Biltmore Hotel, and papá would always point and say, "¡Mira, aquí es donde está el billete gordo!" (That's where the big money lives!) As if saying it enough times would make us millionaires by osmosis.
Then maybe down to Coconut Grove, or along Biscayne Bay, waving at other Cuban families doing the exact same thing.If we were lucky we would get off at " El Parque de las Palomas" but usually no destination, no spending money,just creating the illusion that we'd "done something" that day. By the time we got home, the sun was setting, we were sticky from the heat, slightly nauseous from the smoke, and humming "A Taste of Honey" for the 50th time.
But you know what? Those vueltas were magic. No theme parks, no malls,just familia time, cheap thrills, and the feeling that, for a couple hours, life was perfect. Nowadays, with gas prices and traffic? We'd probably just stay home and scroll on our phones. But back then? ¡Eso sí era paseando de verdad!
¿Y tú? Did your familia do the same? Tell me in the comments—let's reminisce, mi gente.
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