The Gift of Gratitude

Roberto’s tanned, weathered hands expertly rolled the dried tobacco leaves into the quintessential Cuban cigar. Sealed with local honey, the cigar was set aside to dry as Roberto grabbed another resting in a box on the table. He began the process of cutting the cap and lighting it. He and his family ran his tobacco farm in Viñales, Cuba, for decades, recently opening it up to tours for travelers looking for an authentic experience from a seasoned farmer. Roberto spoke of the changes in Cuba over the last couple of years. Life in Viñales was simple and slow-paced, in the best way possible. Shifts in the political climate did not bother him. He just went with the flow and prioritized what was important to him. He focused on working hard, providing for his family, and spending time with his loved ones. That was his recipe for happiness. Along with several home-grown and hand-rolled cigars smoked throughout the day, of course. It seemed to be working—there was a look in his eyes as he spoke, his hands effortlessly rolling cigars. A look of pride, gratitude, joy. It was a look I have come to notice more in countries termed “developing nations” than in my own.

Over the last couple of years, a lot had changed politically between Cuba and the United States, and Americans had recently been permitted to visit Cuba if in accordance with specific travel purposes. I had obtained a general license under the people-to-people exchange category along with four other friends eager to experience the rawness of a culture not yet tainted by mass American tourism. It did not disappoint.

We rented rooms within the homes of locals and after traveling outside of Havana, found exactly what we were looking for. In an era of constant bombardment of the internet, advertisements, and social media, Cuba was a breath of fresh air. It was the first time since the internet became so prevalent in our daily lives that I had zero access to it for ten days. The pace of life was slower. People seemed to appreciate togetherness. In parks, on the street, in restaurants, people engaged with one another. If they were by themselves, they engaged in their environment, observing it with curiosity and reflection. People were not chained to their screens. They were aware of what was happening in front of them, seemingly present without the deep effort we strive for in Western culture. In the United States, presence and mindfulness have become buzzwords that we struggle to embody and apply. Countless books, courses, articles, and seminars purport to teach presence and mindfulness, yet in Cuba, it seemed to simply be a way of life.

People walked down cobblestone streets talking with one another and looking around, aware of their surroundings, saying hello to folks they didn’t even know. Wishing them buen provecho in restaurants, smiling at passersby, acknowledging others as opposed to ignoring them like I’ve grown accustomed to in the U.S. It supported a common theme I had noticed on my travels to developing nations—it seemed like the lower the population, the more connected they were to family, friends, even strangers, and, perhaps as a result, the happier they were (mo’ money mo’ problems?). It seemed counterintuitive, considering so many of us base our entire lives on achieving success in the form of accomplishment, accumulation, and consumption. Maybe we’ve been going about it all wrong. Maybe we’ve missed the point.

What people lack in possessions and money they often make up for in relationships with friends and family. Cambodia, Nepal, India, Bolivia, Guatemala, Cuba—so many of the countries that I’ve traveled to that face record poverty and unemployment levels, unimaginable corruption, substandard healthcare, and limited education have some of the strongest familial relationships I’ve ever seen. Family and friends are invaluable. Connection with others creates a sense of community in a society neglected by its government. In the most difficult times, when things can feel overwhelming and hopeless, to know you are not alone can be the one difference between surviving and thriving. When people don’t have much, they tend to place greater emphasis on the things that truly matter. Connection, love, community, togetherness, generosity, compassion, humor, creativity, resourcefulness—these are the keys to making it in even the direst situations. And in areas of the world where things aren’t as dire, they are the keys to living a life of meaning. They add depth to success, and when placed at the forefront of one’s values, they create a sense of fulfillment.

Throughout our time in Cuba, we noticed the people seemed to emanate joy and appreciation. Cuba was music. Laughter. Conversation. The rumble of a 1950’s Bel Air. The soundtrack of this country was all-encompassing—it filled your body with a vibrant energy. But on the seventh night of our trip, Fidel Castro passed away, and the morning after it was as though someone had abruptly turned down the volume. Silence and solemnity filled the air.

