Morro Castle In My Sky

The following post has been brought to you by Kikita.

On my most recent Miami adventure, the Fabregas family had me over for dinner. Once we had finished dinner, dessert and café the strangest thing happened.

 

I'm not exactly sure how it happened other than the fact that I probably instigated it, but we all jumped up, piled into their über-cool van, and they showed me around "Sweet Home Hialeah." 

 

Comeplete with a stop at . . .

 

Yes, MORRO CASTLE. For Churros con chocolate. It was a heavenly experience. As only churros con chocolate can be.

  
 

It wasn't until about three years ago that I really saw El Morro Castle. It was my first time at Cuba Nostalgia and when I found out that sitting on the wall in front of this castle-thingy was "THE thing to do," I simply HAD to do it too. Nevermind that I had no idea where this castle sat in relation to Havana . . .  if taking a picture in front of it was a Cuban thing, I was going to do it.

Even when Mami wasn't there to take the picture for me, I still did it.

And always, El Morro was up and to my right. It was my "castle in the sky" just like the idea of ever seeing the REAL one in Havana seemed to be . . . until now.

Moments like this . . . I am keenly aware of how awesome God is. Not only did I get to re-create the very picture I had taken when it was "just a dream" . . . but it's as if He heard me say "One day, I want to make it to Morro Castle" and took me literally so I got to go to the Morro Castle in Hialeah as well as the one in Havana. (Sometimes that guy cracks me up!)

Getting Back to Reality

Today is Saint Patrick's Day. That is the reality.

I'm not in Cuba anymore. That is the reality.

I, Kikita, have no idea if I will ever be able to go back even though I would love to. That is the reality.

I am behind on all the work I missed while I was gone and I need to get caught up . . . yesterday. That is the reality.

But every time I drive South on the 405 through Irvine, the rolling hills remind me of the drive to Pinar del Rio.

 
 
 
 

Every time I get home to my apartment complex, I am struck by how new the building looks. In fact, I was so struck by it I asked my roommate if there was a fresh coat of paint or something.

Every time I reach for a glass of water, I have to remind myself that it is ok to drink it.

I feel a sense of relief when I walk into the bathroom and there is a toilet seat.

I still check for cucarachas before I put my feet down when getting out of bed.

I wake up and the silence of my house feels lonely. I miss the sounds of my abuela and her siblings noisily starting their day.

Do you know about Saint Patrick? That he was taken captive and made a slave in Ireland, escaped, and then God called him to go back and "save the Irish" and he was fairly successful.

But what a beginning!

The drinking became involved because it is a feast day, a holy day of obligation, it is like a day off from Lent.

Today is a day of celebration. It's about loving and embracing the Irish culture. It is their day of pride. That is the reality.

So, this is me, trying to get back to reality:

 

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!!

Why I Was Scared

The following post was written by Kikita.

Fear. It permeates all things "Cuba Now." Some subjects we just don't talk about. Why? Fear. Even the fearless ones worry about saying some things (even if they don't admit it).

Mami always says to herself, "I. Am. Fearless."

I will tell you right now, I. Am. NOT. Fearless.

As the weeks turned to days, hours, and eventually minutes before I was leaving for Cuba everyone was asking me if I was excited.

The truth is, I was NOT excited. 

 

I felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was keenly aware that I had only traveled out of the United States one other time, almost exactly 10 years before this trip. I was 16 and went with my Drama class. I was in charge of nothing. All I had to do was show up on time and do what I was told:  hand your passport to that man, come over here, 'nothing to declare' is the line you want, get on the bus, here is your room key and number, dinner is at 6 so be downstairs at 5:30, etc.

I have traveled alone. I have traveled with my Abuela. This was different. If something went wrong, I had someone else to think about.

I had Mami and the rest of MBFCF to answer to if something happened to Abuela (and Tio Abuelo, Fernando).

 

What if the Cubans didn't let me in? What if they arrested me? I know, it sounds crazy. I can practically hear the sneers of "She thinks she is so important that she would be arrested, HA!" 

