Urgency and Such

There is nothing I enjoy more about traveling than an incoming flight to your destination city. While the flight attendant reminds us of our eminent arrival, the lights come on, people rustle about, seat backs are set forward and I immediately begin to feel a sense of urgency and something unsettles inside me. It’s a mix of being uncomfortable and excited, usually. Not this time. This was the first time that this precious moment was changed for me.

As we began our descent, glimpses of untarnished Cuban farmland with thin, narrow roads dotted with 50’s style cars appeared through the tropical rain clouds. Patches of silver palms and cabana-like houses appeared. I felt that routine urgency, that sense of being thrown off kilter, immediately vanish. What replaced it was tears. They weren’t external, real tears because I never felt them go down my cheeks. But they were inside me nonetheless—overwhelmed and eternally satisfied. The work I had put into going into this adventure of a lifetime was completely paid off in that moment. If the pilot had decided to return to Miami that second, I know I’d be as disappointed as the next student here, but something inside of me would have felt that nirvana, even if only minutely.

Cuba is beautiful. It is una mezcla of the antique, the worn down, the wise and the traditional.  Yet it embraces the young, the beautiful and the witty.

The architecture is intriguing here. Soviet block-style, concrete monstrosities tower over quaint, romantic neighborhoods with Roman-esque carvings and welcoming colors of salmon, mint and turquesa. Like weeds growing out of the cracks of the sidewalks it seems cigarette stubs have emerged in armies, yet they rest on the opposite side of the malecón, the break wall that half-heartedly prevents La Habana from flooding. The rocking chairs in our penthouse home stay, made with distinct and sturdy craftsmanship, keep guard over the tumultuous horizon, like a lighthouse watchman would.

The world is different here. Propaganda pebbles billboards, Che’s face is outlined in art, framed are photos from the beginning of the revolution, and our own house mother, María, hangs a photo of Fidel on horseback like a family photo. Meanwhile, Canal Clave streams an unending queue of music videos from Sia to Hozier and back again. Media is shared via USB sticks while Wifi at the nice hotel down the street costs 10 CUC (just about $10 USD) for one hour of use. It is such an odd place that we are still learning about.

We live in a beautiful, spacious two-floor penthouse with María. It overlooks the ocean, across from the malecón and we can wave to our neighbors, other students in the next building, whom reside on the 9^th floor. Eleonora, Hanna, Mathew, Jamila, Peter, Josh, Geoff and I all live here, partnered up. We walk a 7-10 minute commute to school every day (which starts next week, we’re still in orientation now). Most of our commute consists of puddle jumping, staying on two feet instead of on our asses while we skate-slip along patches of wet, slick tile among the concrete, and pretending to not be bothered that we haven’t seen sun once thus far. Maybe Sunday. We’ll see.