With impeccably tasteful timing, Havana’s clock stopped in the 1950s. Had the revolution severed the country from the Western world during the austere 1940s, or in the gaudy 1970s, Cuba’s capital would be a very different place. Not as stylish. Not as atmospheric. Not as romantic.

But the barriers went up at the end of a uniquely glamorous decade. It was an era when cars were designed to look like futuristic rocket ships; Sinatra and his sharp-dressed pals were whooping it up in the Hotel Nacional; Ernest Hemingway ruled the roost among the bars of the old town; and Havana life was lived to the thrilling pulse of rhythmic music.

I arrived here from Madrid; a journey which, I hoped, had carried me not just across an ocean, but also 50 years back in time. On the curb outside the airport terminal, my heart sank. My ride into town was waiting, and it was not a vintage Chevy, or Buick, or Oldsmobile. It was not classy, and it did not look remotely like a rocket ship. It was a Hyundai.

Heading into city in this functional but rather unromantic vehicle, my sense of disappointment mounted. The heavy traffic consisted largely of other Korean and Japanese vehicles interspersed with the ugly, locally made humpbacked buses nicknamed “camels” from which passengers stared down at me blankly. We passed between bleak high-rise apartment blocks.

Finally we reached the Malecon, the six-lane road that runs along Havana’s waterfront, and my mood turned a corner. This was more like it. To our left, waves shattered against the sea wall, spattering the windshield with saltwater. To our right stood a long row of colonnaded townhouses, the outer edge of Habana Vieja, the old town. Every other car we passed was a classic from Detroit. My guide, Luis, smiled broadly, “Now I can say it. Welcome to Havana.”

Dusk was creeping in off the Atlantic. The city appeared to be changing gears as people cast off their weekday routines and anticipated the possibilities of a balmy Friday evening. The locals, I soon would discover, have adopted the words of their great poet, Jose Marti, as a motto to live by, “I have two homelands — Cuba and the night.”

The night would not let me rest. In my wonderfully atmospheric room at the Hotel Plaza — tiled floor, high ceiling, rickety fan — I prepared to sleep off my long journey. But the call of music and merrymaking from the streets was too persistent to resist. I showered, changed and headed out, infected by the citywide sense of occasion.

I ambled down dimly lighted backstreets, careful not to fall into any of the numerous unannounced gaping holes in the sidewalk, or to trip over sleeping dogs and cats. Finally I reached Cathedral Square, and at an al fresco bar I enjoyed my first genuine mojito, that heady Cuban blend of rum, fresh lime, sugar, soda and mint leaves. Music played, and couples danced across the cobbles. Like so many others before me, I fell completely in love with Havana.

By daybreak, the mojitos had worn off, the music had fallen silent, and the flattering velvet cloak of darkness had lifted from the city. Her beauty was less obvious now. The colonial buildings were cankered with tropical decay; many appeared in danger of imminent collapse. The only fresh coats of paint in evidence had been applied to the stern communist slogans on walls and billboards.

Luis arrived early to guide me around the city. First stop was Plaza de la Revolucion, the large concrete parade ground watched over by a seven-story image of Che Guevara: the ultimate student dorm poster. We walked to the middle of the parade ground, and with nobody within a hundred yards of us I decided to talk politics. “How do you feel about the revolution?”

Luis shrugged. He was in his late 20s. Unusually, he had been to United States a couple of times — and had returned. “I’ll tell you soon,” he replied. I didn’t have long to wait. Our next stop was Castillo del Morro, the ancient fortress at the narrow entrance to Havana’s fine natural harbor. We stood on the battlements, buffeted by the sea breeze, and looked across the channel to Habana Vieja.

“In 2019, we will celebrate 500 years of Havana,” Luis told me. “The Spanish, the British, the Americans, the Russians, hurricanes, earthquakes. Fidel. They all come and go. But Havana and Cuba remain. That is how I feel about the revolution.”

Back in the old town, we visited El Capitolio, Havana’s meticulous 1929 replica of the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C. Inside, a 24-carat diamond embedded in the floor is the reference point for all distance measurements in Cuba. On the steps outside, demonstrators were noisily chanting anti-U.S. slogans.

“Here you see how we feel about the United States,” Luis told me. “Love and hate. My own cousin, she is called Oosnaffiow. Her mother wanted to give her a good American name, but she didn’t know any. Then she saw some graffiti on a wall and she thought it sounded pretty — even though she didn’t understand it. The graffiti said: ‘U.S. Navy Out.’ You see? Love and hate.”

It has been argued that Fidel Castro owes the longevity of his regime to U.S. foreign policy. The more Cuba has been ostracized by its powerful neighbor, the more its people have rallied around their charismatic president. The end of Castro likely will be the end of Cuba as we know it. A million Cuban exiles in Florida will move quickly to stake their claim to their homeland, and Havana will be propelled out of its time warp.

Luis had another explanation for why Castro and the communists have lasted so long. We were back in Cathedral Square. It was Saturday night, and the mojitos were flowing again. “In Europe, communism was too serious,” he said. “That is why it ended. Here, so long as we have rum, and music and dancing, who cares about ideology?”

Cubans may lack political and economic freedom, but they have retained something that makes all the sacrifices appear insignificant. Good old-fashioned romance.