Yes. It crossed my mind for a couple of different reasons:

It is not like I keep my opinion of the "heroes of the revolution" to myself.

(I could talk myself down from that one. Maybe if I was one of the writers from Babalú Blog or Uncommon Sense I could realistically think that the Cuban military might know who I am. )

Why else was I afraid? I was bringing in contraband.

The Cuban Government has a ridiculous amount of hoops one has to jump through in order to take ashes to Cuba. I had to send the Death Certificate, Cremation Certification, and Papi's LAST USED PASSPORT to the Cuban Embassy in Washington, D.C. and then wait for them to approve the transport. In case you may have forgotten, Papi died TEN YEARS AGO. And hadn't been out of the country for at least 15 years before that. Meaning, his last used passport was from 1970-something. I asked my aunt to look for it. She found it, well, she found the picture that she had cut out before tossing the rest. Who keeps that stuff for that long anyway?

So, I was transporting ashes illegally -if you're dying for more info on that, you can feel free to email me- and if they found out I was terrified of what might happen. The hopes of my whole family where with me. There was no way I could come home and say, "Sorry, I couldn't do it. They confiscated him at the airport."

There's more. About a week before I left, I found out that Mami's cousin Regina Coyula was a dissident blogger. I had been entrusted with the special task of getting her 4GB of discreet portable space. Here's how I did it:

But, having that in my bag? Terrifying. What if they found it? Would I get a slap on the wrist? Sent back to the U.S.? I think one of the greatest kinds of fear is the fear of the unknown.

Unknown? But I knew exactly what was waiting for me when the plane landed. I had read "Take Me With You" by Carlos Frías and his detailed descriptions of arriving at José Martí International Airport on pages 16-19 of his book. I just wish I had re-read it before I left. As I read it now, I want to cry. It is comforting to read that someone else went through the same things I did. Especially that first moment when I walked into the terminal with my Abuela and my Tio Abuelo it went almost exaclty like this:

    "It is then that I see the lines and the guards. Between me and Cuban soil are immigration agents in uniform.

    The rest of the airport is walled off, and two agents stand in each of about ten cubicles. A soldier in a dress uniform waves me toward one of the posts, and I can feel my roll-abour slip in my hands from the perspiration.

    I come to a counter, which separates me from a man and a woman, who look to me in their late twenties, dressed in military attire... Try to smile, I tell myself.

He is not smiling.

Nor is she."

Now, I had less reason to worry because my cousin Waldo had come specifically from Cuba to help me with this part of the trip. He went first and took my Abuela through the door. I was left with my Tio Abuelo, Fernando, who was 99 years old and demanded on doing everything himself. This means that I didn't know if he had all of his documents until the man asked for them.

 

When me made it through door number one, there was a woman (who looked like a pissed off version of Judi Dench in a Nazi costume and medical shoes) that asked to see my passport.

She looked at it, then at me, back at it, back at me and finally said, "When you've finished going through the machines, we have to do an interview with you," and she kept my passport. My heart stopped. I started to help Fernando through the metal detectors and honestly have no idea what happened to him next.

Because my backpack was full of food that we were going to be cooking over the week, I had to go to a special table where they dug through "la compañera's" backpack. Next was another woman asking questions about my health. 

I hadn't seen the Nazi woman again. 

I had no idea where Waldo, Abuela, or Fernando were. 

Another younger woman with a pleasant face found me and had my passport. The "interview" was much easier than I expected. It was all about what I did in the U.S. and my address and she was relieved that I spoke Spanish.

She sent me to collect my bags and return with them so she could inspect them. My heart stopped again, until it looked like Waldo knew her and he was smoothing things over with her. The "inspection" was her just glancing at my bags and then handing me my passport back.

After what seemed like an eternity and a few more scares at the scales, I could see the doors that led to the outside. There was a wall of people that became a tunnel as we pushed the wheelchairs and carts of baggage out to where all kinds of family members were waiting with open arms to hug me and welcome me.

