Rust and Salt: The History of Miramar, Havana
Beginnings of true splendor
HAVANA TIMES – In its early days, Miramar was nothing more than a wooded and swampy area on the other side of the Almendares River, with a few haciendas and recreational estates for the colonial aristocracy.
It wasn’t until after 1903 that a visionary idea would completely transform this landscape. Mayor Miguel Coyula set out to expand the city beyond its then-demolished walls and the Almendares River. He purchased the land and subdivided it, christening the new development Miramar for its views of the Florida Straits.
The creation of Miramar was strictly the materialization of the Garden City movement ideas, popularized by British urban planner Ebenezer Howard and widely adapted in US suburbs at the start of the 20th century.
This model of urban reform had a clear and strategic goal: to escape the dense, industrial, and “unhealthy” city (like Centro Habana at the time) to create healthier, greener, and more orderly communities on the outskirts. One key feature was low population density: large plots of land would be for one or a few families, in contrast with high-rise apartment buildings and colonial tenements. Main avenues such as Quinta Avenida and Avenida 7ma would be broad, designed for traffic, and connected to quieter, residential side streets.
Green spaces would be integrated not in one large central park but throughout the neighborhood: private gardens and public spaces with tree-lined boulevards and linear parks. To complete the idealized image of the “United States garden suburb,” squirrels were intentionally introduced. Around the 1920s, squirrels added a charming and picturesque touch to the surroundings. The story goes that a wealthy magnate brought a pair or small group of squirrels (Sciurus vulgaris) and released them among the lush trees of his Miramar estate. They reproduced successfully and spread throughout Miramar and the surrounding areas. Today, squirrels remain a living symbol of Miramar. For Cubans, seeing a squirrel is synonymous with being in that neighborhood.
Miramar was clearly a residential zone. Commerce was concentrated along specific arteries or in commercial centers such as La Copa. By the 1920s to the 1950s, it was home to Cuba’s new upper class: sugar magnates, industrialists, executives, and US diplomats. Luxurious mansions were built in the most modern architectural styles of the era: California Mission, Art Deco, Neocolonial, and Neoclassical. Miramar’s mansions are an open catalog of eclectic styles fashionable among the international elite. They are rarely “pure” but rather blends adapted to the tropics.
As for social life and exclusive leisure, the Habana Biltmore Yacht Club and the Country Club stood out with their sports facilities, private beaches, and ballrooms.
Visionary urban planning, the ecological whimsy of the squirrels, and the architectural richness of its villas tell a story far richer and more nuanced than the simple idea of a “rich neighborhood.” They bear witness to the history of a social class that wanted to build, on Cuban soil, its own idealized version of the American dream.
The Decay of Miramar
Miramar is not in ruins. It is in a state of sustained decay. There is a precarious balance between neglect, residential resilience, and occasional renovation efforts. It is a landscape of radical contrasts. The deterioration of the mansions is the most obvious symbol. Maintenance is a luxury. The streets are full of potholes and patches. The sidewalks, once immaculate, are cracked and lifted by tree roots.
The social change is as significant as the physical one. The original concept of “one family, one mansion” has been almost completely lost. Most of the large villas were subdivided after the Revolution to house multiple families. What was once a ballroom might now be home to a single family. This creates overcrowding and makes property maintenance a pipe dream.
Walking around Miramar is an experience of extreme contrasts, shifting from the physical decay described above to the opulence of embassies with perfectly maintained gardens, diplomats’ residences, and new luxury paladares (private restaurants). At night, many areas become dark and deserted. Many public spaces have been forgotten with small squares or parks with broken benches and poor lighting.
An Unexpected Beauty
Paradoxically, this state of neglect has created a unique aesthetic that attracts artists, photographers, and tourists. Many come with professional cameras to capture the Ruinenwert, or “value of ruins.” Tropical vegetation has taken over many structures. Vines cover façades, and trees grow through cracks.
The neighborhood functions as an unintentional museum of an extinct lifestyle. Walking its streets is traveling back in time to see the scars of history.
To speak of the decay of Miramar is to oversimplify an extremely complex process. It is not merely a decline. Miramar is a mirror of Cuba’s current contradictions: a place where past grandeur, present neglect, and sprouts of economic revival coexist on every street, in every split mansion, on every façade where the paint peels away to reveal the bricks of a bygone ambition. Its decay is not the end of its story but another chapter.
Read more from the diary of Safie M. Gonzalez here on Havana Times.