Cuba

The year when I first arrived in Cuba was 2011, Obama was US president and relations between Cuba and the US were beginning to thaw. There was a sense of hopeful anticipation of an easier future. 

When I first landed at José Martí airport, I felt an embracing warm gush of tropic air. The first Cuban person I met was a stern immigration officer in uniform pointing me to the correct line. Words were not necessary, only forms needed to be filled out. The feeling of dread from childhood crossing borders returned and instantly made me feel at home. 

Once outside, the hustle continued and I used my childhood Spanish to negotiated a ride with a driver who would take me to my hotel in the Vedado section of Havana. This virgin ride into an undiscovered city is most thrilling. The ancient rickety vehicle was operational, well cared for and easily negotiated the bumpy highway shared by bicycles, horses, dogs, trucks and peddlers selling cakes. The sun was warm and I was full of anticipation. 

I had come to Cuba to photograph a country at the brink of change, but then it became much more, Cuba changed me.