Next Year in Havana(4)

All my paperwork is together, visa in hand, as I shuffle forward in the immigration queue, praying my makeshift urn makes it through without any issues.

I present my documents to the official, my heart pounding as I answer his questions in Spanish, in the language I’ve spoken my entire life. There’s a strange divide here, the sense that we are connected—countrymen—and yet, not. Despite the Spanish American mother, I’ve always considered myself more Cuban than anything else, and in Miami it’s never been an issue. My grandparents are Cuban, my father Cuban, therefore I am Cuban. But will it matter here that my skin is lighter than many of the country’s citizens, that my blood is not fully Cuban? Am I an outsider here or is the ancestry I claim enough?

He waves me on, and I head through with my bags, nerves filling me as I slide my carry-on and my grandmother’s ashes through the X-ray machine while the Cuban officials ensure I’m not smuggling contraband into the country. The belt heaves and sighs as my bag sails through. I hold my breath—

I make my way through the X-ray machine and wait, sure this will be the moment when they flag my bag, images of being led to a windowless interrogation room tucked away in the airport flashing before me. The sheer fact that tourist travel to Cuba is still prohibited for Americans hammers home the unpredictability of this situation, the reality that I am venturing into murky waters and uncharted territory.

While no one questioned my grandmother’s wishes to have her ashes spread in Cuba or her decision to entrust me with the task, my trip has been met with caution within the family, especially those who had firsthand experience with the regime.

Never forget where you are, Beatriz warned me. The rights you enjoy here will vanish once you land in Havana. Never take that for granted.

My great-aunt Maria sent me daily emails filled with news articles and travel information from the State Department in the weeks leading up to my departure, the State Department’s words emboldened in my mind . . . may detain anyone at any time . . . if you violate local laws even unknowingly . . . arrested . . . imprisoned . . .

Nothing like the potential of capricious imprisonment to instill fear inside you. I don’t doubt Cuba is different from any place I’ve traveled before, but at the same time, I can’t quite reconcile the images I’ve seen on TV and in the news over the years—brightly colored antique cars, crashing waves, and romantic architecture—with the stark portrayal my great-aunts warn of.

My great-aunts are protective of me and my cousins, but when they speak of Cuba there’s another level of fear present, one that hints at unspoken horrors whose impact has not lessened with time. I’ve tried to explain to them that things are different now, that it’s not 1959, that the revolution is over, the U.S. Embassy reopened in Havana, and we’ve entered a new dawn in Cuban-American relations.

Nothing I said lessened the worry in their eyes, and when Maria insisted I carry her rosary tucked away in my bag, given the risk I’m taking with the ashes, I didn’t protest. I can likely use the extra luck.

I shuffle forward in the line of travelers.

Just let me get my grandmother through, and I promise I’ll stay out of trouble for the remainder of my trip.

My gaze is riveted to the X-ray machine.

Another officer gives me a cursory nod, and I grab my bag from the belt once it has sailed through, a chorus of hallelujahs filling me as I make my way through the airport.

I pick up the rest of my luggage from the baggage area and make my way through customs, the nerves subsiding with each step I take, my unease making way for excitement akin to the night before Christmas. I’ve waited my whole life for this moment.

I exit the airport and get my first true glimpse of Havana, take my first breath of Cuban air. There’s a slight breeze in the air, but beneath it the humidity hits me full force, my hair beginning to stick to the back of my neck. January in Havana feels a lot like January in Miami. I reach into my bag and pull my sunglasses out, sliding them onto my face.

The sidewalk outside the airport is cheerfully chaotic, friends and families hugging one another, loud voices yelling in exuberant Spanish, people placing luggage into the enormous trunks of brightly colored cars. Most of the cars are nearly sixty years old, some even older, but their age is reflected more in the style than in their condition, as paint shines, chrome gleams, pride of ownership evident in many of the vehicles.

I scan the sea of people, some holding small signs with names scrawled upon them, looking for Ana Rodriguez. I’m eager to meet the woman my grandmother told me about, her words filled with nostalgia and affection.

We were inseparable from the time we were little girls. Her family lived next door to ours, and we used to play together in the garden. Did I tell you about the time I tried to climb the wall separating our houses, Marisol?

I always envisioned the friendship between my grandmother and Ana as a Cuban version of Lucy and Ethel—with my grandmother in the role of Lucy given the stories she told me.

“Marisol Ferrera?”

I turn at the sound of my name and come face-to-face with a man leaning against a bright blue convertible with a massive chrome grill and white accents running down the sides.

“Yes?”

He pushes off the car, the hem of his white guayabera fluttering in the breeze as he walks toward me, all long-limbed grace.

He greets me in smooth English, holding his hand out to me. “I’m Luis Rodriguez. My grandmother asked me to pick you up. She’s sorry she couldn’t meet you, but she wasn’t feeling well.”