“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” a friend asked with a raised eyebrow. “You met a guy from Havana on a web site and now you are going down there to meet him and explore Cuba? I know your Father spent time there many years ago, but it’s different now.”
These were words from a caring friend. Last March I made the life-changing decision to retire from my longstanding career as a government lawyer. My Mom had passed six months earlier and I wanted to spend more time with my Dad who was now 92, a widow after 50 years and wanting more time with his daughter. The break from the daily grind of everyday work gave me the opportunity to do something I always wanted to do: study Spanish. One day, I stumbled on a web site for people who want to learn and speak a new language with a native speaker. To my surprise, I saw the name Miguel from Havana, Cuba.
“Cuba,” just the word makes me tingly. I have always had a special place in my heart for all things Cuban. I even named my dog Rico Suave. For as long as I can remember, my Father regaled me with stories of his days as a 30-something bachelor in Havana during the 1950’s. At that time, he worked for the US Conglomerate, International Telephone and Telegraph (IT&T). His job was to inspect the cables that carried telephone and telegraph transmissions throughout Havana. He spoke fondly of this lively city where the women were beautiful, the rum was flowing, the music was fantastic and the cigars were the best in the world.
He smiled when he spoke of the fantastic nightclubs where the women danced sexy salsa and the Cuban dance bands were phenomenal with 20-piece orchestras. He described in detail the fabulous cabaret shows he had seen at the Tropicana, the long bar top at Sloppy Joes and the grandeur of the Hotel Nacional. I was fascinated by the photos he proudly showed me so many times over the years. My favorite is the one where my Father is standing on the Malecón with the Morro Castle behind him, wearing sunglasses and a flannel shirt. I was also curious about another photo, a picture of my Dad enjoying cocktails with a blonde woman. He never said too much about this woman, but he always grinned when he looked at the photo.
I told Miguel that it was my dream to visit Cuba and see the places my Father had frequented. Miguel replied that he would be happy to assist us in a tour of the island and fortunately, my beloved partner of six years, Eileen, was up for an adventure. We set a date for a week in March.
As the time drew near for our departure, I happily told my Dad that we were going to Cuba. I thought he would be very excited for us. I told him that thanks to changes in American travel policy, I would finally be able to experience the Latin Caribbean island he lovingly talked about all these years. To my surprise, his response was not the least bit enthusiastic. “Why on earth would you go there now? It’s nothing of what it was. It’s Communist now, don’t you know that?” In fact, his response was so pessimistic, I decided I would not tell him about our trip so that he would not worry.
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On the day we arrived in Havana, our new friend Miguel greeted us at the airport with a warm smile, a heartfelt hug and then said in a deep voice, “Que bola asere?,” This is a uniquely Cuban greeting which basically means, “What’s up mate?” and is often used as a term of endearment. While we were immediately at ease and felt completely safe with Miguel, I confess that as the taxi drove us from the airport to our apartment in Havana, I squirmed in my seat wondering if this was a good idea. Maybe Dad was right. This was NOT my Father’s Cuba. We passed large plain-looking gray buildings with the iconic faces of Che Guevara and Camilo Ciengfuegos. I saw several billboards, but they were not advertising Coca-Cola or Apple phones. Instead, they were displaying phrases in Spanish promoting the blessings of the Revolution. What were we in for?
As we walked through the streets of Havana with Miguel, I gazed at the amazing Spanish colonial architecture. The beauty before me was tinged with a feeling of sadness as so many of these buildings were in a state of terrible disrepair. That first night of our stay I wrote in my journal that the buildings in Havana reminded me of the face of an old but beautiful woman-a woman who was strikingly beautiful in her day with outstanding classic features but now years later, the ravages of time and fatigue were visible on her face. But, this woman while older, was still stunning and downright captivating. Indeed, it was easy to marvel at the beauty of these old structures, despite the years of age and neglect.
Soon after that first day as we explored Cuba, my feelings of unease in this foreign land began to wane and were replaced by another feeling that went much deeper into my psyche, something that touched my heart. As I looked into Miguel’s eyes, I saw such sincerity, such passion. I was moved by his determination to show us the Cuba that my Father enjoyed so much. I watched as he spoke and interacted with his fellow Cubans, people he didn’t even know but there was this sense of comradery, a sense of brotherhood among Cubans.
The six days that followed included a whirlwind tour of Havana and a trip to the mountains of Viñales, two hours west of the City. In this charming town, we road on horseback through tobacco country admiring the beauty of the mountains and learning about rum and cigar production from the tobacco farmers and ranch hands. I thought about my Father and his penchant for a good cigar. My Father picked up the habit of cigar smoking while in Cuba. Upmann was his favorite. On that day, we enjoyed a few puffs of a cigar made from tobacco grown at an organic farm.
Back in Havana, I posed in front of the Morro Castle in the very spot my Father had stood some 60 years earlier. We went to a “Cuban night in the 50’s show” at the Rosalia de Castro, a gigantic open air concert hall that featured a 20-plus piece orchestra and no less than 10 featured performers and singers. It didn’t take much for my partner, Eileen, and me to join other tourists and Cubans at the foot of the stage where I showed off my uniquely American and very amateurish salsa moves.
A saxophone enthusiast, my Dad enjoyed watching Havana’s premier jazz musicians perform live on stage so during our visit, we went to the Jazz Café. On another night, Eileen and I ventured out without Miguel to check out a well-known Cuban nightclub called El Gato Tuerto, the One-Eyed Cat. We were the only Americans in the club but before you knew it, a woman in her 70’s had Eileen on the dance floor moving to salsa.
The next day, we treated ourselves to daiquiris at La Floridita, and mojitos at Sloppy Joe’s just as Dad did years earlier. And just like Dad, we toured Havana in a 1950s Chevy. Our choice was a spanking clean hot pink 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air Convertible. We also took a tour of the well-preserved and grandiose Hotel Nacional, and enjoyed cocktails in the courtyard.
On the flight home I asked myself if I had experienced my Father’s Cuba. After all, while there are vestiges of the old Cuba, there is no mistaking that today’s Cuba is different. The classic 50’s Chevys and Fords are sharing the road with cars made in the former Soviet Union. The usual markers of opulence and luxury have been replaced by long lines, not to mention weathered and in some cases, crumbling buildings.
Yes, the Cuba of today is different in many ways from what he knew as a young man. But I did discover and realize all that he loved and adored about this country. Something that lies much deeper than stately crisp buildings, wild nightlife and pretty women dancers in flamboyant garb. The thing that left him with so many fond memories are the people-their unusual warmth, their beauty, their smiles, and the manifestation of their beautiful souls in their music, their dance, their art, their resilience in the face of hardship and their zest for life–all uniquely Cuban. The passage of time, the turbulence of their history and their current political ideology of the last 60 years hasn’t changed that. In that way, I discovered my Father’s Cuba.
A few days after our return I mustered up the courage to tell my Father we went to Cuba. He was astonished to say the least. Legally blind, I could not show him the many photos we had taken but I played the videos from the nightclubs we had visited so he could hear the music. Once again, he smiled as he listened to the familiar sounds of Cuba. I could see he was reminiscing. He asked me to play the videos a second time. I told him we plan to return to Cuba one day soon. This time he responded by saying, “That’s terrific! I am so happy you are going back!”
*Karen´s father passed away on Sunday May 28th, at age 92.
Am in Ghana am looking for my dad is in Cuba he’s name is Ishmael Gonzalez am 24 years of age