Finally Here!

My father and I hopped in the car and headed down 16^th Street to a place I had been many times as a child. Only ten minutes down the road from our house in Washington, D.C., the Cuban Interest Section was a place where my family would go for New Year’s parties and often to celebrate the Cuban Independence Day on July 26^th. But all I really knew of Cuba was the smell of Cohiba cigars and the minty taste of mojitos. My father had been to Habana many times in the 1980s and ‘90s in political solidarity efforts, and I had met many of his wonderful friends and heard stories about this beautiful island, but not until my teenage years did I truly understand the purpose of his travels and the uniqueness of this communist country.

Then last fall I took Professor Ruth Behar’s class on Cuban Diaspora, which significantly galvanized my interest and desire to actually set foot in Habana and learn about Cuba’s amazing history. Upon hearing about the opportunity to study abroad in this place that seemed so close to my heart but yet so far from my grasp, I eagerly collected all of my savings and pleaded with my parents to help me pay for the trip.

Well, let me tell you, our trip to Cuba was indeed quite the excursion; but, of course, the U.S. Government would have it no other way. Days of packing and anticipation in the cold winter snow left my nerves uneasy and restless, but I knew that in due time our absolutely unreal opportunity to study in such a wonderland would soon come true. First, a car ride from Ann Arbor to Windsor in the snowy streets of the Midwest. Next, an uncomfortably stiff train to Toronto with two would-be classmates I barely knew. But after getting off the train with bags full of luggage and two of my skateboards, we still had to get to the hotel where we would spend the night with three other classmates packed into one room. We woke up at 6AM, took turns taking showers, loaded up a shuttle to the airport, and the reality of being in Cuba slowly crept closer and closer. We patiently waited to check in, get through security, and board the plane. Then finally, after a four-and-a-half hour plane trip, we arrived in beautiful Habana.

Once we collected our baggage and got processed through customs, which surprisingly took less time than we all imagined, the warm air of a Cuba winter refreshed and cleansed me—mentally, physically, and most of all, spiritually. Even still, the road less traveled hadn’t yet been completed. The bus ride to our residency was rather exciting and the cars and roadside sights of Habana were nothing short of amazing, but still we weren’t quite there. And unfortunately, however, upon arriving at the residency, we still had another 13 floors to climb until we could finally unpack and settle in. For me, the thought of actually being in Cuba wouldn’t ingrain itself into my mind until I would be able to hit “las calles con mi patineta.” I took Rey Ray—my favorite longboard—onto the surprisingly cleanly paved streets surrounding la residencia, and carved away.

I felt the breeze, saw the most friendly of faces, the antique cars from a half-century ago, and finally realized, “estoy aqui!” The thought of being in Cuba has always been a dream of mine, but in all the anticipation I could never truly visualize what it would be like. I’d had a million conversations with friends and family members in the States and each said, “What! You’re going to Cuba? How is that even possible? You’re gonna see the most incredible cars from the 1950s! Dude, you gotta bring me back some Cohibas…You gonna chill with Fidel or what?” All these queries and pre-conceived notions were stirring around my head for months and months, and finally, finally, I was here!

I rode for hours, but upon returning for dinner, I realized I had only begun to retrace the footsteps of my father. I was zooming all around town, kicking and pushing around some of the same streets that heroes such as Antonio Maceo—the “Bronze Titan” who was crucial to the victory of the Ten Years War in 1868, Cuban Independence, and the freedom of slaves and Afro-Cubans—once rode; he on his horse, me on my board.

We met our fellow residence-mates from Northeastern University in Boston and our magnificent abuela “Mima”—who is an absolutely genuine woman who looks over us all, cooks us meals every day, and continually speaks words of wisdom through her experienced accent, muffled by Cuban cigars. I even felt as though I had met Ché, Fidel, and the hero of the Cuban independence struggle, Jose Martí, after catching glimpses of their faces etched into billboards and graffiti all around the city. So I skated around the block, time after time, pinching myself to see if indeed I was in this terrain where my father too once cruised the streets with his young revolutionary ideals. For three months my classmates and I will be living the most unique of lifestyles, exploring extraordinary sights and studying the revolutionary ways that have shaped and redefined this society. The dynamics of life are undoubtedly quite different here than those we have grown accustomed to in a place we call home only 90 miles north, but in our excursions, relationships, and experiences, I only hope to become something of the “new man” that Ché once wrote about following the 1959 Cuban Revolution.