Nights are made on the Malecon, and scenes unfold every few feet: a couple swaying to samba next to an old boombox, young kids waiting in line at a churros cart, older kids making out against the concrete wall that everyone else leans on and lays upon. Everyone is in every color, and everyone shows skin. Whistles and catcalls follow you, and when you turn towards them, eyes lock on you. There is nothing shy on the Malecon, This is Havana at its most seductive. You’re there for the “chicos, chicos,” the “chicas, chicas,” the kisses that get blown and carried along heaving, salty winds that roll off the ocean below. People are talking and laughing, drinking and smoking. We drift along. They’ll be here for hours, this is Cuba, and you’ll be back.