There was a time when Havana didn't just exist. Havana performed.

The city moved to its own rhythm. Music escaped through open windows and drifted into streets crowded with automobiles, bicycles, vendors, businessmen, sailors, musicians, tourists, and children chasing one another between the shadows of buildings that had already witnessed generations of Cuban history. At night, the clubs came alive. Hotels filled with travelers from New York, Miami, London, Paris, and places even farther away. Rum poured freely, trumpets played late, and conversations continued long after sensible people had gone to bed.

In the middle of it all was a small cigar shop.

It was not the largest building in Havana, nor the most expensive. It was certainly not the most imposing. Yet everyone knew

Richards Cigars.