For those of you who know me or have had the pleasure of living with me, you likely know that I am not a morning person. I’m not nasty or cranky in the morning, I just need 8,452,001 alarms to wake up, even at a somewhat reasonable hour. Our flight left Philadelphia for Fort Lauderdale at 6:29AM. Yes, AM. Calculate backwards the two hours you need to arrive before departure, 15-30 minutes to drop our car at one of the long-term parking lots out in Essington, plus a shuttle ride to the departures area. Another 45 minutes to get from my house to the parking lot and 45 minutes or so to get cleaned up, dressed and bags in the car. I had to wake up at basically the same time I would normally go to bed, but it’s vacation and it’s Cuba, so I laid down for two hours max then was up and getting ready to head out the door. 

The drive to the airport was quick, as most of the area was still in bed sleeping. Our shuttle had us over to the gates in a matter of minutes and security was a breeze, as per usual, since I have TSA Pre-Check. Having a couple of hours to kill we grabbed some muffins and drinks from a café that was thankfully open, and sat half asleep until it was time to board the plane. 

The flight down to Fort Lauderdale was thankfully uneventful, other than my feeling a bit nauseous, which is not uncommon for me when I only get a couple hours of sleep and don’t have much food in my stomach. It is however very uncommon when flying or anything else involving motion. I have what we jokingly call an Iron Stomach. Years of flying, driving long road trips and sailing, occasionally in rough water, has never once resulted in motion sickness. As you will learn if you read the posts that will follow, this maaaaay have been foreshadowing.  

Travel within the United States, as well as most other economically stable countries if you will, is a funny thing. You forget your toothbrush…your underwear…your important medications…midnight snack? No problem. There is likely a drug store or big box store within a mile or two of your location to pick up whatever you forgot.

Thanks to fifty plus years of being cut off from the United States means none of our big box or chain stores exist there. Cuba has had to import goods from China, Russia, Canada, Mexico and a few other countries in South America and Europe, which means supplies can be scarce and expensive.

You almost have to operate under a “bring everything but the kitchen sink” approach…but also maybe bring the kitchen sink or at the very least an ample supply of hand sanitizer wipes! Trust me on this. I took the Noro-Virus home as a souvenir!

Cuba, Havana specifically, is a photographer’s dream. The colorful old cars, the once demure but now crumbling architecture and the friendly people, who as I learned firsthand are hams for the camera. For years I saw photos online from journalists and immediately added it to my bucket list. Only one problem, a little thing called el bloqueo or The Blockage in English; more commonly known as the US/Cuban Embargo. This Embargo, which started in 1960, has changed forms many times through the years, but mainly imposes sanctions on Cuba for all commercial, economic and financial exports, in an effort to force them to convert to a democratic system and provide better human rights for their citizens. It is of course much more complex than that, but you get the idea.

Up until the last couple of years, these sanctions also meant Americans could not travel to Cuba, but I wasn’t giving up on the dream. Enter December 2014, when Barack Obama and Raul Castro met and began a six-month long negotiation, which culminated with an agreement to ease travel bans and the establishment of an American Embassy in Havana, Cuba.

When word spread in early 2016, that President Obama was going to be travelling to Cuba and airlines were going to open limited routes to the island country, I immediately texted my professor from college, whom I travelled with on the London/Paris trips, and was also my photography professor, a very simple “Cuba??” and got a quick response of “I’m in!”, and the whirlwind of travel plans began.

Many runners describe being in a happy and euphoric state after completing a run, which is commonly known as a runner’s high. As you push your body, it releases endorphins, a natural painkiller, to override the discomfort it is feeling. Well folks, my endorphins must have been on overload after my first half marathon, because I signed up for a second one within days of returning home from California. Clearly I had already forgotten about the pure agony felt the last few miles of the race, let alone my not being able to stand up on my own or get up and down stairs without crawling like a toddler in the days following.

Since I had just spent a ton of money flying across the country for my first half, it seemed like a wise decision to find one closer to home this time. I hadn’t yet discovered the local running club or joined the zillion and a half groups on Facebook to get ideas, but had heard about the Philadelphia LOVE Run Half from a high school friend who was already signed up. They had held their inaugural event that spring.