La Llegada

Havana

, September 22, 2007

             The beginning of our trip was by no means auspicious, nor what either of us expected. The night before we’d had a disagreement, neither of us had slept, and our arrival at the airport was nothing like what either of us had dreamed. Instead of excitement and tears upon reaching the coast of

Cuba

, we were nodding out on each others’ shoulders in sheer exhaustion. We cleared immigration and customs with no more than the usual round of questioning, but Francisco was detained momentarily at the health authority checkpoint because he appeared so tired the doctor was concerned about him. 100 Mexican pesos (approximately $10 USD) and a blood pressure check later, we were free to go, with the advice that Francisco should take it easy, especially since his blood pressure is usually low.

            The taxi ride from the airport to his mother’s home is about 20 minutes, and he recognized little. Between the fatigue, the anxiety of anticipation, and the reality of the situation, Francisco could hardly believe how the landscape had changed, how broken down buildings are, how packed the buses are, how many people are on the side of the road hoping to hitch a ride. “Verdad que la situacion esta dura,” he observed, “You were right that the situation here is tough.” He would soon find out just how tough.

            We agreed that when we arrived at his mom’s apartment, I’d shout out her name, as I usually do when I arrive, and have her come down and open the door. We weren’t sure whether she knew that we were actually coming. As soon as I called out “Elida!, Francisco’s son, who was nine months old when he left, appeared at the door and the two recognized each one in the other, just as I recognized Francisco in Brayan the first time I came to Cuba. I remember being so astonished by how similar they are—in every way—that I felt the need to sit down. Growing up without his father, it was absolutely remarkable that they were, in many ways, one and the same.

            We hauled our suitcases up the stairs to the second floor, and despite my warning, he hit his head on the low doorframe. His mom came out of the house and hugged him, but no tears for her—she’s a pragmatic and direct woman who’s 100% dura.

            As we laid in bed on our first night together in

Havana

, I asked Francisco how he felt. The bed that we’re sharing is divided from the next room by a thin curtain and a wall, but the sound carries over and across. I hear someone snoring, someone else breathing, I hear the noise outside, as we have the balcony door open for fresh air. For the next 12 days there will be no privacy at all, which is very different for us. He is overwhelmed. In 27 years, so much has changed and so many things haven’t. The conditions in which his family live-- which are familiar to me after several trips and manageable after 15 years of travel to countries with services and utilities far more limited than what we enjoy in the U.S.—are somewhat overwhelming for him. He can’t believe that there is running water for only 5 minutes each day. Water is fetched and then stored in 50 gallon drums in the kitchen. The old Frigidaire that his mother had when he was born is still running. A wooden table that decorated the living room 25 years ago has been painted blue and is wobbly, but still serviceable. The lights in two rooms don’t work, and there are no lights at all in the staircase coming up to the apartment. The knife for cutting vegetables is dull and has no handle. This really gets to him, almost more than anything else. There is no milk, no fresh tomatoes. His desire to change all of this, to fix it, is so great. But for now, we fall into sleep, watching the clouds scoot across the night sky, looking out to the Monument of the Revolution, the peak of which is visible in the distance.

*

Cuentos Duros

Havana

, September 23, 2007

            Like any family reunion, the stories start to flow.

            “Whatever happened to Fulano?”

            “There used to be a bakery on this corner.”

            “Here, there used to be a school”

            “Across the street was a tree. My friends and I swung back and forth from this tree to that one.”

            “And my friends? Where do they live now?”

            But so many friends are dead.

            For years, Francisco has been telling me that his desire to see his childhood friends was almost as great as his desire to see his family. In

Cuba

, friends and family are almost one and the same. Almost all of the friends who haven’t left, though, have died. Each story, told casually by his mother, as if she was telling the weather or what’s for dinner, brings him more pain, I can tell as I watch his face.

            The mother of his son arrives and there is intense emotion between the two—and of course, there should be, for so many reasons. She has more cuentos duros—her 19 year old daughter was killed by a boyfriend three months ago and life has been tougher than usual.

            We go for a walk around the neighborhood. Everyone who is his age looks old, worn down, and they all remark how young he is, how active. They have discussions about who’s more handsome—him or his son—and they decide that both are guapo, “lo mismo.” In fact, for years, Brayan has had to endure being called Franrey, which is what everyone has always called Francisco here. That name has never sounded right in my mouth, and his family has always wondered why I call him Francisco when I don’t call him mi amor or mi vida.

            We visit a woman who was a sort of mother for everyone in the neighborhood. Her four sons left 20 years ago and she has never heard from then since. Her grandson never met his father; he’s 20 now, and he sits smoking cigarette after cigarette as he watches television. She is still smiling, but as she tells her story, Brayan and I both take turns to step outside; it’s too hard to hear. We visit the sister of a good friend of ours, and her whole family is dead, too.

            Everywhere we turn, there are cuentos duros.