Forbidden Country: My solo vacation to Cuba

I spent a day in Santiago de Cuba and three days in Havana. The trip was both illuminating and invigorating.

After President Barack Obama modified U.S.-Cuban travel regulations in 2014, allowing for independent travel to Cuba, I watched with envy as friends and celebrities flocked to Cuba and posted colorful photos of themselves next to shiny convertibles with fat cigars poking from their lips.

But I could never find anyone who was able and willing to travel to Cuba at the same time as me. Fortified by the success of my solo trip to New York, I decided to go by myself.

Planning
I started to do my research and stumbled upon a company called ViaHero which allows travelers to hire locals to plan their personalized trip. You can choose your Hero personally and, after looking through a few profiles, I chose Karlita as my Hero in July.

I have mixed feelings about my ViaHero experience. On the one hand, the ViaHero reviews for Karla are accurate. One reviewer writes that “Karla provided lackluster communication throughout the experience,” another that “The plan was very basic, and I received slow or no responses to very direct questions.” On the other hand, the internet in Cuba really is as bad they, which likely contributes to the lag in communication. Additionally, I was not an easy costumer.

Literal moments after Karla accepted my trip on ViaHero, she sent an email urging me to abandon my desire to visit Santiago de Cuba and Havana in the same trip, arguing that the two cities were too far apart and transportation options were limited. But I was unwilling to abandon the idea, fascinated by Anthony Bourdain’s portrayal of the richly Afro-Cuban city.  Immovable, I told Karla “I could spend a few days in Havana, fly to Holguín and bus to Santiago de Cuba. Could this work?”

It would not work.

 Over the next three weeks (July 13th to August 12th), Karla and I emailed back and forth about flights since she would need my flight information to start building my trip.

In the end, I purchased a flight to Holguín, endured a nearly 5-hour bus ride to Santiago, and spent one day there. I would then take the bus back to Holguín, fly from Holguín to Havana, and spend three days in Havana.

After I booked my transportation, Karla was able to build and send my preliminary itinerary by late September. I also added three AirBnB experiences to my plans. However, she would not send my finalized itinerary, personalized guidebook and custom map until November 13th, only four days before my trip.

Preparing
Much to my family’s annoyance, I didn’t actually start preparing this trip until the day before. I hadn’t yet reviewed the finalized itinerary that Karla provided. I sat down the morning of my flight and reviewed it in its entirety, made a few last minute edits, added the contact information for both my Airbnb hosts and sent the final version to my Mom.  

I also went shopping for new outfits and vacation-worthy shoes the day before the flight and spent the morning of packing and cleaning my apartment.  Around noon, I drove in the direction of George Bush Intercontinental Airport, leaving my car in the pre-payed parking spot I bought on SpotHero ($35) and took the shuttle to the airport.

Layover in Miami
My flight to Miami was uneventful, but I had a 15-hour layover before my flight to Holguín. Once I landed at MIA, I bought a Lonely Planet Country Guide as well as a Spanish Phrasebook & Dictionary from BookLink then took a Lyft share to the hotel where I’d stay for the night.

I had intentionally booked a cheap hotel because my stay would be so short. But my frugality would be costlier than I thought. When the Lfyt driver pulled up to the janky Roadway Inn about 15 minutes from the airport, there was an armed security guard posted at the door. He asked if I was checking in before using his key card to open the automatic doors.

The guy at the desk was very mannerable and soft-spoken, but I could see the video surveillance monitors behind him. After checking in, I went to my room, kept my eyes low and didn’t come out until after I’d requested my Lyft the next morning.

¡Bienvenido a Cuba!
There were butterflies in my heart when my plane touched down in Holguín. Here it was! Cuba!

We exited from the rear of the plane and stepped directly onto the runway. Then, we walked to the airport building and joined the passport control lines. I remember feeling nervous as I entered the passport booth. Would they scrutinize my passport more closely because I was an American? What if I’d unknowingly made an error while filling out my visa? Would they make me buy a new one?

Once I made it to the booth though, the customs officer quickly looked over my passport and visa. She asked if I’d ever been to Brazil, took my picture and waved me through to customs. She also stamped my passport, something my Airbnb hosts said passport agents don’t usually do for Americans!

