Do not let the name fool you: Plaza Vieja is for children. They crowd into the primary school on its north end. They run across its brick playing fútbol and tag and games of their own invention. When the marble fountain has water, they splash and play. When the sun broils or rain pommels, they shelter in the arcades that line its colonial buildings.
I bring a cup of tea onto the wrought iron balcony of my hotel and observe the children with languid curiosity. Their presence is a gift. Without them, the square is a simulacrum of Cuba past, its diligently preserved architecture at odds with the scarred roofless buildings beyond.
In the morning, the children, dressed in white shirts and red neckties, shuffle through the school doors. A poster of Fidel greets them. He gazes upward, his face framed by a heart. Fidel, Corazón de Cuba. After school, they spill out to play. This afternoon a warm breeze blows through the square. Pigeons coo in the rafters above. At the fountain, a boy no more than ten presents a cigarette pack to his friends. Lost innocence, you might bemoan (I did). But he sets it on the steps, taps the lid and three small crabs crawl out to squeals of delight. Then crabs and children scuttle off, the friends toward a woman entering the square, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. They flock to her as she distributes coloring books and markers.
The boy wanders to the south end. Some kids are playing tag, weaving around the giant bronze woman astride a rooster and the puzzled tourists surrounding it. They thread the mango-colored columns of La Vitrola where the band is preparing Cuban standards for the dinner crowds. The boy runs with them, then breaks away to the merchant house under restoration. He vanishes briefly then reappears on the vacant second floor. He watches the square from above, as I do—children running, tourists snapping photos, paint-splattered workers resting in the shade.
When the sun angles lower in the sky, the art gallery guard drags her chair inside. A waiter wipes down the café tables. Caretakers arrive to call their children home. The children trail them out of the painted square into the weathered stone of the city.
The rhythms of the plaza will outlast those who make them. Tomorrow, another couple will snap selfies against its sunset pastels. Next week, a new boarder will take my place, stepping out of self in that luxury of travel. The children will remain on the square for longer, their games shifting from crabs and coloring to the meanderings of young teens—until they too, depart.
Gradually the plaza rhythms themselves will change, as they have over centuries. Four hundred years ago this was Plaza Nueva. It has been a trading center and a parking lot. Today, the square tilts increasingly toward tourism.
But for now, Plaza Vieja remains for children. As dusk falls, the remaining few join the boy on the merchant house scaffolding, their skinny bodies silhouetted along its spiny geometry. From La Vitrola, the band enters into yet another rendition of Guantanamera.
