By Jan Peña-Davis –

My mother’s only wish before she died was for her children to visit Cuba and meet our family.

Ten years ago, I took my only son, who thinks he’s boricua and my youngest daughter, who’s often asked if she’s Brazilian to Cuba.

I finally understood what home meant.

Upon arrival, we went through the immigration line manned by an incredibly affable young male, dressed in green army fatigues. What a hunk! He was our unofficial welcoming committee and between my paltry Spanish and his hit or miss English, we felt at ease and actually laughed a lot.

We nervously waited for a cousin I never met. Although my mother’s family communicated when they could, I didn’t have a sense of what to expect.

I was relieved when I finally saw a tall, lean café- con- leche guy, holding a sign with my name. He was my cousin, the grandson of my mother’s aunt. His name is Jorge and he was as nervous as I was. But his smile and gentleness put us all at ease. He’s an orthopedic surgeon in Havana. In America, he’d be mad, crazy rich. In Cuba, he uses his car as a taxi to make extra money when he isn’t working at the hospital.

He was my second introduction into the spirit of the Cuban people (the first being the airport official).

After awkward introductions and hugs, we were on our way into the city.

I remember the cruise down the malecón, the ocean front drive in Havana. Couples sat holding hands and gazing at the water; others walked briskly if alone or strolled hand in hand if a couple.

Yet the range of skin tones, from very dark to very fair, mixed and matched, seemed comfortable and natural.

From the vintage cars to the buses, both were an adventure, and very crowded, with people hanging off the sides of the buses. People waited for hours to catch a bus or a group taxi, but there were no harsh words or noticeable pushing or shoving.

You see, according to my cousin, most of the people barely eked out a living unless they worked for the government.

We pulled up in front my cousin’s house where some family members had gathered to meet and welcome us. It was actually a lovely neighborhood called, if my memory serves me right, Miramar. I was nervous.

Once inside, we met people who wore my mother’s smile, or laughed her laugh, or cooked dishes that I thought she invented. Although my grandparents were dead, we were embraced by family, cousins, aunts, uncles and neighbors who knew her when she was growing up. Her youngest sister often gently touched my face and her eyes would fill with tears.

Several of my cousins spoke pretty good English. We made a deal. I would talk to them in Spanish and they would respond in English. We laughed a lot as we tried to communicate. But we did communicate, with a smile or our eyes when our words failed.

The house had two bedrooms, one bathroom, a dining room used as a bedroom/office/dining room, a small kitchen and a living room. I also noticed that the TV was constantly on CNN which I thought was interesting and my aunt had a computer. Two families shared this space. My children and I slept on the roof.

During our second night, there were rolling power outages, and we saw the sky and counted stars. The rooftop shower was makeshift but served the purpose. The water was cold when we showered but invigorating, and we all politely shared the downstairs toilet.

But the best part of the morning was breakfast, actually the thick, strong, sweet aromatic coffee. The woman who helped with breakfast and household chores was Afro-Cuban with a short ‘fro and a big smile. It made me wonder how much had really changed.

On one of our walks, we passed a grocery store literally with empty shelves and some sort of distribution center with long lines of people in front. It made me think of how much my family might be sacrificing to feed us and make us feel comfortable.

One day my cousin drove us to Varadero Beach. On the way there we took the highway. On the way back, we saw a different view, the ugly poverty of the beautiful countryside.

In the city, poverty looks different, many young women-and I stress young- were soliciting mostly European men, sex for money.

Cuba is a medley of contrasts: poverty vs. entitlement; anti-American vs. not-so-sure; tropical beauty vs. harsh realities; culture and music and people of all colors, most faces touched by Africa; food, music, dance, and art.

But most important was the incredible spirit of a people and being welcomed home by family.