My next step was to exchange the Euros I’d gotten from the Miami currency exchange for Cuban CUC$. The lady at currency exchange didn’t speak much English, and my math skills are bad in English let alone Spanish. She patiently explained to me that she could not exchange the 4-pound coins I had, nor the 50€ bills with pen marks on them. I would end up exchanging 520 Euros for $572.55 CUC; saving the 54 Euros.

There are two currencies in Cuba: CUC$ (Cuban convertible pesos) and CUP$ (Cuban pesos). While in Santiago, I would end up getting change in CUP$. Then, in Havana, the guide for my culture walk would tell us that tourists can save money by requesting CUP$ instead of CUC$ and save money by paying for things in CUP$. Basically, people assume that you are wealthy when you have CUC$ and, therefore, they (may) charge you a bit more. But if you have CUP$, the guide said, you are likely to get things for a fairer price.

After exchanging my money, I hailed a taxi from the airport to a local restaurant and then from the restaurant to the ETECSA office to purchase a Cuban SIM card for my phone. After that, I read in the park for a while before taking a taxi to the Viazul station to catch the bus to Santiago.

The Wheels on the Bus

The bus was late, and what was supposed to have been a 5 p.m. departure ended up being a 6:45 p.m. departure. I loaded the bus and slept for much of the ride, trying to ignore a headache. I remember feeling unsafe for much of the bus ride. The road seemed bumpy and much too narrow. The bus jerked often and even stalled at one point, but eventually, we made it to our destination.

I would arrive in Santiago around 10 p.m. and a street taxi (think Lyft but without the app) would take me from the Viazul station to my casa particular where my hosts were waiting. Though I wanted nothing more than to shower and sleep, I would politely take a tea while my hosts, Giovanni and his wife Niurkis, registered my lodging.

After they’d gotten the information they needed from my passport, commenting on the Cuba stamp on one of its pages, I delightfully scurried off to the shower. Unfortunately, there was no hot water.

Santiago is a poorer city than Havana and lesser known to tourists. For these reasons, there were generally fewer luxuries and amenities in Santiago than Havana. There was a mounted, rotating fan in my room as well as a through-the-wall AC unit, which was a bit of an adjustment given how hot Cuba is. Still, I thoroughly enjoyed my stay with Giovanni and Niurkis. They are warm, kind, and wonderful people and they were very helpful during my short stay.

Santiago!
I woke up the next morning around 9 a.m. and ate breakfast at the casa. My next order of business? Buy an internet card. I went about half a block from my casa and met the kindest, sweetest bicycle taxi ever—Moses. He rode me through the slopping streets of Santiago to the ETECSA office.

In Cuba, few people have wifi but there is access to public internet in many of the parks and plazas. Tourists can purchase an ETECSA wifi card, one hour of internet for 1 CUC$ or 5 hours for 5 CUC$. Each card has a login number and numerical password on the back. After I purchased two hours of internet, Moses took me to Parque Céspedes where I could use it.

I stayed briefly, just long enough to send an email to my family, before dutifully taking a taxi to the next location on my itinerary: Plaza de Libertad or Plaza de Marte. If anyone recommends you go to Plaza de Marte, skip it. The Plaza is a beautifully landscaped courtyard surrounded by a handful of shops. But the shops were more like groceries or home furnishing stores than tourist destinations. I quickly got bored and began walking in the direction of Paraíso street in search of sunglasses.

Walking the streets of Santiago was a lot of fun. There was music coming from apartments and cars, well-dressed men and women walking up and down the street, older people sitting in the shade with friends. I got thirsty in the heat of the day, so I stopped at a juice stand where I paid 1 CUC$ for a cup of juice and received change in Cuban pesos. I also saw people selling leather goods, clothes, and trinkets nearby, so I stopped into a few of those shops hoping to find a pair of sunglasses. No luck. I eventually found a pair of shades in a Panamericanas store after walking around for nearly an hour.

I walked back to the main square and hailed a street taxi to Santa Ifigenia Cemetery. As I walked up the picturesque drive of burial grounds, I was stopped by a security guard.  The cemetery guards had just begun their guard-changing ceremony at the 1 o'clock hour. The security guard explained to me that the ceremony was performed each hour to honor and commemorate Jose Martí.

