Final Destination: Havana

Peering out the tiny window as the plane descended into the low-lying clouds for our arrival at our final destination, I thought, “now this is it, in a few moments, I will be seeing what few American citizens are permitted to see, here it comes...” And there it was, my first glimpse of our mysterious island neighbor and my new home for the next three months, Cuba. But...wait a minute...it looked like it could have been any other tropical land, perhaps Mexico, or even rural Florida. There were small towns scattered between farmland and forests. The lush greenery stood out along the coastline. Well, what was I expecting? To see revolutionaries conspiring for their guerrilla warfare in the mountains? Mile long lines at food ration stations? No, I suppose not. The images that the U.S. has put in my head as the result of the bitter multi-decade long squabble have, of course, been exaggerated and fantasized.

Looking out the bus window on our way to la residencia, the apartment that would soon become our home, I kept trying to find drastic differences that would convince me that I'm in a different country, in a different culture, but all around me, I saw familiar things. There, a factory with workers outside taking their smoke break...and there's a school with children playing tag during recess...and right there is a farm, complete with a farmer tending his crops, just like I see every day in my small Northern Michigan home town...except they, the factory, school, and farm are all right next to each other. So maybe it is different than home – But no, see! Right there! A policeman had pulled over a car and was writing a traffic ticket, which I've seen countless times driving the four hours from Charlevoix down to Ann Arbor...only the car was an old 1950's Cadillac. Once at la residencia, and after the slow and rickety elevator made it up the thirteen floors to our apartment, we were greeted by a sweet old lady with knowing eyes peering out from behind her dark wrinkles, whom I came to find out was our house mother. She could have been my grandmother...but I couldn't understand the language coming from her mouth. How could things be the same as what I've always known, yet so different?

Staring out the gigantic window of our residencia, a view of the ocean fills the frame. But I've seen the ocean before, I've seen the waves crash into the break wall, I've seen the pelicans dive for the unsuspecting fish, so why have I convinced myself that this country is, or perhaps should be so different?

Stepping out onto our open, thirteenth floor balcony, a rush of clarity came over me. The sweet and fresh January air filled my lungs, my skin tingled from the glistening sun, the noise of the busy streets below just now hit my ears as I looked around and realized that this bustling city of over two million people was not waiting for my judgment or comparison, to say if it is right or wrong, to find any comparison to the world I know, but instead Havana was welcoming me to step out from behind the window of observation and join its warm and eclectic lifestyle.