Only then, when the green I was seeing was from palm trees instead of uniforms, did I exhale. Only then did my fear start to fade away. But for the first two hours (yes, the whole process took two hours) of my arrival in Cuba, I was scared...and I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

 

Juicing It Up

Another posting about Kikita's adventures in Cuba written by none other than Kikita herself.

The one thing everyone told me before I left was "Don't drink the water!"

No water for a whole week? Well, not exactly. Just before boarding I bought two big bottles of water, but that was definitely not going to be sufficient hydration so I was forced to find other options. Obviously, I drank plenty of café and sometimes it was delicious and other times it wasn't. There was a type of soda called "Tu Kola" that I enjoyed, but I know that soda has salt in it and I was worried about hydration.

Thank goodness it wasn't too hot otherwise I have no idea what I would have done. When we went out to eat I ordered bottled sparkling water. Even so, I needed more.

One morning my cousin asked me if I would like some pineapple juice. I love pineapple juice. I most definitely wanted pineapple juice.

"Sí, gracias."

Next thing I knew, he had picked up a pineapple and was cutting it up.

 

He put the pineapple pieces in a blender and added the dreaded water along with what looked like a lot of sugar.

 Once it was blended, he pushed it through a colander in order to maximize the juice and minimize the pulp. 

He eventually put the juice back into the bottle that had once held the water and then began pouring glasses of the juice for breakfast.

 

It was the most delicious pineapple juice I've ever had in my life. In fact, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get the same enjoyment from bottled juice again.

Later that day. . . we found a man who was selling "guarapos." (Ok, it was an outdoor bar and he was selling a lot of other things too, but that's not important right now.)

I had already had a "guarapo" with my brother Adam at Cuba Nostalgia a couple of years ago so I knew the taste and couldn't wait to have one. What I didn't know was that I was going to get to participate in the making of the "guarapo."

First the bartender took his machete and scraped off the outer layer of the sugar cane.

 

Then he inserted it into the juicer . . .

And then it was my turn.

Oh yeah, hand-cranking. My brow started to sweat a bit, but "valio la pena" (it was worth the effort). 

 

Oh, and since rum is also made from sugar cane he may or may not have put some in mine. 

 

Hey, I wasn't drinking the water, just juice. ;-)

Las Terrazas

This is another Kikita post about her trip to Cuba.

Several years ago a cousin I had never met before was visiting from Cuba. Since he had never been to Las Vegas, Mami, Luza, my tia Helen, and I drove out there to meet him and then bring him back to California. It was a whirlwind adventure riddled with cucufates, but that is another story.

On the drive home from Las Vegas, this cousin asked us to play one of the cds he had brought from Cuba of a new up and coming singer called Polo Montañez. At the time, my spanish was nowhere near what it is today. Regardless, I was happy to oblige our guest and played the cd filled with classic Cuban sounds and words I did not fully comprehend. The drive from Vegas to my house on that Saturday night was about 4 to 5 hours so we listened to the cd several times over. There was one song inparticular that I found exceptionally moving despite not knowing all the words.

Beyond the classic sounds of Trío Matamoros and Celia Cruz, this song was the first new Cuban song I had heard from the island. The song was called "Un Montón de Estrellas" and it fast became one of my favorites. I remember the first time I heard it played at a salsa club a few years later, I couldn't stop the tears from rolling. 

The song remained close to my heart, but got pushed around by other songs and experiences and was soon forgotten (so to speak).

I had no idea what was in store for me as I was on my way to Pinar del Rio and my cousin took a turn towards a place called Las Terrazas.

 

It was breathtaking. I was speechless. I had never seen anything like it in my entire life.

My cousin kept going deeper and deeper into this jungle and I was beginning to wonder if we had arrived at Viñales because I really wasn't sure what I was looking for . . . and then I saw where we where headed.