Martí was a leader of the Cuban independence movement from Spain as well as a renowned poet and writer. His tomb sits near the entrance of Santa Ifigenia Cemetery. It is a large hexagonal tower which allows Martí’s coffin to receive sunlight.

Every hour, the guard told me, military guards perform a shift-changing ceremony wherein they goose-step to the tune of somber music and take up guard at Marti’s mausoleum, Fidel Castro’s ashes, and the tomb of another hero buried in the cemetery. As I stood next to him, watching the ceremony for afar, he would periodically wave down other tourists trying to enter the grounds. Once the ceremony ended, we were all allowed to cross the street and enter the historic resting place.

The Cemetery itself was beautiful and I was able to recognize some of the names on the headstones and monuments. But, in general, neither my Spanish nor my knowledge of Cuban culture and history were adequate enough for the experience to be truly meaningful. I was curious, but I would love to go back and learn more about the history of the cemetery.

I made a lap of the premises, then returned to the parking lot where my street taxi was waiting. “Where to?” he asked. I didn’t know. I had three items left on my agenda, but plenty of hours left in the day. It was only 2 p.m. I asked him to take me near Patio de ARTex, a bar with live music that I’d found on the Cuba Travel app. The bar was mostly empty except for the band setting up, the bartender and four European tourists.  

Ordering a drink was an experience. In the U.S. I have three staple drinks I know I can order at any bar—a tequila sunrise, a water moccasin if I want some brown, or the house red if I’m in a chill, sophisticated mood. My Spanish reading skills weren’t strong enough to for me to decipher the menu and I hadn’t done any research on popular Cuban drinks.

Thankfully, one of the European women came to the bar and ordered a drink that looked pretty good, a Cuba Libre the bartender explained—rum and coke with a splash of lime juice. I’d have one of those, I said. But when I went to pay, I gave the bartender CUC$ instead of pesos. Thankfully, he didn’t rip me off. He gave me my CUC$ back and helped me distinguish between my pesos and CUC$. After he explained, he made me count out the correct number of pesos, for practice. I happily collected myself and my drink and went to listen to the band play.

I would rest there for maybe 45 minutes. I ordered a second drink, gave my feet a break and tried to decide what I could fit into the rest of the day. Casa de Diego Velázquez ($2 CUC), said to be the oldest house in Cuba, was only about a block away. I decided that I would go there and then head over to La Fabada de Marieta where Karla suggested I have dinner.

I got up to leave the bar, waved goodbye to the bartender, and began walking in the direction of the museum. On the way, a young man tried to talk to me on a “you’re beautiful” type vibe. I thought nothing of it, said I was in a rush, and continued my tipsy walk toward the museum.

Coincidently, as I arrived so did a group of French tourists and their tour guide. It was a strange experience, listening to the Cuban docent describe the historical significance of the items in the house, working hard to translate each word in my brain, then hearing the French tour guide translate for her group.

The house was breathtaking with its carved cedar ceilings, a courtyard in the middle, some of the original furniture as well as old paintings and artwork.

I left the museum feeling delightfully cultured. But I began my walk to La Fabada, I ran into the same young man from earlier, in the same spot. He began walking beside me, with his friend, asking where I was going and who I was. I told him that I was going to eat dinner and that I was American. He was surprised by this, saying he did not think Americans were allowed in Cuba, but that he had a friend who lived in Boston. I pretended to be interested and, as we approached the restaurant, said it was nice to meet him, hoping that he would go away.

I entered La Fabada, which was totally empty. I ordered a Pina Colada, a dish with shrimp and rice, and a cheese plate. Nothing happened while I was there. There was no music, no band. I ate in solitude and wrote a note to send to my boyfriend later. I got up feeling full and happy, and a little bored.

As I was leaving, I spotted our mystery man and his friend sitting across the street from the restaurant. I honestly cannot remember his name. Julius maybe? Juli..an? Something like that. We’ll call him Julius. Julius was like something sticky that just wouldn’t blow off. But I never explicitly told him to go away, in part because I didn’t want to seem rude and in part because I’d spent the entire day alone.  This is dangerous. I should not have allowed it and, if you ever travel alone, neither should you.

