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Do you remember where you were when you learned that Fidel Castro died? November 25, 2016 is a date that I will never forget because I was in Havana, Cuba when the unexpected, but inevitable, occurred. A week prior, four girlfriends and I landed at Jose Marti International Airport. I collected my luggage, exchanged some of my U.S. currency for convertible pesos, and, forty minutes later, I arrived at an AirBnB in central Havana. Over the next several days, I took salsa and rhumba lessons in Havana. I bought Montecristo's from a tobacco farmer in Vinales and I walked up and down Trinidad's cobblestoned streets admiring the city's beautiful architecture. After a number of enchanting days on the island, I returned to Havana from Trinidad for my final full day in Cuba. In the morning, I went to the Museum of the Revolution to learn about the champions and villains of the movement. Afterwards, I stopped by the Museum of Fine Art, which is bursting with beautiful, thoughtful and provoking pieces. In the evening, my friends and I made an attempt to get into Fabrica de Arte Cubano (FAC)-- one of Havana's premiere tourist venues. In the hours that I spent there, I alternated between awe, confusion and irritation. I looked around and thought, "Am I in Havana or the Meatpacking district? What the hell is going on here?" Around 11 PM, hours before the venues official closing time, my girlfriends and I decided to head back to our AirBnB. Strangely, the FAC staff were telling everyone else to leave too, which made for a slow, crowded crawl towards the exit. Back at the apartment, I was in the shower when I heard my friend shout, "Fidel Castro is dead." I initially thought, "Oh my god. That's crazy." Followed by, "Will we be able to go home tomorrow? Should I be concerned?" You can't go to sleep when history is happening so I hopped out of the shower, got dressed and walked to the Paseo del Prado to see what, if anything, was happening. I noticed uniformed police on the streets, but also saw teenagers making out. One Cuban, carrying a can of beer in each hand, said "Fidel is mi padre." The following day, another Cuban noted that there were "fiestas" in Miami, while yet another gentlemen shouted an obscenity that suggested he viewed Castro's death as positive. The last thing I expected when I traveled to Cuba was that El Jefe Maximo would die, and that the legacy and imprint of such a controversial figure would nevertheless be so prominent.