Cuba Si!

They say it lies just 90 miles away. And, by most conventional measures, this appears to be the case. But, for all its geographic proximity, Cuba might just as well be on the far side of the planet. It is a land of startling contrasts, of head scratching inconsistencies, and a land of joy and optimism amidst a sea of poverty and disintegration. It is sometimes so elusive to figure it all out, to make sense of it. As one Cuban economist would tell us, “If you think you understand Cuba, you're wrong. If you are confused, you get it.”

In my life, Cuba resonates in a way that few countries do. We have, after all, a history. For me, Cuba conjures up the Cuban missile crisis in 1962. That was a time when in my heart of hearts I felt life as we knew it was about to disappear. I recall vividly the nervousness, indeed panic, that was creeping through me as I watched the accounts of the impending head to head confrontation between the Soviets and the U.S. Navy barely more than a stone's throw from our coastline. There were missiles there; the kind that could in a flash arch upward across the Florida Straits to destroy all life in my country and, specifically, in my neighborhood in White Plains, New York. In school, we regularly practiced our “duck and cover” drills as if our flimsy wooden desks would miraculously protect us from radioactive fallout. But, I remember as well an earlier time when my parents visited Havana and stayed at the legendary Hotel Nacional, a place also frequented by mafia royalty, Frank Sinatra, and Mickey Mantle. I have some recollection of their stories of that stay which sounded so glamorous, so cool, so elegant.

So, when I got a call from my nephew, Peter, many months ago telling me of his plans to travel there, inviting me to come along, and to do so with a group as legendary as National Geographic, I didn't see an option other than to say yes, I will join you. It is true that the rum I had been drinking that evening helped spur the mood, but this was, in my eyes, the chance of a lifetime to bring these memories of mine to life – to look behind the veil of secrecy that has shrouded this place in mystery for more than a half century, at least to Americans.

What followed was, in my personal experience, epic. I would go to a Cuban baseball game. I would join on stage a choral group to sing with them. I would sit in the engineer's seat of a 109 year old locomotive as we steamed through a sugar plantation. I would play the horse jaw with a Cuban band. I would drink freshly squeezed sugar cane. I would dance with a 6 year old girl and a 70 year old woman. I would ride in a '51 Lincoln and a '54 Dodge convertible. I would be moved to tears by the performances of young adults dancing to programs they had choreographed. I would enjoy endless conversations with artists and locals of all stripes. I would visit a cigar factory and lean closely over the desk of a worker there and watch, mesmerized, by his skill in rolling cigar after perfect cigar. I would have a chance at humanitarian acts that were unanticipated just moments earlier. As a group, we would interact with artists, musicians, historians, architects, sociologists, economists, journalists, religious figures, and, yes, a horse whisperer. And, all this just scratches the surface.

Havana is a prime example of the Cuban puzzle. Old Havana is gorgeous. The grandeur of Spanish colonial architecture is proudly on display from the various plazas to the beautiful tree-lined Paseo de Prado to the Malecon, a walkway that follows the sea wall for five miles along the waterfront. The beautiful archways, multi-colored buildings, the statuary, and high energy that you find here convey a rich heritage that takes little imagination to see. Against this backdrop of picture perfect buildings, toss in a dollop of the armada of brightly colored vintage cars from the '50s, many looking like they just came off the assembly line. And, just to add spice to the mix, picture neighborhoods where there is music literally every block whether from a live band, street musicians, or a radio blaring from somewhere. Even Disney could not replicate a scene like this.

And yet, peel away this veneer and stray a couple of blocks off the touristed beaten paths, and a different story is told. Here, the buildings are dark with decay. Roofs and walls are crumbling; colors are absent. The streets are quieter. At the risk of hyperbole, there are moments when you think you are looking at a post-apocalyptic world shunned by civilization for way too long. We are told that 3.1 buildings collapse every day in Havana and, as wild a statistic as that is, it is not at all difficult to believe.

But then, just as you want to conclude that Old Havana is just a ruse propped up by the government to fool tourists, you come across a community action project in which artists, sculptors and musicians devote half of their earnings to the effort to reclaim their neighborhood from ruin. Buildings are being refurbished; streets are cleaned; art spreads out along the walls of the community. It is beautiful and it is moving. It is here that I meet Nivia, an attractive artist who captures the hope and drive of so many here. Her paintings come alive with brilliant colors and whimsical themes. I find myself buying one of her works: a depiction of tall, multi-colored buildings swaying against a moonlit evening sky as if they are made of jello, smiling. Nivia tells me they are the buildings of Havana doing the salsa. How can you not smile at this? I tell her I want this painting because this is the picture I want to take home with me as the essence of my experience here.

Cubans love their baseball. They are passionate about it. We are fortunate to be in town during the playoff season. Five of us rush off to catch a game that features Industriales, the local favorites. As we approach the stadium, the sounds emanating from within are already loud, but that only serves as a warning of what is to follow. We take our seats down the right field line and take it all in. The noise is deafening, painfully so at times. There are more horns blaring from the fans here than in a Times Square traffic jam. And, it doesn't stop. Ever. Along the walls of the stadium where in the U.S. you are apt to find billboards trumpeting all manner of commercial products, there are only signs proclaiming “dignity,” “strength,” and “freedom.” There is no huge screen in centerfield showing replays or readings of pitch speed. Only the bare story told through inning by inning scoring and the totals of runs, hits and errors. Nothing fancy here, just baseball in its purest form. It's a beautiful thing to watch. And, the ride home? A '51 Lincoln, of course.

