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This webpage is about
the first 13 years
of my life in Havana,
Cuba and my recent
trip to revisit
that long ago life
through the lens
of my adult eyes
as an American
woman. It is meant
not only as a reminder
of the November
22 to 26, 2004
trip, but also
as a type of record
for my grandchildren
to someday have
about my childhood.
I
arrived in the
US on December 26,
1960 as a scared & introverted
13 year old with
my 8 year old
sister in tow,
whom I had not
yet learned to appreciate.
Until that day,
I had never slept
overnight anywhere
but at my parents’ house
and those of
my grandparents.
As Carlos Eire
so aptly put
it in his book, Waiting
for Snow in Havana,
December 26,
1960 was for
me the day the
world changed.
I had enjoyed
a near mythic
childhood as
the cossetted
first daughter
of a busy gastroenterologist
father, René Andrés,
and a stay-at-home
mother, Alicia Mercedes.
I lived all 13 years
of my life in Cuba
at the same house
in Miramar, a suburb
on the west side
of the Almendares
river from the city
of Havana. As it
was for most privileged
Cuban children of
the vast upper middle
class, my life revolved
around my extended
family, my Catholic
girls' school,
and our country club,
the Habana Yacht
Club. Of all the
interesting characters
that populated my
childhood, two of
my favorites were
my maternal grandparents,
Pablo, a criollo and
María
a peninsular.
As the first of their
12 grandchildren,
I enjoyed the constant
presence of my cousins,
aunts and uncles,
and the inviolable
Sunday lunch at abuelos'.
Whenever I had a
hurt to get over,
I would bike the
10 blocks east on
3rd Avenue to take
refuge at abuelo
and abuela’s;
whenever I had a
problem to mull over
I would walk one
block to the sea
at 1st Avenue.
Without disrespect for the previous generation and those of mine who refuse to set foot on the land of our birth until the actual fall of the oldest living dictator (not his recent widely reported physical fall), I am about to embark in time travel by returning to my native Havana for a few days. Why? Having been put on a plane one day without much warning or explanation (how could my parents and so many other parents of their generation do that, I have always wondered?), at my current age of 57 I have a strong need to return and put that mythical time in its rightful place by revisiting my early haunts with adult eyes. Will revisiting be sad and tragic? No doubt. Will it depress me? Probably. But after 44 years, the time has come for me to make peace with my youth, which has been frozen in time. I am going to find something or to lose something, only time will tell. Right or wrong, Cuba to me represents only my childhood, not the political aberration that it is in the eyes of most of the world. If you are still reading this preface and I have not offended you, view the photos I will have taken during my revisit, and finally read the postcript to find out the result of my quest. If perchance my words and images spark your interest in the subject of the tumultuous history of Cuba since it's independence from Spain in 1898, or if you wish to follow my footsteps to the forbidden land, check out the links I have provided. They will help put it all in context, I hope. Finally, many thanks to the charitable foundation whose treasury license to take medicines to Cuba legally allowed me and my husband of 37 years, Mauricio, who accompanied me so I could complete my quest knowing that his beloved Belen Jesuit school and Miramar Yacht Club will be off limits, as they have both become military installations. You can find him in his youth as a swimmer by clicking Deportes. Wish
us well.
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