My father and his family landed in Havana in March of 1939 as Holocaust refugees. They went to Cuba in search of a path to the United States, but instead, found a country that they loved and made their own. 

1961, following the Cuban Revolution, they were forced to give up their home for the second time. 

My father never returned to Cuba, but the island always stayed with him until his death in 1997. His experience there shaped the way he dressed, spoke, and informed his favorite foods. And as a young child, I grew up hearing about the mysterious island of his youth. 

In 2017 I had the opportunity to visit the island nation and look for the Cuba that he left behind. 

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