Once upon a time you could tell from the moment you walked into the departures terminal in Miami or New York where the check-in counter was for the flight to Port-au-Prince, Haiti.
It was usually the last one and the queue consisted only of Haitians. All kinds of Haitians — women wearing their excess luggage, diaspora families with neat little children, “rappeurs” (as my father would say with a guttural “r”) in their overly branded outfits, jean-and-T-shirt students like me on our annual visit home.
The waiting could be brutal. I read the better part of a “One Hundred Years of Solitude” one time waiting to check in.… Seguir leyendo »