The Place That Made Me

Growing up in Little Havana, Miami’s beating heart, was like being wrapped in a never-ending telenovela—complete with dramatic twists, lively characters, and all the passion you could imagine. Picture this: the air perfumed with the bold aroma of cafecito, the soulful hum of Celia Cruz playing in the distance, and your abuela yelling at the neighbor—again—for parking too close to her driveway. But Little Havana was more than vibrant chaos. It was a place that quietly taught me everything I know about love, relationships, and why connection starts with understanding who you are and where you come from.

A Neighborhood That Never Sleeps (Or Lets You)

There’s a saying in Spanish: “El que no conoce su historia, está condenado a repetirla.” Those who don’t know their history are doomed to repeat it. In Little Havana, history whispers from every crack in the sidewalk. It clings to the guayaberas of domino players on Calle Ocho and lingers in the rhythm of the salsa music spilling out of Ball & Chain on a Friday night. And if you grew up here, your dating history probably looked something like mine: supervised chaperoned outings that didn’t even give you the chance to hold hands, followed by the whiplash of navigating serious relationships as an adult.

When I had my first crush, my mom gave me a look so long and distrustful, you would’ve thought I’d announced plans to sell the family recipe for ropa vieja. In Little Havana, love wasn’t something you tiptoed into. No, love was serious business—messy and layered, like Cuban bread with too much butter.

Living in a neighborhood like mine taught me a valuable lesson: you can’t build love (or anything worth keeping) without roots. Relationships that last don’t happen in isolation—they grow in community, culture, and the understanding that no one exists in a vacuum. You can’t swipe your way past cultural values or family expectations, much as you might try.

The Art of Flirting: Little Havana Edition

“Did you hear about María?” Some variation of that line kicks off half the relationship stories I heard growing up. Whether it was whispered over croquetas at Versailles or during late-night domino matches, personal business was basically a spectator sport. Privacy? Out of the question.

And as embarrassing as public flirtations under the scrutiny of your entire extended family could be, they taught me something important: vulnerability is a currency. When a bachata song comes on and someone takes your hand to lead you to the dance floor, that’s pure vulnerability—no Instagram filters or online personas, just two people daring to be awkward or out of sync. That openness, as uncomfortable as it feels, is where real connection begins.

To this day, I tell people there’s no better first date test than a salsa club. If someone can’t handle a little laughter at their missteps or the willingness to lean into discomfort, they’re probably not ready to deal with the mambo of life. And that’s okay. But for me? I want someone who can embrace their inner Celia and shout, “¡Azúcar!” after tripping over their own feet.

Grandmother Knows Best

Every piece of advice I’ve ever received about relationships traces back to my abuela. She was five feet tall but possessed the authority of a woman three times her size. Abuela Gloria’s relationship wisdom, steeped in old-world practicality, often came in unexpected gems.

“¿El amor?” she once said, stirring her café con leche as if conjuring a spell. “It’s like making arroz con pollo. You need patience, and you have to pay attention, or the whole thing will stick to the pot and burn.”

She wasn’t wrong. The lesson stuck: Love isn’t glamorous or complicated—it’s about the day-to-day effort. The small kindnesses, the willingness to apologize, the patience to understand that no one brings perfection to the table.

She also hammered this gem of wisdom into me: "Never trust someone who doesn’t eat well." Her philosophy was that good food mirrored good love—there should always be indulgence, warmth, and the kind of ease that comes when people enjoy each other’s company. If someone picks at their plate like they’re disinterested, how will they savor a relationship with you?

(For the record, my grandmother wasn’t wrong about that either. I once dated someone who claimed they didn’t snack because they ‘forgot to eat.’ Let’s just say that relationship cooked itself to a crisp.)

A City That Shapes You

Living in Little Havana meant growing up in a world defined by contradictions. It’s a place where the past and present meet at every corner—where teenagers sipping overpriced cafecitos nod to elders playing dominoes as they wander past centuries-old lore. That contrast taught me to appreciate identity and the stories we bring into relationships.

I’ll admit, it also made me uncomfortably reflective. When a friend asked why my last relationship ended, I didn’t even hesitate: “Because I forgot I had a story that mattered.” I’d spent so much time trying to meet someone else where they were that I left my own roots behind. Little Havana finds ways to remind you that’s never a good idea.

Sometimes that reminder comes in the form of loud music blaring into the street at midnight, and other times it arrives as a smell wafting through air—garlic, cumin, and memories. You don’t run from where you’re from, because where you’re from is what anchors you.

Lessons from Little Havana

So, what can you take from a neighborhood like mine into your own relationships? (Other than some great Cuban recipes and a newfound appreciation for dominos?) Here’s what I’ve learned:

  • Lean into where you’re from: Whether it’s a physical place or a sense of identity, knowing yourself makes connecting with others easier. When you’re rooted, you don’t need to perform for anyone.
  • Dance through the awkwardness: Showing up authentically, flaws and all, is like an off-beat salsa step. It feels clumsy at first, but it’s also where all the fun is.
  • Cook with patience: Relationships aren’t microwavable meals. If you want a connection that lasts, tend it like arroz con pollo—patiently, gently, and watchfully.
  • Eat with joy: This one’s non-negotiable. Whether it’s literal food or the moments you share with someone, good relationships feed you in every sense of the word.

In Miami, the sunsets are bold, loud, and unashamed—much like Little Havana itself. Love should be the same. Be bold, don’t apologize for where you come from, and savor every moment like it’s the last slice of tres leches at the table.

Because if this place taught me anything, it’s that connection isn’t about spectacle or grand gestures. It’s about knowing who you are and letting someone else in to see it, loud neighbors and all.