But when Julius asked me where I was going, I told him I was headed back to Patio de ARTex, hoping that it had gotten busier since nightfall. I did not stop him from following me. He was the annoying type of person who would not stop talking even though there was an obvious language barrier between us. We stayed at the bar for a bit, where he tried to teach me to salsa. Much to his frustration, I was a terrible student mostly because of how horribly tense I was. After about an hour of that, we went to go get a coffee from a shop around the corner. While we were there, Julius talked with me about being Afro-Cuban as well as Santorini, and he showed me some videos of him dancing at various ceremonies.

I listened and nodded politely, and yawned in an exaggerated manner. Once I finished my coffee, I announced that I was tired and wanted to return to my casa. Julius, of course, insisted on walking me. On the way there, he asked why I wouldn’t talk to him. I told him that my Spanish wasn’t very good and it was hard to keep up with the conversation. He insisted that that shouldn’t matter.  Finally, we approached the steps of my casa and I gladly waved goodbye to my unwelcome companion.  

The View from my Window
Niurkis and Giovanni arranged for an early morning taxi to drive me back to the Viazul station at 6 AM the next morning. The driver was very nice, giving me cross-cheek smooches at the station and staying until I made it inside. The morning drive to Holguín was beautiful. I slept and read intermittently as the countryside rolled by. Through my window I saw families in small houses hanging their laundry, two men on horseback riding into a field (presumably part of a farm), rolling hills, and the beautiful view of a bridge over a river.

I don’t know the name of this river, but I’m glad I got to cross it.

The bus ride back to Holguín, in the light of day, with the slight murmur of other people talking or reading, was much better than the dark and delayed trip to Santiago. Still, once we arrived in Holguín, I was hungry and tired. I knew from my first time at the Viazul station that the ticket attendant spoke English very well. It was my intention to ask her for a recommendation on where I should eat breakfast. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one vying for her attention. Eventually, I grew impatient and sequestered the services of one of the vulture taxis in the lobby.

Now, before I'd left the states, I read an article advising tourists not to take unsolicited recommendations from strangers especially in touristy areas because the person giving the recommendation was likely looking for a commission. But I was so hungry and tired that I was willing to chance it, looking for the least aggressive of the men calling "Taxi?" to every passerby. I made my choice and explained to him that I didn't have any particular destination. I just wanted breakfast.

The Terrors of Holguín
The “driver” eagerly guided me towards a stand tucked behind the bus station. I’d hoped to find a nice, relaxing place to enjoy a Cuban breakfast and kill some time before my 6 p.m. flight to Havana. This stand was none of those things. For starters, they had stopped serving breakfast and instead gave me a plate of rice, cucumbers and a greasy pork chop. Secondly, all of their tables were outside, which meant fighting flies while picking at the food I didn’t want to eat.

I politely pretended to eat for a few minutes before deciding to leave. I didn’t want to pay the excessive 30 CUC$ for the disappointing meal, but I didn’t want to cause a scene either. Annoyed, I asked to taxi to take me to Parque Calixto Garcia where I had waited when I was in Holguín two days prior. This man had to ask a driver to take us because he wasn’t an actual taxi. Of course, I was livid, more so with myself than anyone else, but I figured that after the 10-minute ride to the park I could be free of them both.

Once we arrived at the park, I got out of the car and stepped to the curb so that someone could take my suitcase out of the truck. Instead, the driver road away, leaving me alone on the curb. Shocked, I ran to flag them down, the driver stopped, and his sidekick hopped out and came to where I was.

“I wanted my stuff back,” I said.

“Oh, we will hold onto it and then come to take you to the airport around 3 p.m.,” he explained. “Absolutely not,” I said, he had not discussed this with me. I wanted my stuff back.

“It’s okay,” he insisted. It was not okay. I wanted my stuff back. I wanted to be done with this whole ordeal. He scoffed away angrily and fetched my bag from the trunk of the car. 20CUC$ for the taxi and 10 CUC$ for his commission. I handed him 20 CUC$. His eyes widened and he pled for his commission.

“No," I stated plainly and rolled away.