 

 

I could not help but marvel at the small size of the home and tears came to my eyes when I looked and saw the sun shining on the unused instruments.

 

 

The moment I first walked inside "Un Montón de Estrellas" began playing as if to welcome my presence. It was one of those magical moments that brought tears to my eyes. I felt so lucky. So blessed. So in awe. I sent up a prayer of thanks and then let the music and the view wash over me.

 

"Que orgullo para el poeta
que viva en un pueblecito
el más aseado y bonito
que existe en este planeta
por eso hago esta letras
con ortografía escasa,
mientras más ligero pasa
el tiempo que va corriendo
más lindo se va poniendo
el pueblo de las Terrazas"

~ Polo Montañez

Lighting My Way

This is Kikita and I am giving you . . .

**Another Tissue Warning**

As I said before I left for Cuba, I went with no expectations. I went with an open heart and an open mind. I went with a mission. And I accomplished it. But what I didn't expect (literally) was to find Papi everywhere I went.

If I am going to be perfectly honest, I DID think that I would feel SOMETHING when I got that first glimpse of Cuba out of the plane window...

But I didn't.

On the way to Tio Timbiriche's house my eyes were more like saucers; I was just taking everything in.

 

After my primo and I rented a car, the real adventure began. I didn't have time to think. I just kept soaking everything in. There was one thought pressing on my mind though as I stood looking out at the Malecón and El Morro: Papi.

My abuelo, Papi, was an Electrical Engineer and he was out working on the lights for the Malecón when he and his crew were arrested, jailed, and some of them were killed the next morning. By some miracle, Papi was released. He left his homeland with the plan of being gone a few months and ended up never returning, until I brought him. I couldn't help but have a surge of pride that the lights Papi put up where still there.

I begged my cousin to bring me back when they were lit, and he did. I felt the internal click I had been waiting for. The warm lights gave me a sense of comfort and even a hope for the future of a coutry that is in so much turmoil and disarray.

 
 

After I accomplished my mission, I thought that would be the end of the Papi chapter of my trip, but that was not the case. Ask anyone who has made the trip from Havana to Varadero and they will tell you to do it in the daytime because it is one of the most beautiful things you will ever see. That had been my plan, but in the true spirit of embracing the moments as they came to me and in an orchestration of events that I think could only have come about through Divine Intervention, the sun had set by the time we reached the city limits of Havana and the street lights had been lit.

I had always known about Papi's lighting the Malecón, but it was all I'd ever known about his projects in Cuba. While I was marvelling at the uniqueness of the street lights, my cousin turned to me and told me that Papi had done those too. I had been marvelling at my abuelo and he was the one who was lighting the initial steps of my way to Varadero.

The plan had been to return from Varadero in the late afternoon of the next day. It didn't happen. We didn't leave Varadero until it was dark which meant we came home to Papi's lights. I can't even remember what ridiculous reason had us pulling over, but my cousin (who had no idea how much I was being affected by the lights) had stopped the car in the perfect place under one of Papi's works of art.

 

I saw and did an incredible amount of things in a short amount of time. I traversed three provinces in three days. I couldn't entirely comprehend why I was never too afraid, but I think it might have something to do with Papi being with me the whole time . . . lighting my way.

 

At the end of the day...

**Tissue Warning**

This is Kikita, back from her adventure in Cuba. I saw and did and felt so many things this past week that I am having a hard time deciding what I want to share first. 

I met cousins for the first time and hugged them as if I had known them my whole life. I was surrounded, overwhelmed even, with love. People I'd heard stories about, but never seen in person.

 

I held aunts and uncles that I hadn't seen in years.

I was treated like royalty visiting for a moment, but kissed on the cheek as if I had been there forever. I was served café at every turn, but I was allowed my turn to serve the café.

 

It is not a question of what I did or saw, it is a question of what I did NOT see or do.

And while I was buzzing all over the first three provinces of Cuba (Pinar del Rio, Habana, & Matanzas), there was another kind of buzzing going on at home. (Home being Tio Timbiriche's house.)