After our time in Viñales, we arrived in Trinidad the day prior to Castro’s death. The charming city grabbed hold of my history-loving heart immediately. Its past was prevalent everywhere you looked, from the cobblestone streets and the quaint town squares to the aging walls of our casa particular—all dating back hundreds of years to when it was a bustling colonial town. As with much of Cuba, its history and present shared common ground. The deteriorating and shadowy walls of the early-18th century Iglesia de Santa Ana were brought to life by the sound of young boys playing fútbol within the poorly padlocked doors.

That day we explored like others did: mojito in one hand, occasionally petting the friendliest street dogs ever with the other. Nearly everywhere we went, music was playing, and people were taking full advantage of the moment—laughing joyously and dancing on the cobblestone streets. I chose to partake in the laughing rather than the dancing...it’s been noted on multiple occasions that I can eat salsa much better than I can dance it. The day passed quickly and slowly, like travel days tend to do. We eventually called it a night, only to wake up the next day to a completely different city.

We awoke to an outstanding breakfast on our casa particular’s outdoor terrace. It was $5 for coffee, tea, fresh mango juice (my ultimate weakness), eggs, ham, tropical fruit, toast, crepes, and, surprisingly, breakfast cookies. When we were mid-feast, Maryoley, the casa’s owner, walked up to us with a grave expression. She told us that Fidel Castro had passed away very early that morning. It was one of those moments in which time stood still and the importance of the event made your hair stand on end. The country would be in mourning for nine days. No banks. No music. No fiestas. No sale of alcohol. Maryoley began to tear up as she said they lost their hero and walked in a daze back to her room. The breakfast cookies lost their appeal almost immediately.

The soundtrack of Trinidad was replaced with the murmur of countless television sets playing footage of Castro throughout his life. No marketplaces were set up, and even the street dogs seemed somber. Since we only had one night left in Trinidad, we decided to spend the Saturday evening wandering the silent streets. The echo of horse hooves clomping against the cobbled roads paired with the dim amber lights made it far too easy to imagine life when Trinidad was a bustling pirate town in the 1500s.

The Sunday following our magical Saturday night of solitude, we left for Santa Clara, where we would spend our last night before heading back to the United States. After settling into our casa particular, we wandered the streets and were surprised to see the buildings surrounding Parque Vidal being cleaned with rushed determination. Exterior walls were scrubbed and painted, windows washed, and plants trimmed. The city was preparing for the nationwide procession honoring Castro that would begin the next day.

The following morning, after indulging in another breakfast feast, we walked back to Parque Vidal only to see thousands of people lined up around the blocks waiting to offer their condolences. People of all ages stood in a seemingly endless line that wound throughout the city center, many holding flowers and photos of Castro. The strong sense of national community was unlike anything I’d ever seen. And yet the general opinion of Castro varied widely. He was loved or hated depending on how his decisions affected a person. It was a reminder to keep an open mind and recognize that the impact of circumstance changes from person to person.

I returned to the United States with a feeling of reverse culture shock and immense gratitude for having witnessed such a raw version of Cuba. People seemed more connected to each other than to their phones. Although they didn’t have much, everyone cared for and appreciated what they had. Their resilience let them view the twists and turns of life with humor and connectedness. And if all else failed, they would tell us that “a little Vitamin R” seemed to help (their charming euphemism for rum).

It was a reminder to reflect on our priorities and appreciate what is truly important. What are we working for? What are we living for? Sometimes we get so caught up in the motions of working, earning, and consuming, that we forget to pause to ask ourselves why. In societies of abundance, we often overlook the gifts we have been given. We tend to take for granted our relationships with our loved ones and the comforts of our daily lives. If we strip away all the distraction, we might be able to see that we have similar priorities as Roberto. To take pride in what we do, appreciate what we have, and love the ones we are with.