The square was much busier on Tuesday that it had been on Sunday. All the shops were open, both the square and the streets were busy. I had to scour the square the find a shady place to sit. I sat in the park and sent emails to my family and read for a few minutes. But then I got hungry. I saw a stand selling churros and so I went over there. I bought the best, warmest, most delicious churro of my life for 25 cents (CUC$). I ate my churro, still tugging at my suitcase and looked for a place to eat lunch.

I eventually chose a quiet restaurant on Bulevar de Holguín.  Had I consulted my guidebook, I might have discovered that the celebrated Salón 1720 was less than a block away. Instead, I was seated at a back table near the restroom and ordered the chicken and plantains platter. It took my food a long time to arrive, but I didn’t make a fuss because I wasn’t in a hurry. I ordered a coke to drink, read, and sipped from the bottled water I’d bought.

Eventually, my food arrived. The plantains were delicious, but the chicken was greasy and still a little pink. Tired and frustrated I ate my plantains and left the chicken on the plate. My waitress, who was not very attentive, came over about 15 minutes later. I ordered a coffee and asked for the check. So, she brings me my coffee and the check. I place my money in the holder and wait for my change. Tell me why, after providing the worst service in the world, this woman brought me my change and then counted out her own tip without asking? She took 3 CUC$ which translates 130 pesos. At this point, even though it wasn’t quite 3 p.m. I was ret’ ta go! I finished my coffee, left the restaurant, and immediately hailed a taxi to the airport.

I was done with Holguín.

Cubana de Aviacion
I was relieved to arrive at the airport, even though my flight wouldn’t leave for another three hours. If there was anything I learned how to do in those first few days, it was how to wait. The airport was calm, though a little warm. A few families were also waiting for the check-in line to open. So I read until the check-in opened at 4 p.m. and everyone was allowed upstairs. It was nice to watch the sunset from the upstairs window.

The flight was relatively short and uneventful, though I remember it being unusually cold. However, Jorge, my tour guide for the culture walk in Havana, seemed surprised that I was able to find a flight at all, commenting that Cubana had been offering fewer flights since one of their planes exploded in May.

Welcome to Havana  
My plane touched down at José Marti International Airport airport at 8:30 p.m. that night. I had sent a message to my Airbnb host, Alina, earlier in the week to arrange for a taxi to pick me up from the airport.  I waited for my suitcase at baggage claim, then pushed past the taxi drivers standing outside the door until I spotted an older man holding up a piece of paper with my name on it.

The drive to the casa was serine, though it was obvious that the driver was just as I was. We arrived and Alina ushered us both upstairs and made us both a coffee. She asked for my passport to register my lodging while I paid the driver.

After he left, she showed me to my room, which had its own balcony and restroom. She explained that breakfast was served in the morning and showed me the menu, but I would be gone before breakfast most mornings. We said goodnight and I went to take a shower, absolutely delighted to discover that there was hot water in Havana.

Canasí by day
I woke up early the next morning and crept out of the house around 6:30 a.m. I would walk a little less than two miles, straight down Calle 21 to Parque Victor Hugo where I met up with tour guides Gabriele and Daniella. When I approached the park, I saw other American tourists waiting as well—an older couple from California and their adult children who lived in Arizona, as well as a couple from Texas. A bit later, a college student from Columbia also joined our party.

Our drivers rode up, one in a blue Jeep wagon and another in a red 1950s Jeep. The family climbed into the blue jeep and the rest of us, including Gabriele and Daniella, jumped into the red jeep. We passed the Spanish forts as we headed east, out of Havana and on to Canasí.

Except for the parents, the entire tour group was pretty young, the guy from Texas was 28 and Maria, the student from Columbia was 21. The rest of us landed somewhere between the two.  I was the only black tourist in the group, but I didn’t feel that way. Daniella and Maria were both interesting to talk to and for most of the experience, the three of us walked together.

After about 20 to 30 minutes of driving, we stopped at a roadside stand for some jamón sandwiches, which were delicious, and coffee. The ladies running the stand were very nice and served us a second small cup of coffee before we climbed back into our trucks.  

From left to right: My selfie at the Pan con Lechon roadside breakfast stand; One of the Spanish forts in Havana as viewed from my car window; Gabriele picking out the avocados for lunch!