Cubans love their music. Schools abound from coast to coast that encourage young musicians to hone their craft, whether it's the piano, the flute, the guitar or the violin. The same for dancers, artists and sculptors. We were treated to a show of this on several occasions. At one school, young adult dancers moved to the strains of soulful music and told stories of longing and despair. Beautiful and pure. A young female violinist, who was just inches from my chair, made her instrument into a most personal extension of her emotions as she stunned us with her incredible talent. At another site, we were entertained by a show of youngsters from about five years of age to maybe fourteen who pranced about the stage with energy, talent, and good humor that reflected childhood honesty at its best. At the conclusion of the show, the kids filled the aisles and pulled members of the audience from their seats to dance with them. One young girl squeezed through our long row to the middle where I was seated. She grabbed my arm and pulled me along to the aisle where we could dance with the others.

And, in Cienfuegos, we were treated to a recital by a choral group, the Cantores de Cienfuegos, a mix of nine males and nine females who sing world-wide an intoxicating mix of spirituals, baroque and classical music, and even American folk classics. The room we gathered in was sparse with precious little to absorb the sound. When the group marched in and started singing it was like an explosion, a most achingly beautiful explosion. The room literally filled with their amazing voices. It was so overpowering and exquisite, that you could just stare and feel their music literally surging through you. After a few numbers, Honey, the group's leader, asked our group if any of us would like to join them up front and join in their singing. Without giving it a moment's thought, I raised my hand. Let me be clear here: I do not sing. To my recollection, I have not really sung more than a couple of notes since the fourth grade. And yet, in that moment, it seemed instinctively like such a magical thing to do. So, up I sprang, took my position with the guys, was briefly tutored in the lyrics I needed to know, and....started singing. It was magical. I felt connected. A moment I likely will never forget.

I truly did not know what to expect from the Cuban people. Given the American embargo of the past half century, the rabid mistrust between our two governments, and the economic fallout that has been extreme at times, I thought we might be met with anger, hostility, or, at a minimum, skepticism. I could not have been more wrong. Time after time after time, we were greeted with surprise, enthusiasm and curiosity. Whether it was the lady selling me a t-shirt, or a taxi driver, or the guy behind the desk at the rum museum, or total strangers who would just say hello, the interaction was incredibly heartwarming. Take Erwin, for example. Here's a guy who was sitting in the shade near a park, and, as we exchanged glances, he smiled and said hello to Peter and me. When he learned we were from the U.S., he said, “Really? That's amazing! How did you get here? This is wonderful!” Or, the guy at the rum museum who, learning of our origins, simply leaned back, eyes wide open, and softly said, “Oh wow.” Or, the lady who sold me a t-shirt who stood up, came around the counter, and held my arm while telling me about her family in Hialeah.

And then there was Juan. I met Juan while strolling down the Paseo de Prado one morning. Like many Cuban taxi drivers, he called out to me inquiring whether I needed his services. I declined, but we started talking anyway. In the span of a few minutes -- he with his broken English, me with my even more limited Spanish -- we were trading stories about our families, our lives. He showed me pictures of his young children. After a few minutes, he looked at me and asked whether I might help him buy some milk for his family. I told him I would. We embarked on a search strolling through neighborhoods well off the tourist grid. One store, then another, then another. No milk. At last we found a store that had the large bags of dehydrated milk Juan was looking for. He sighed, looked at me, and asked if it would be okay to purchase four bags. I told him yes. We made the purchase and Juan's lips started trembling. Tears came into his eyes. He told me that these bags would provide him and his family with a two month supply of milk. He threw his arms around me and gave me a huge bear hug, and told me he could never have afforded to do this on his own. I felt like a million dollars.

On the last day of our journey, we had lunch at the Hotel Nacional, the place where my folks had stayed more than half a century earlier, just prior to the revolution. As time was winding down on a miraculous trip, I strolled the grounds of the hotel that overlooked the water. At a far corner of the property are tunnels built during the missile crisis fifty-two years ago. As I descended down the steps, I found myself alone with the fellow who monitored this parcel of underground terrain. Eduardo, as I soon learned. We nodded to each other. As he started showing me the charts on the wall that depicted the Soviet missiles Cuba had at the time and how their range would impact the U.S., he drew me closer and locked the doors behind us. He beckoned me to follow him deeper into the tunnels. His English was passable, again better than whatever Spanish I could muster. He pointed out the placements for the artillery that once were there, the uniforms the soldiers wore, and where the ammunition was stored. When we re-surfaced to our starting point, I explained to him the impact that crisis had on me back then and, in particular, the terror I felt as nuclear war seemed far more than just a hypothetical quandary. I explained our “duck and cover” drills, and the non-stop coverage of the crisis on American television. He smiled and his look softened. Eduardo was about my age during that crisis, and he explained to me the terror and near panic he felt in those days for exactly the same reasons. He feared losing everything and everyone. We had a moment of true understanding. A shared memory. I told him how wonderful that here we were a half century later able to discuss this event together after so many years of mutual mistrust and hostility between our countries. When we shook hands and smiled, it was a knowing smile. We both got it.

Not a bad note to end on.