Thank you, National Geographic of my childhood, for my crystal-clear memories of engaging, intriguing, "differentness" delivered to me as a young girl in the mid-1960's. Delivered, I note, by way of the rich beauty and stark reality contained in the photo-essays of your journalists of that era as they scouted out the vast wonders around the globe.
Thank you, for planting in my little-girl recollection the story of Cuba in the 1960's. Cuba, when all of its pain and its Socialist ideals were new. When neither the US, nor Cuba, had any idea that the rift between us would span five decades. Five decades, and counting.
In those times, the magazines showed gritty black and white photos of old men sitting on the front terraces of small stone houses, wearing broad-brimmed hats and clenching fat cigars between their teeth. Little girls peered from back seats of passing Chevy Bel Aires. Dogs lounged in dirt roads.
I reflect on my having been intrigued by these stores--most certainly captured initially by the photos--and I wonder at the thought that I read the stories. I know I mustn't have been more than 10 or 12 years old. Such large concepts for such a tender age.
And still, I've carried these memorized images of Cuba and its people from those years in my memory all my life. I've wondered. Hoped. Imagined, even. And then, like a Carribean breeze across a field of manioc, opportunity wafted its way to me. I received an invitation to visit.
I received something I almost never do. It was serendipitous. The alumni association from UC Davis sent me a card inviting me to join a group on an educational tour to Cuba. Literally, that night, I had sent them a deposit for myself and my husband to secure a spot on the trip. It wasn't even a decision. I knew I was meant to take the trip.
Three months later, we boarded the plane that would take us the first leg of the three-leg flight to Havana. Three take-offs, three landings, and 24 hours later, we were standing on Cuban soil.
In the four years since that trip I've not really written about it, simply because there was so much to experience; to process. Also, because it was all so meaningful to me that I still struggle to choose which piece to favor with a review of it. But, last, also because I fear I can not do the experience justice with my words. It was all incredible. Every bit of it. And, if I take a step back and really look at what moved me the most, I would say that the culture and spirit of the people made the most lasting impression upon my heart.
I think that a "typical" American could go to Cuba, and try to just be a tourist. They would seek out the beaches (which I never saw, even once, on my visit). They would visit the markets; the galleries; the historic places perhaps. Only the most inquisitive of our population would likely ever see a bit of the Cuba that our group was shown in the 8 or so days that we were there.
Some of our visits were more mainstream. The first full day we were there we toured Havana's large cemetery. Plots there are not kept "forever" by the deceased. Cuba, being an island, only has so much land available for cemetery space. Also, being an island made largely of coral, they can obtain marble in abundance. The historical phases of the cemetery were noteworthy: the art deco and art nouveau sections; the earlier sections where an entire brigade of firefighters were buried after a tragic event; all of these sections were graced with marble monuments which clearly were created by sculptor who rivaled the efforts of Michelangelo.
We also spent a morning at Earnest Hemingway's home. The Cubans remember "Papa" with great reverence, and his home appears to be absolutely untouched since his death over 50 years ago. It's not difficult to see why he chose to live in the home. It affords a simplicity that seems perfectly in balance with its place on the Caribbean island. The light in the home was magical. I could almost see the man himself, dining, writing, smoking a cigar.
(Continued in Part 2...)
Thank you, for planting in my little-girl recollection the story of Cuba in the 1960's. Cuba, when all of its pain and its Socialist ideals were new. When neither the US, nor Cuba, had any idea that the rift between us would span five decades. Five decades, and counting.
In those times, the magazines showed gritty black and white photos of old men sitting on the front terraces of small stone houses, wearing broad-brimmed hats and clenching fat cigars between their teeth. Little girls peered from back seats of passing Chevy Bel Aires. Dogs lounged in dirt roads.
I reflect on my having been intrigued by these stores--most certainly captured initially by the photos--and I wonder at the thought that I read the stories. I know I mustn't have been more than 10 or 12 years old. Such large concepts for such a tender age.
And still, I've carried these memorized images of Cuba and its people from those years in my memory all my life. I've wondered. Hoped. Imagined, even. And then, like a Carribean breeze across a field of manioc, opportunity wafted its way to me. I received an invitation to visit.
I received something I almost never do. It was serendipitous. The alumni association from UC Davis sent me a card inviting me to join a group on an educational tour to Cuba. Literally, that night, I had sent them a deposit for myself and my husband to secure a spot on the trip. It wasn't even a decision. I knew I was meant to take the trip.
Three months later, we boarded the plane that would take us the first leg of the three-leg flight to Havana. Three take-offs, three landings, and 24 hours later, we were standing on Cuban soil.
In the four years since that trip I've not really written about it, simply because there was so much to experience; to process. Also, because it was all so meaningful to me that I still struggle to choose which piece to favor with a review of it. But, last, also because I fear I can not do the experience justice with my words. It was all incredible. Every bit of it. And, if I take a step back and really look at what moved me the most, I would say that the culture and spirit of the people made the most lasting impression upon my heart.
 |
| "Your example lives, Your dreams persist" Cuba does still dream the dreams of Che's revolution. I think I found that amazing; if that's not faith, what is? |
I think that a "typical" American could go to Cuba, and try to just be a tourist. They would seek out the beaches (which I never saw, even once, on my visit). They would visit the markets; the galleries; the historic places perhaps. Only the most inquisitive of our population would likely ever see a bit of the Cuba that our group was shown in the 8 or so days that we were there.
 |
| I think of this photo I took just outside Fusterland, in the artist's neighborhood, as the consummate Cuba tourist photo. |
Some of our visits were more mainstream. The first full day we were there we toured Havana's large cemetery. Plots there are not kept "forever" by the deceased. Cuba, being an island, only has so much land available for cemetery space. Also, being an island made largely of coral, they can obtain marble in abundance. The historical phases of the cemetery were noteworthy: the art deco and art nouveau sections; the earlier sections where an entire brigade of firefighters were buried after a tragic event; all of these sections were graced with marble monuments which clearly were created by sculptor who rivaled the efforts of Michelangelo.
We also spent a morning at Earnest Hemingway's home. The Cubans remember "Papa" with great reverence, and his home appears to be absolutely untouched since his death over 50 years ago. It's not difficult to see why he chose to live in the home. It affords a simplicity that seems perfectly in balance with its place on the Caribbean island. The light in the home was magical. I could almost see the man himself, dining, writing, smoking a cigar.
(Continued in Part 2...)
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