After a hot and exhaustive morning picking weeds on a guava farm, I, along with the other Americans on my delegation, went to visit a Cuban orphanage, once a small mansion in old Havana before the 1959 Cuban revolution. We crowded into a large room forming a half circle facing the head of the orphanage. She was a short and cheerful woman with her hair braided and pulled back, her glasses in her hands. The ceiling had small patches that had crumbled away. Many buildings show signs of aging; construction materials are hard to obtain in a nation under a U.S. economic blockade.this is the rest of the post.