By Mario Reinaldo Machado The upper half of Alberto’s torso is buried in the behemoth engine of his 1957 Chrysler while his wife Juana sits in the front seat and tells me about her grandchildren and the new one on the way. After some fiddling and cursing in Spanish, followed in kind with admonishments from...

By Mario Reinaldo Machado Growing up in a Cuban-American family, I had the incredible fortune of absorbing a near-mythical image of the island that my grandfather had left as a boy in 1946. In the beautiful, pregnant syllables of my grandfather’s heavily-accented English, he told the stories of his childhood in Cuba with such regularity...