We rode a few minutes more and stopped at a roadside market where Gabriele bought the avocados we would eat at lunch. The market was also a good place to comparatively see the difference between CUC$ and CUP$ because every product was double labeled—12 CUC$, 300 CUP$.  

From there, we would travel into Canasí, park the Jeeps at a small house and walk down to the water. We cross the river, climb up a little, and hike to a very short cliff. As we walked, Gabriele told us about some of the local plants and trees and their various magical and medicinal uses. A few of us tasted some termites which were on one of the trees.  Once we arrived at the cliff, we all jumped into the ocean. The water was cold even though the temperature was in the 70s, but we quickly adjusted. We swam into a little cove beneath the cliff and eventually climbed back up the hill for lunch.

For lunch, we ate chicken and rice with sweet potato and avocado. We had rum and coke to drink and some of the guys smoked their complimentary cigars. This was one of the best meals I had during my trip, though I should note that the food in Havana was generally better than anything I ate in Santiago or Holguín.

After we’d eaten, we went down to the beach and some of the other tourists went further out to snorkel around a coral reef and look at the fish. I am not a very strong swimmer, so I stayed on the beach.  After about 30 minutes we walked back to the tiny house, put on dry clothes and sat in the sun until the jeeps came back for us.

On the drive back to Havana, we rode in the same groups, playing Spanish hits and American top 40 in our jeep, all of us singing along. The driver was able to drop me off near my Airbnb and I quickly scurried inside to shower and change clothes. I had to meet Gretel for my Centro Habana Tour in less than an hour.

Old Havana by night
Karla, my ViaHero, had arranged for me to take the Centro Habana Tour with Gretel, a kind, mellow, redheaded woman. We met at Cathedral Square at 4:30 p.m. and she began the tour by explaining to me the history and significance of the square. The square, she explained, was one of four squares in Old Havana, all built at different times, for different reasons.

From there, we walked to the other three squares in Old Havana, Gretel explaining the history of the buildings and neighborhood along the way. I learned from Gretel that the U.S. had briefly controlled Cuba from 1899 to 1902 as part of the Treaty of Paris ending the Spanish-American War. She also told me the story of La Giraldilla, the figure that sits at the top of Castillo de la Real Fuerza, modeled after the wife of a naval captain whose husband died in battle.

Once we’d walked to Parque Cervantes, I paid her for the tour (100 CUC$) and we parted ways. I went back to find a restaurant that was still open. I had planned to eat dinner at El Del Frente, but it was farther than I was willing to walk, and I wouldn’t pay for another taxi until I was ready to go back to the casa.

I walked back toward Cathedral Square and discovered La Dominica Italian Restaurant. A live, all-woman band was playing outside, so I sat at one of the outdoor tables and order a drink—the Santiago as it were. At first, I was the only person seated outside, but a few other couples came and sat while the band played. As I was finishing my Caesar salad, it began to rain, and we all moved inside.

From left to right: Little ole me, standing in front of Catedral de San Cristobal in Cathedral Square; My drink, the Santiago, from La Dominica; My lobster ragù!

The interior of the restaurant was stunning, featuring celadon blue walls, coffered ceilings reminiscent of a hive, beautiful dark wood furniture, and stain glass accents on the windows. Once we were inside and dry, the waitress delivered my pasta with lobster ragù, which was delicious. I was happy to be in the space, overjoyed by the band and their rendition of “All of You,” and tired from the day’s adventures.

It was the perfect ending to my first day in Havana. I finished my drink, paid the tab, and hailed a taxi back to Vedado.

Step to the left, step to the right
The next morning, I tried to sleep in a little, but my body's internal clock wouldn’t cooperate. Instead, I took my time getting dressed, intending to look as cute as possible for my culture walk in the morning and salsa lesson in the evening.

Around 8 a.m., I caught a taxi to Parque el Quijote where we were instructed to meet for our culture tour with an economist. When I arrived at the park, there were already a couple of other tourists waiting—a dad and daughter from Texas (shout out to Texas one time!) and two Asian-American friends from California. An Asian-American student would also join us just as our guides, Jorge and his fiancé Gabby, arrived.