The kind of buzzing that happens when you haven't seen your brother or sister for 50 years.

 

My abuela, Luza, and her siblings did not stop talking and loving each other the whole trip. They did everything together. Every meal they ate together. There are thousands of things I saw this past week that touched my heart, but at the end of the day watching the five Perez-Puelles siblings interact was definitely one of the most amazing sites. I felt honored to be able to watch and listen. They talked about everything. They remembered old neighbors and things their mother used to cook and things their father used to say. They even sat around remembering old radio commercials and old inside jokes. One of my favorite moments was when they had a "whose granddaughter is the best cook?" discussion. ;-)

They barely touched on politics or the reasons why they stayed or left. They bickered as any set of siblings is wont to do, but at the end of the day the joy of being together was shining on all of their faces.

 

Yesterday, the day we left, their last breakfast together, my abuela read them the following poem and just as they had spent the whole week talking and laughing together they hugged and cried together.

    Quiero gozar cuanto pueda
y, con acierto y medida,
gastar moneda a moneda
el tesoro de la vida;

    mas no quiero ser jamás
como el que amontona el oro
y no goza del tesoro
por acrecentarlo más.

    Quiero gozar sin pasión,
esperar sin ansiedad,
sufrir con resignación,
morir con tranquilidad;

    que al llegar mi postrer día,
quiero pensar y decir:
"Viví como viviría
si ahora volviera a vivir.

    "Viví como un peregrino
que, olvidando sus dolores,
pasó cogiendo las flores
de los lados del camino;

    "cantando he dejado atrás
la vida que recorrí;
pedí poco y tuve más
de lo poco que pedí;

    "que si nadie me envidió
en el mundo necio y loco,
en ese mundo tampoco
tuve envidia a nadie yo".

    He resuelto despreciar
toda ambición desmedida
y no pedirle a la vida
lo que no me puede dar.

    He resuelto no correr
tras un bien que no me calma;
llevo un tesoro en el alma
que no lo quiero perder,

    y lo guardo porque espero
que he de morir confiado
en que se lo llevo entero
al Señor, que me lo ha dado.

        - José María Pemán

Keeping My Promise

I used to visit my parents at least once a week.

My dad was confined to a wheelchair and in his late 80's, but his brain was sharp as ever.

We would sit at their kitchen table and talk about anything, everything, and nothing. You know, like you do with the most familiar people in your life. Even though the kids would visit with me and be in and out of the room, he always asked very specifically about each one.

He was an avid reader and especially loved books about adventure. I mentioned that I was reading Treasure Island to Adam (who was young then and loved to be read to) and we both agreed that Robert Louis Stevenson was a genius.

It was in the midst of this discussion that he looked at me very seriously as if something had just occurred to him, and said, "I want you to do something for me."

Imagining it had to do with going to the store to buy him some fresh bread or some such errand, I quickly agreed. "Of course. What can I do for you?"

"There's a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson that I love. When I die, I want you to take my ashes back to Cuba and scatter them in Pinar del Rio. And read this poem."

I don't think I answered immediately. It was such a shocking request in the middle of what was otherwise an ordinary visit.

"You're serious?"

"Yes. And I know if you promise me, that you'll keep your promise."

"I promise."

He went on to tell me that he wished it could be when Cuba was free, but that he understood that might not be possible and to do what I could.

Then we resumed our conversation about books and the kids and I did go to the store for that fresh loaf of bread.

And I didn't think too much about that conversation, until he died six months later.

My mom would remind me occasionally of the promise I had made to Papi. And I kept trying, but I couldn't find a way to make it happen.

I had scheduled a trip in the spring of 2003 and two weeks before I was to leave, 75 dissidents were rounded up and imprisoned by the Castro thugs in Cuba. I canceled my trip. (That crackdown is referred to as The Black Spring.)

I was discouraged and I felt it would be impossible for me to keep my promise.

