This morning, I offer readers a glimpse into the reaction of a son of Cuban exiles living in Barcelona, upon his arrival in Cuba on a trip to discover his roots. "Antonio Diaz Torres" traveled to Cuba back in the Winter of 1999 and has told me on numerous occasions: "It changed my life." What follows is part II of II. Babalu readers can find part I by clicking here.

Homecoming - Part II of II
Morning greeted me with a lack of coffee. Sensing the opportunity for a small adventure, I set off to a neighboring town, shirtless on my cousin Miguel’s brakeless bicycle. Winding my way east into the hamlet of Santa Fe, headed towards La Puntilla Beach, I was greeted every three blocks or so by family friends who - even though I’d met them only days before - treated me like an old friend. For all the damage the revolution has wrought, it has never been able to totally dampen the Cuban spirit. The lack of material possessions and experience with the outside world has served to instill in the people of that island a sense of camaraderie, friendship, love and welcome that I have never experienced anywhere else. I no longer felt like a foreigner. I was a Cuban and as a Cuban, I had temporarily left behind my metro-centric life, with its fast pace and neon cheesiness.
I knew there was a well-stocked store catering to both tourists and Cubans alike at La Puntilla. If they didn’t have coffee, no one would. Sure enough, there was no coffee to be had. Hopes dashed, I ambled out the door and headed to the beach. La Puntilla, The Point, consists of a prominent rocky outcropping that looks out on the Gulf of Mexico. Just east of the big rock lay a stretch of beach that still whispers of the pre-Fidel days.
When Havana was still a popular playground for American tourists, the Santa Fe Casino was a hotspot just west of the Havana suburbs where my mother and father had grown up. A small roadway wound its way right over La Puntilla Beach, leading gamblers right to the waterside casino. In the heady days following Fidel’s “triumph,” the Santa Fe Casino became one of many victims of the revolutionary fervor that led thousands to vent whatever frustrations they may have had on what Fidel dubbed “those meccas of inequity.” The roulette tables were smashed, windows were broken and the casino officially closed shop when Fidel outlawed organized gambling on the island.
The years wore on and the old highway fell into disrepair. As cobwebs overtook the old casino by the sea, chunks of asphalt washed away into the lapping waves and nature devoured the work of man. Today, the old street lamps still poke out of the sand, reminders of infrastructure long-gone. Where they once lined the highway, only beach remains, a sort of Planet of the Apes Statue of Liberty scene, Cuban-style. A new exploration was unfolding. I followed the old street lampposts down the beach, falling away from the screaming children throwing clumps of wet sand at one another.
When I finally arrived at the casino, it felt like arriving in some sort of apocalyptic netherworld. Clumps of weeds sprouted from a mosaic tile floor meant to mimic a compass rose. Once upon a time, a beautiful glass ceiling had covered this very same floor. Walking into the main casino structure was like braving New York City’s Grand Central Station in the 80s. Broken tiles cracked under foot and the walls were defiled with every manner of dirty graffiti imaginable. “Fuck her in the ass” was one of the of the more prominent phrases scrawled upon the walls where once upon a time, dashingly dressed gamblers once leaned, drinks in hand. The ceiling had long since caved in, allowing the sun to pierce the structure with the incessant Caribbean heat.
Along the casino’s rear wall ran a waterside promenade. During the ‘pre-Fidel’ days, the walkway was lined with ornate lamps that now sat just a few feet beneath the water’s surface, toppled over like dominoes and slowly succumbing to the variety of crustaceans and barnacles that now made their homes there.
Like bookends on either side of the casino complex stood two very different reminders of the revolution. Greeting me upon my arrival at the old mosaic-floored building was a water inlet. Leading from the little bay behind the casino, out into the open ocean, the narrow waterway had been sealed off by the Cuban government only a couple of years before as a result of its having become a common departure point for those fleeing the island via every manner of small craft imaginable. Walking along the waterside promenade, past the tumbled and submerged lamps led me into an overgrown area obscured by a few young trees and chest-high grasses. What looked like an oversized concrete opening to a septic pit poking out from behind the weeds quickly grabbed my attention. Immediately after crawling inside, I realized that I was standing in one of many vestiges of the Bay of Pigs invasion that dotted the island. From where I now stood, had it not been for the weeds and small trees that now surrounded me, I would have had a clear view of the coastal skies and any approaching aircraft. My New Balance sneakers were resting in what remained of an old anti-aircraft gun emplacement.
Shortly after that ill-fated invasion in 1961, my grandmother received a telephone call in suburban Fort Lauderdale from a woman she had once shared social circles with at the Miramar Yacht Club in Havana. Dina greeted my grandmother over the telephone with a bit of trepidation. Still living on the island, she spoke in hushed tones, not wanting her husband to hear the topic of conversation. She went on to describe the details of some gossip that had shocked the neighborhood in which she now lived, outside the capital. “Do you remember Magdalena, at the yacht club?” In 1958, Magdalena had worked as a waitress at the Miramar Yacht Club, tending to the club’s female members, shuttling drinks from table-to-table, ferrying towels to-and-fro. After the “triumph of the revolution,” her anger toward the elite patrons she had once served knew no bounds and she had become an outspoken, virulent supporter of Fidel. “The kind that bights,” my grandmother used to say. Following the failed invasion by Cuban exiles initially backed by the Kennedy administration, Magdalena sat riveted by the events unfolding on her television screen. As the cavalcade of broken, disheveled men made their way past in tones of black and white, she commented with disdain and anger, “Well done, they should shoot every last one of you” until the face of her own son marched past the cameras. “Sufrió un infarto alli mismo,” “She suffered a heart attack right then and there.” Magdalena died another faceless victim of the revolution. The story was emblematic of the divisions that appeared within thousands of families with regard to the revolution. Brothers turned on brothers, sons turned against fathers. Betrayals within bloodlines became commonplace as Fidel’s grip grew stronger.
Later that afternoon, as Alberto and I made our way into downtown Havana via Avenida Quinta, we were obliged to stop along with the rest of the traffic passing by Fidel Castro's infamous "Punto Cero" residence in Jaimanitas. A phalanx of shiny black Mercedes Benz sedans filed out of the heavily guarded compound. The "maximum leader" was on his way to some sort of engagement no doubt. Sitting in traffic, I scanned the faces of those stuck in the long line of cars and bicycles. Oddly, they all displayed the same lack of emotion in their faces. Confronted with the personfication of their misery, their simply wasn't anything to say - no way to react. For those few moments, the joyful countenances I had witnessed in my many personal encounters were no where to be found. For three minutes in this one pocket of Havana, emotion was dead. These poor souls had become just like Magdalena the waitress - senseless victims of a reviled revolution. No, not much has changed in communist Cuba, and it isn't just the cars.