My heart is in Havana

I rise in 5 a.m. darkness, strong coffee in hand, planted on the bow of the ship. We are approaching the harbor of Havana, Cuba, and I want to see us dock.

Lights from homes twinkle along the shoreline of the blue-gray waters. On a distant hillside a statue of the Christ of Havana stands colossal, stark-white against the breaking dawn. He welcomes me. Embraces me.

I feel called to be here and with a strong gulp of courage, I have followed my heart to take this brief escape into the land of revolution and classic cars.

I had forgotten how to do that, how to listen with that organ that knows our deepest longings, lost my way the last six years, caring for dad after his stroke, losing Joe last year.

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We disembark into the Plaza de San Francisco de Assis and at once my senses are assaulted. Candy-colored convertibles from the 1950s line the streets. Bubble-gum pinks, robin-egg blues, shocking purples and banana yellows.

Drivers are at the ready for us. Many Cubans make their living this way, zipping tourists around Havana in classic Oldsmobiles, Buicks, Fords and Chevys.

When Fidel Castro took power, he placed a ban on foreign vehicle imports, making it impossible to buy a brand new foreign-made vehicle. Cuba is a country stuck in time.

Later, our group is scheduled to tour Old Havana in these cars.

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Friends and I wait for our tour guide in the cobble-stoned Plaza in front of a former centuries old Catholic church, now a museum. Women greet us selling flowers, garbed in traditional Cuban attire with Spanish and African influences, turbans of shiny rainbow satin colors. In the distance, the soft strains of guitars and thumping of salsa music dances through the sultry, tropical air.

I realize I have been living tone deaf for the last six years, in grays and silence, that I have been starved for color and sound. For joy.

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Our tour guide takes us on a walking tour. The hammerjacking of new construction jars us as we navigate the narrow streets, but it’s the old architecture that awes me. Old Havana is an eclectic mix of Cuban Baroque, Neoclassical and Moorish influences that reflect Cuba’s Spanish heritage.

I crane my neck and squint my eyes through brilliant sunshine to find colorful windows and shutters, elaborate balconies of wrought-iron, buildings in pastels, archways and half-open intricately-carved mahogany doors that peek into tiled courtyards.

And crumbling facades.

Havana must have been a dazzler in her day, a woman of power and beauty. Now, in her later years, she seems drab and unkempt.

Even so, I still see her beauty. In my own aging, I am seeking to find that within myself.

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The magic of old Havana stirs me as we trek to Plaza de la Catedral, Plaza de Armas, and the Plaza Vieja. Palm trees and lush bright flowers line sidewalks and border courtyards, street dancers perform on stilts, and pulsating music drifts in pockets to lure us to the next sight, the next historic monument or church.

The poverty also stirs me. An elderly man sits on steps in front of a skeletal building, shaking two maracas. His eyes are cataract-covered as his basket waits for money. A woman attendant at a restroom hands us a few squares of toilet paper and before we enter, we clink coins in her bowl.

Everywhere we go, people ask for a donation of some kind. Cubans live on about $25 per month.

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When our classic car driver whooshes us (and our lives seem to be at risk, either as passengers or pedestrians) through old and new Havana, the once-elegant architecture is a testament to Cuba’s economic status, laundry hung to dry on lines that are strung between arched pillars or draped on balconies of intricate lattice and design.

I ask our driver in Spanish if there are many pobres in Havana. He nods.

Despite their poverty, the people smile. Laugh. Greet us with dishes like Ropa Vieja and fruity sangria. With music. Color.

Cuba is a country con corazon.

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More happens. A very-late-night show at the Tropicana where I half expect Ricky Ricardo to step center stage singing Babalu. The venue also has an aura of stuck in time-ness, with a feel of 1950s night clubs. Outside, long tables are sheltered by lush greenery and palm trees and nestled beneath soft flickering lights, the presentation of song and dance entirely in Spanish, crackling with creativity and libido.

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We leave Havana the next morning. An unexpected sadness fills me as we sail past El Moro castle and out into sea. I felt at home in Havana, one with my Mother Tongue, the music and people, their generosity and simplicity. Their kindness.

I also recognize I am changed in some way. I don’t know how, but notes of hope seem to be singing in my soul. The kind of hope the people of Havana embrace in their souls with grace, in light of all their poverty and revolution.

Perhaps a revolution is brewing in my own heart. I have listened to its longing. It always knows the way.

This time straight to Havana.