Ten long years now, Papi has been gone. His ashes sitting in the back of a closet.

But yesterday, against all odds, my daughter, Amy, made good on the promise I had made back in May of 1999. She went to Cuba. She took his ashes. She made her way to Pinar del Rio. To the beautiful land that saw his birth and where he lived for a half a century.

Yesterday, on March 3rd, 2010, my Papi was finally laid to rest in the Valley of Viñales. Amy will tell that story when she returns from Cuba next week.

 

But for now, I cried a bucketful of tears and I sighed a big sigh of relief. And I think, maybe, so did he.

I love you, Papi. Rest in peace.

Requiem
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This is the verse you grave for me:
'Here he lies where he longed to be;
Here is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Kikita and the Nonagenarians Go To Cuba

"Kikita and the Nonagenarians Go To Cuba" sounds like a good title for a band or a book, doesn't it?  

This is Kikita blogging from Miami. In a few hours I will be on a plane headed for Cuba, "mi patria." Not by myself, though. I'm taking TWO people over 90 years old. Yes, OVER 90. That is 90+.

First there is my abuela, Luza, who just turned 96 . . .

 

And then, there is her OLDER brother who is 99! Tio-abuelo Fernando (we call him Magoo - for obvious reasons) is the most stubborn independent person I know. He likes to do everything himself. He may use a walker, but the man can move quicker than you can say, "Vamonos."

 

I have a cousin who was born in the U.S., but lives in Cuba with his father, Timbiriche, and came specifically to help the "ñinos" and me make the 90 mile puddle jump. (And I was so thankful I wouldn't be in charge of them alone, until I remembered that this cousin was "tremendo" and is bringing a whole new set of stresses with him - along with a 32 inch plasma tv and a wheelchair, but that's not important right now.)

So this isn't exactly a "vacation." This is An Adventure. This is a A Journey. This is A Mission. 

This trip is so important for so many reasons I don't even know where to begin.

The five Perez-Puelles (which is my abuela's maiden name) siblings have not been under the same roof since Noche Buena 1960. Needless to say, this is A Major Event.

For that, I am a simple bystander. I am there to document the wonder that is my heritage.

My abuelo, Papi, asked that his ashes be scattered off the coast of Pinar del Rio, so I have worked incredibly hard in order to make that happen. He had originally asked Mami to do it, but she has passed that mantle of responsibility to me.

Despite the weight that has been placed on my shoulders, I'm walking tall with such an honor. I am going to see where my abuelo grew up. I am going to take my abuelo home.

Luza is not going to be able to make that particular portion of the trip with me because she will be busy with her siblings. The solemn task is mine alone. I think there is a quiet poetry in that because my abuelo was a quiet man who would sometimes seek the comfort of solitude.

Don't get me wrong, he had an amazing sense of humor and was quite a popular man, but there is no doubt he was also very private. Returning him home without a large audience feels appropriate.

 

This is A Historical Moment for my family so I am filled with a sense of purpose.

It is also a historical moment for me and I can't help but wonder how I am going to feel when I take those first steps off the plane, when I'm sitting on the Malecón, when I feel the Varadero sand beneath my feet, when I see my family's old house on Avenida de la Loma . . .

I am going to try to see as much as I can, to celebrate life, to be in the moment, to document as much as I can and roll with whatever comes my way. I have no expectations. I have only my camera, my suitcase, and two 90+ year old Cubans. 

¡Que Dios me cuide!

UPDATE 3/1/2010: I received an email from Amy this afternoon:

We're here. We're safe. Everyone is happy. Don't worry. I LOVE YOU! Send love to my hermanos and my dad. My eyes are bugged out. I am exhausted, but it's good. Everyone has been super sweet y atentivo. I can't wait to tell you all about it. :-)

Marta here: I might be able to sleep tonight. *heavy sigh*

Kikita and the Ashes Go To Cuba

(I, Kikita, wrote this post.)