Jorge talked with us about what to expect on the tour before we all got on a bus (40 cents CUC$) and headed to the neighborhood of Miramar. Our first stop was a coffee stand where would enjoy a cup of coffee and talk about the legalization of private businesses in Cuba. The owner of the coffee stand had converted her garage into a small service counter from which she sales coffee, snacks, and small pastries. The coffee was included in the cost of our tour but, having skipped breakfast, I also bought a pastry and bottled water (2 CUC$).

From there we walked to a neighborhood produce stand around the corner from Tropicana Cabaret. We had some juice, our choice of lemon or mango, before continuing into the neighborhood and right up to the entrance of the Tropicana entrance. We stood there for a minute discussing the rise of socialism in Cuba, the people’s attitudes toward the revolution, the Height of the Tropicana cabaret, and its current clientele.

It was during this conversation that I had to adjust my thinking about Cuba and socialism. Being a black American and dealing with that constant duality (dwelling where you aren’t always welcome), the anti-American sentiment was somewhat appealing to me.

From left to right: Me, standing in front of the entrance to the Tropicana Cabaret; The produce stand where we stopped for a glass of juice; Tourist Kate and tour guide Jorge enjoying our afternoon snack.

But a Jorge pointed out, some Cubans also lost property during the socialist revolution of the 1960s. If you were a Cuban person whose family gained property or benefited from the revolution, Jorge said, you might agree that American corporations were taking advantage of the Cuban people. But there were families who were doing well in the 50s and 60s who did not view the revolution in the same light.

From Tropicana, we walked to Gabby’s sister’s house where we ate snacks and drank rum and coke. The sister showed us her grocery or ration book and explained how the Cuban ration system works. The experience was wonderful and so enlightening. We left the house and walked back to the main street. from there, I and the other Texans caught a taxi colectivo back to Vedado. After I departed, I went to go find some lunch, eating pollo chiflado from Cafeteria El Dime Pollo Loco (50 CUP$). It was a simple lunch, but a really good one.

From there, I caught a taxi back to Old Havana to explore the art and history museums and shop for souvenirs. I popped into random galleries to enjoy the art, poked into several different shops looking for a shot glass for my boyfriend, a cigar case for my brother, and something for myself.

A group selfie from our salsa lesson with Lazaro.

By 4:30 p.m. I had found souvenirs for the men in my life, but still hadn’t found anything for myself. I walked hurriedly toward San Ignacio Street for my salsa lesson with Lazaro. I was the first to arrive and Lazaro and I warmed up together just before the other group arrived, a large family from the states (which state I can’t remember). Now, I am a terrible, terrible salsa dancer/student. I already knew this because I’d also taken a salsa lesson at the Ball and Chain in Miami. I had warned Lazaro and, sure enough, I was already struggling with the basic steps. He would put me in the corner with the female instructor for remediation before I rejoined the group toward the end.

The lesson was still fun even though I suck at salsa. We took a group picture at the end and Lazaro offered me some words of encouragement before I left. I had the spirit of salsa, he said, I just needed to practice. I headed back toward one of the main squares in Old Havana, searching for a place to eat dinner and a souvenir for myself. I ended up buying myself a bottle of Havana Club Añejo 7 Años, which I would come to regret once I flew out the next day.

I don’t remember where or if I ate dinner that night. But I remember being tired from walking around all day. I would catch a taxi back to Vedado for 5 CUC$. The taxi driver was very nice, and we drove along the sea wall before heading back into the city, the dark waves crashing onto the shore as the city rolled past us.

Once we arrived, I thanked the driver and headed upstairs to my room to shower and sleep.

Goodbye Havana

My last day in Havana was not at all exciting. I woke up around 9 a.m. and went to a shop around the corner, Café Montero, for breakfast. Then I walked to the park to send emails to my family before going back to the Airbnb to pack. I had already arranged for one of the drivers from the Canasí trip to take me to the airport later that day (around 2 p.m.), but he arrived at the house early.

I quickly said goodbye to my host and double-checked my room before going to the car. I bought lunch at the airport: 6 CUC$ for a coke, a water, and two sandwiches with pepperoni and cheese. I ate, read, and waited until about 3:30 p.m. then I went to exchange the 55 CUC$ I still had for Euros (50 €) and check-in for my flight.

