By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
I forced the rusted wheelchair over the cobblestone path that led to La Plaza del Catedral. My Abuela grasped the armrests, her knuckles white, as she yelled, "Para Rosa! Para!" I laughed as she dramatically caught her breath and waved a fan in front of her face. We continued on the rough path. I was 14 years old at the time, and looking forward to experiencing first-hand the food, culture, and traditions that I had known growing up in the United States. Our first stop was in front of El Palacio del Marques de Arcos, an 18th-century mansion, that was later subdivided into tenement homes where Abuela was raised. The stories she had shared about growing up in a "palace" had evoked visions of grandeur, but this was not what we had expected. When we looked up, we saw a dilapidated, roofless, lifeless building filled with rubble. Surprised and terribly upset, Abuela closed her eyes to hide her tears from me. I was stricken with grief. Habana was never my home, but I felt the first-hand connection through my Abuela's stories. I hated to see her cry and warded off tears of my own. I wheeled her back over the beaten path as she sat wilted, no longer clenching the armrests as tightly as she had earlier. Her breathing, punctuated by hidden sobs, began to rack her back, which was hunched from years of manual labor in New York. She and my Papa worked so hard to build a life for their family, and so it was deflating for her to go back to her childhood home with expectations of impressing me, only to see how deteriorated things had become. I kneeled beside her, holding her frail hand as she recalled the energetic spirit of Cuba, the architecture that she loved, the people she knew, the music she missed. I tried to hush her, but she couldn't hear my support through her soliloquy, in fact, I realized that she couldn't hear much of anything. She wasn't wearing her hearing aids. The spirit that Abuela remembered was right before me. Although we were surrounded by abandoned stone buildings that were faded by years of Caribbean sun, it was still beautiful and picturesque. The people, though lacking certain freedoms that we enjoy, looked largely happy and carefree as they strolled up and down the streets. And the music that my Abuela longed to hear played a little way down the Malecon. I had to help her realize that this situation was only as hopeless as we would permit it to be. So, I grasped the slippery handles of the wheelchair and pushed her toward the music. My footwork began to synchronize with the salsa, two steps forward, and one step back until she could see and hear the Old Habana that she remembered. Some of the locals summoned us into the crowd to join their dance, and Abuela was elated to see me moving to the same rhythms she had known all her life. As we salsa-ed, I was aware that the Cubans among us do not enjoy all the same freedoms that I sometimes take for granted. But the Cuban spirit still resonated through the people's joy. Women with stained aprons, and men clad in guayaberas holding Cohibas, jumped with fervor despite a long day's work. I started thinking, it might just be my Cuban heritage and resilience that helps me persevere when the going gets rough. My first visit reinforced for me the importance of finding the light in even the cloudiest of days and never taking a moment for granted.