If you're Cuban (or any other type of Latino) I'm sure you know about New Year's Eve Traditions.

This year I decided that, since I was now 26, I would do things MY way. First, I did all of the classic traditions on Miami time. When it was midnight in Miami (9pm here) I was listening to a Cuban song, eating my grapes, toasting the New Year (which is always "El año que viene, estamos en Cuba" - "Next year, in Cuba"), running money out to the mailbox, dumping the water and leaving my suitcase outside. 

At midnight California time I was out salsa dancing.

The whole night felt magical.
Two weeks later, I get a call from my grandmother.

"Kikita, quieres acompañarme a Cuba?"

(Kiki, would you like to accompany me to Cuba?)

That is where it started.

For as long as I can remember, I have been dying to know in person the "patria" that I hold in my heart, but I am also desperate to see that land free.

Abuela's invitation had stirred up some very deep things for me.

The last time I had talked to Tio Timbiriche he asked me when I was coming to Cuba. Without giving it much thought, I told him "before I turn 27." (I was 25 at the time and there was no real chance of me getting there anytime soon.)

I will be 27 in June.

How I finally made my decision was I realized that a quintessential part of being Cuban is that we put family first. I couldn't very well tell my Abuela (who will be 96 on February 23rd) that she and her siblings would never be under the same roof again because my politics were against it. Politics before family?

Maybe in some cases, but not this one.

Her OLDER brother (Tio-Abuelo Fernando) will be 99 in May and he is going. They have 3 younger siblings in Cuba whose ages are: 93, 90, & 87.

If the nonagenarians are up for it, how can I not be? =D

My big, fat Cuban family has been very supportive of my trip, for which I am incredibly thankful.

I bought tickets for Abuela and me to go to Miami where we'll stay for a few days before we leave for Cuba.

 

Just as I was getting used to the idea of traveling to Cuba with Abuela and Tio-abuelo Fernando, I realized there would be one other person traveling with us . . . Papi.
Do you know the amount of paperwork involved with transporting ashes to Cuba? Neither did I.

There is no doubt that this trip is going to be incredibly emotional, but I'm saving that. Right now, I have been just taking care of business. I've had to stay detached in order to get everything done. So, please forgive my seeming irreverence when I describe what happened next . . .

I was trying to be sensitive to Mami and my tias when it came to discussing specifics so I was doing as much as I could without them.

Finally, I told my Dad, "I don't want to bug, Mami, but I'd feel better if I had Papi's ashes at my house. I'd hate to be doing all this work and then not know where he is . . . I would look for them myself, but I have no idea where to start or what they look like. I never saw them and it's been 10 years."

Dad is so helpful. I really am grateful for him. He said he knew exactly where to look and as soon as we had gotten my car smogged and bought me a color printer, he'd find them for me.

I was installing the software for the printer while Dad was looking in the hall closet where holiday decorations, cleaning supplies, extra toilet paper and lots of extra silverware are usually kept. I heard him make a sound that rang of "I think I found it!" He carefully and solemnly brought the white box to the table, opened it, and pulled out . . . a ceramic pumpkin???

A Halloween decoration instead of ashes. How ironic and absolutely hilarious.

He continued his search and came out with another white box.

 

We were both much less serious about the whole thing. I did the honors this time and found a tin and inside the tin . . . "Ok, 1 dead Papi. Perfect. Thank you. Can you put my printer in my car?"

 

Tomorrow, Saturday, February 13th is Papi's 99th birthday.

It will also be the 49th year of my family's exile from Cuba.

Somehow, I have been honored with the task of taking the exiles home.

  

We leave for Miami on February 24th, the day after Abuela's 96th birthday. We leave for Cuba on March 1st. We get back to Miami on March 8th and we'll be back in California on March 10th.

Yes, I will take pictures. Yes, I will tell you all about it.

Yes, I am a little nervous. Yes, I am extremely excited. 

And, yes, I can't quite believe it either.

Felicidades, Papi, and Happy Valentine's Day.