Dear Cuba:
I am writing you to fill you in with how things are going now that I'm back in New York City. I haven't been able to concentrate at work for these past two days. New York was able to exhaust me before arriving at my desk at 9 am this morning; my coffee is too watery, and your haunting memories are lingering fresh in my head. I'm miserable.
I always fantasized about getting to know you and feeling how you inspired much of Silvio Rodriguez's songs, of asking you how it felt to be showered by Fidel's fervent speeches, and how you managed to procreate such fascinating, smart and lively people. But I never expected your grip to be so powerful.I miss you.
As I took the subway this morning, my body was leaning on the wagon's wall, hands grabbing the metallic pole, but my mind was miles away across the Caribbean Sea, deep in the heart of Central Havana. I close my eyes and I am playing a Son Guajiro in Cayo Hueso, with that charming old man I met...remember? I am tasting the warm guava pies, the sweet pineapples taken from your soil, and the cold bucaneros we shared every day. As the subway enters the tunnel and rapidly rocks my body back and forth, I am dancing Rumba en el Callejón de Hamel, to the vibrating hot sounds of the Batá, sweat dripping down my forehead, surrounded by Yemayá(with her lovely blue dress) and Changó with his axe.
It's finally summer in New York City, and the newfound sweltering heat outside contrasts the coldness of my subway car. As the chilly, fake breeze travels down my arms, my eyes still closed, I am sitting in El Malecón, my hair blown back by the misty, salty breeze of the ocean. I hear the splatter of kids jumping from the rocks and hitting the water, I hear their laughs, their Piropos and "el cantaito" of their Cuban accent. They are all so present in their moment, enjoying the water, talking to each other, eyeing the pretty ladies that walk by. I open my eyes, looking to find some of that warmth around me, and everyone in the subway is lifeless, with their pretty clothes and their eyes fixed on their smartphones. You can't talk to New Yorkers when you please, especially before their coffee in the morning. I miss you.
Something magic and indescribable happened to me when I met you. I experienced your joy and your struggle, I had intense conversations with your people and felt both their tiredness and their passion for the socialist ideal; stripped of material commodities, I sensed something primal in your people, an authentic, intoxicating love of life that inspired me and made me walk light as a feather. What is it about you Cuba? Words fail me, I can't describe it...but I feel you and I get you.
As I hear the subway conductor announce my stop approaching, I don't want to open my eyes, I don't want to take my feet off your fertile land, I don't want to get sucked in the rapidness of the city, I don't want to stop tasting the sweet buzz of your rum and sugar cane, I don't want to live my life without the magic and inspiration you provided. I open my eyes and my stop is here...how do I continue life after knowing you and savoring you? How do I conceive of myself in this place now that I have you inside of me, like a lover unwilling to go away. Cuba, ¿Dónde pongo lo hallado?