I thought that I should probably check my bag because it had the rum in it. But I didn’t want to check my bag, because it had the rum in it. So, my dumb ass still tried to get through the customs lines with my 700 ml bottle of rum and had the nerve to be indignant when they confiscated it!!! In hindsight, I was wrong, and I knew it. But in that moment, I wanted to know why they couldn’t just check my bag and make me pay instead of confiscating my liquor.

I would eventually see that there was no convincing the customs agent to allow me to go back and check the bag, even though I had plenty of time before my flight. I pouted all the way to my gate. After sitting for a minute, I decided fuck it! I would ask a Cuban to trade me some CUC$ for Euros and just buy more rum from the store inside the airport, where they place it in the sealed, duty-free bags.

With my 20 CUC$, I bought a 700ml bottle of Mulata de Cuba rum (fucking delicious), a 700ml bottle of Havana Club Añejo Reserva rum (still unopened), and two bags of Cubita ground coffee. Yes, technically I had wasted $16.50 on the bottle of rum that was confiscated, but I couldn’t let that ruin my day.

Soon, we would board the flight to Miami. I sat next to a Cuban-American guy from Boston, who thought I was Cuban too, something I'd encountered throughout the trip. He and his mother had come to visit their family for the first time in 8 years. Before takeoff, he showed me pictures of his younger cousins and we made small talk. Once the plane moved away from the gate, we both settled in for a short nap as the plane guided us back to Miami.

Home again, home again

By the time we descended into Miami an aura of exhaustion and frustration has engulfed me. Really, I just wanted to be home and was annoyed by the thought of passing through U.S. custom and waiting for my flight Houston. When I went through customs the U.S. customs agent asked me like six questions. He asked me if I had been visiting family. When I said no, he said: "Well, how did you get there?” I explained that, like most Americans who vacation to Cuba, I went ‘in support of the Cuban people.’ Then he asked what I did for a living. I really wanted to just pull out my driver’s license at that point, but I politely answered his question in as much detail as possible. He looked surprised and passed me through.

Then I had to go through the security checkpoint and, surprise, surprise, they wanted to check me and my duty-free bag. I was impatient but knew that causing a fuss would add to my frustration and time wasted. I inhaled deeply as the TSA agent patted me down and then checked my hands for drug residue.

Finally, I was emancipated from U.S. customs and free to go to the gate for my next flight. I stopped by the currency exchange booth, exchanged all my Euros for U.S. dollars and had them change my SIM card. I called my family and flew back to Houston about an hour later

Closing thoughts
I definitely plan to visit Cuba again. Here are the things I’d like to do on my next trip:

• Ditch the Hero and do it myself—I would never have dreamed of planning my own trip the first time. But now that I have some understanding of how Cuba works, a great guidebook, and even some recommendation from locals, I fully intend to plan my next vacation to Cuba all by myself.

• Incorporate an African Diaspora Alliance Excursion—I began following the African Diaspora Alliance after a friend I met in New York trip reposted one of their videos. The organization seeks to “educate, encourage unity, and promote solidarity throughout the African Diaspora” and periodically host excursions in Havana and Cartagena, Columbia. I hope that when I next visit Cuba I can sign up for one of these experiences.

• Visiting one of Cuba’s other provinces—I’ve heard good things about the Cienfuegos and Trinidad provinces. Though I really want to visit Santiago again, I’d also like to visit other parts of Cuba.

• An Airbnb Experience in Santiago (or wherever)—In addition to the food and the amenities, another reason that I enjoyed the Havana leg of my trip more than the Santiago leg was because I got to interact with more people through the Airbnb experiences. Traveling solo doesn’t mean being alone the whole time.

• A day at the beach—My day in Canasí was fun and outdoorsy, but it wasn’t a traditional day at the beach. There are beaches in both Santiago and in Havana. On my next trip, I want to pack my sunblock and spend a traditional day at the beach.

• Boarding in Old Havana—On Thursday, when I visited old Havana for the second time, a met an older man who had been a boxer in the 70s and we talked for a while. He suggested I find a room in Old Havana next time I traveled to Cuba. Considering how much time I spent there, I might consider it though I am a bit concerned about the noise.