Hotel Havana

Almost four generations later, we landed in Havana, Cuba... an island beloved by many, including us, like my great-grandparents, who had to flee, leaving behind a dream, family, the sea, the sand... and the beautiful sunsets. And there I was, breathing in the sea air my Toya, as I called my great-grandmother, had spoken of so much, listening to the birds singing, seeing the warm smiles and tearful eyes of freedom, and hearing a "welcome" from the immigration officer. "Are you Cuban?" he asked afterward. Perhaps my grandmother was right, and it was something that simply showed on our faces, a sign that screamed "Caribbean!" "Yes," my husband, a descendant of immigrants, persecuted and harassed, responded. We weren't Cuban; it had been four generations for me, two for him. But in our hearts, we were. Every time I danced salsa in the kitchen or when my husband greeted his friends with a hug and "Asere que bolá." "Welcome home then, coño." And I smiled because it didn't sound offensive; it was a reaffirmation. We could finally return home. The regime had fallen, the dictators had stepped down, and at last, those airport halls were not filled with Cubans fleeing, but with Cubans returning to their island to rebuild it. My home, my free home. Finally. We went outside; people greeted each other, smiling, families reuniting after seventy years. Most didn't recognize those relatives who claimed to be cousins, uncles, the lost brother of their father who had to flee after being imprisoned, just like my grandfather. I didn't know those streets, but I felt them as my own. My spirit finally felt at home. We were in the car, heading to Hotel Havana, one that was destroyed, first taken from my ancestors by a corrupt government, then left to ruin by the same. Rodrigo and I stood in front of the ruins of what was once a majestic hotel, a club where the most important figures of society would gather. It was also a refuge for so-called "opponents" and "rebels." Rodrigo placed a hand on my shoulder, and I rested my head on him, as I had done for the past six years. We had a giant to conquer ahead of us. "Look on the bright side, the Havana has returned to its original owners." I clutched the urn with my grandmother's ashes, the same one who had longed to return but couldn't, who wasn't allowed to. Nor her mother before her, who was stripped of her right to be Cuban, her citizenship taken away. "I am Cuban; no one can take that from me, never, it's my birthright," she would repeat at every family dinner where it was jokingly mentioned that she was more American than Cuban. And one day, her eyes closed, and she never saw a sunset on her beloved island again. "We'll never know what would have become of Havana, of all of us if those scoundrels hadn't taken over the government." His fingers tightened on my shoulder, a comfort. "Let's not think about that." But we looked around, and after all the initial excitement, I saw a country in ruins, in debris, and citizens wondering how to rebuild everything, without money. But with hope, one that had been lost for a long time. He and I had come to rebuild the hotel, to rebuild the history, and to write a new one for the future. Sometimes I think of my great-grandmother, when she was just a young girl of 20, walking through those streets that still retained their splendor, full of shops, restaurants, businesses of all kinds. I imagine her in the ballrooms, in the lobby of the hotel that once belonged to her family, perhaps welcoming new guests. I picture her as she looked in a photo from that old album, in a red dress, her curls loose, and a small sunflower in her ear. Sitting on the edge of a chair in her father's study, with a hand on his shoulder, while on the other side, her brother Antonio held a puppy. They smiled and were happy. And a year later, everything went awry. And now, we, the descendants of those who fought, who were exiled, had returned to rebuild what remained.