When I first thought about going to Cuba, I thought about going to Key West and chartering a boat to make the 90-mile journey across the Florida Straits in Hemingway style. I approached our publisher with this thought, and my grand plans came to an abrupt halt. Not to be discouraged, I then found a company called Adventures in Rock based in Boston. This small company takes groups of people to Havana on U.S. Treasury Department-sanctioned trips to provide humanitarian aid and to meet with musicians and artists. They had what I needed to bring my Hemingway dreams back to life. I had heard that in 2005 the Treasury Department had levied more than 0,000 in fines to Americans traveling to Cuba, but I was now very comforted to be safely within the law. I then approached my friend and photographer Brianna Stello to join me on this adventure. With her degree in Spanish and her expertise in photography, she was a perfect match.

Before leaving, I headed to the drugstore to buy as many supplies as I could carry in my oversized carry-on bag to distribute to the Cuban children. I grabbed goods left and right: pencils, crayons, children's Tylenol, Band-Aids, Neosporin, filling my bag to the brim. I wanted to experience this exchange directly. I wanted to see the faces of the children. This was all part of my education, my journey to Cuba.

At Miami International Airport, once it is determined that you are headed to Cuba, the mood shifts dramatically. I have never experienced such intense security leaving my own country. The guards inspected every inch of my bags, flipped through the pages of my books, and scrutinized the harmless bottles of children's Tylenol. We passed inspection and walked the tarmac to board the small prop plane.

There was an unspoken excitement amidst this eclectic group of people. In all my years of traveling, I had never traveled with a group, so I didn't know what to expect. There was a young architect traveling with his mother, who had worked for the National Trust for Historic Preservation. I sat next to a lovely widow traveling with girlfriends in search of adventure. I myself was eager to see the restoration work recently completed at Ernest Hemingway's Cuban home.

The flight across the Florida Straits took less than an hour, but psychologically it felt like we had crossed a continent. How strange for Cuba to be so close and yet worlds away. The differences struck me instantly upon arriving and going through customs. The high-tech, paranoid American atmosphere was far behind us, replaced with a loose, antiquated, disorganized system, or lack thereof.

The drive from the airport to the Hotel Nacional is visually dazzling. It was mid-morning. The streets were bustling with classic 1950s American cars and enormous futuristic ugly Russian buses filled to capacity. Everywhere were people hanging out, schoolchildren in tidy little uniforms chatting in groups, all set against a backdrop of endless rows of beautiful Colonial architecture in varying states of repair. It struck me that Cuba, by necessity, is strongly preservationist. With little resources, they have to work hard to preserve existing structures, and the result is a phenomenally beautiful, weathered European city.

One such example of breathtaking structural beauty was our hotel, the Nacional. Built in the 1930s when Havana was enjoying prosperity, it was the hotel of choice for many celebrities, such as Marlon Brando, Ava Gardner, Frank Sinatra. Located in the El Vedado, the most exclusive neighborhood in the city at that time, the Nacional is situated on a hill, its terrace overlooking the harbor. I walked up to the terrace and ordered seven-year-old Old Habana rum, then sat back, marveled at the view, and reveled at my luck for having arrived. I wouldn't have been surprised at all to see Hemingway walk by.

Our guide was young and exuded warmth and kindness. He struck me as both innocent and worldly, which is ironic considering that he, like all of his compatriots, can't leave the country. Throughout the trip I experienced kindness in all of my interactions with Cubans. They struck me as jovial and generous people with an inner strength and dignity. Perhaps I had had a few too many rum drinks, but this impression has stayed with me.

We spent five days in Cuba. On the second day, Brianna and I walked through the neighborhoods of Old Havana and began dispensing our humanitarian goods to the children and their mothers. The gratitude was beyond words. The children would gape and stare for long minutes at a pack of pencils. The mothers beamed at the sight of these much needed medical supplies. I felt a mixture of joy and sadness.

Cuba is full of dichotomies. On the one hand there is a heady feeling of tropical warmth, generous spirit, lively rhythms, and gorgeous architecture. Alongside are the stark realities of dirt, promiscuity, and poverty. The beauty and tragedy of it is that you are constantly shifting between the two. And for tourists like myself, escape is all too possible. I would end each day at my classic hotel, drinking rum and listening to the Buena Vista Social Club, who were actually performing at the hotel.

Our trip coincided with the Havana International Jazz Festival and it was not at all what I imagined. I had pictured an outdoor block party with thousands of people milling about; instead, the festival takes place in intimate theaters and outdoor plazas around the city. I sat in a small theater of roughly 500 seats, surrounded by sophisticated, educated, cosmopolitan Cubans. The director of the festival was the jazz genius Chucho Valdes, an internationally renowned pianist, composer, improviser, and bandleader. I was mesmerized and energized by his performance. He is a master, drifting in and out of Gershwin and playing variations of classical themes with unsurpassed technique.

G&G will have further opportunities to explore Cuba and to bring Havana to you, both in future issues and on our website. In this issue, we focus on the ongoing struggle to preserve Hemingway's house and boat.

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