<\/p>\n

It’s funny how life weaves experiences and occurrences together so seamlessly. Just the other day I was talking with my ex-pat roommate about his imminent return to the U.S. He left home nearly 3 months ago and, using Buenos Aires as his base, went on a little spin around Latin America. He also told me that he is thinking of taking his last week to go to Cuba (so he can rest from his vacation).<\/p>\n

This got me thinking: I have always wanted to go to Cuba but\u00a0never wanted\u00a0to stay in a resort. I had heard of homestays, but then I had difficulty finding a travel bud who wasn’t brainwashed by\u00a0North American media. Then an article from the UK Times<\/em><\/a> popped up\u00a0in my inbox — thanks Matt — and it gave a trip to Cuba\u00a0the little nudge it needed to be reconsidered.<\/p>\n

The article\u00a0talks about La Isla de Juventud — the\u00a0Isle of Youth — an under-trodden bit of land south of Havana where the\u00a0“sand is scrubby” and the mango trees are plenty. Tourism is not only minimal on this island, but decreasing as well. What’s left are crumbly buildings used as museums and a military-guarded reserve on its southern side. Although the neglected island is a bit shabby, it has a strong place in the country’s revolutionary history, and the people are laid back and accommodating.<\/p>\n

Nevertheless, that is the Cuba\u00a0I want to\u00a0experience. As a country with such a revolutionary-enriched history, tales of rebellion and oppression, sipping mojitos in a heavily guarded resort seems\u00a0more foreign,\u00a0although\u00a0relaxing. With the realities of the Cold War at my fingertips, I would want to understand, why?<\/em> We might not be able to fully understand it, but perhaps we could\u00a0see it in a different light, in a different place.<\/p>\n

For my friend who wants to relax and take a break, sipping mojitos would be\u00a0the best\u00a0option. For those who are looking to dig a bit deeper,\u00a0actually seeing\u00a0the history of the land of mojitos would be unforgettable.<\/p>\n

By Brit Weaver<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

About the Author<\/strong>
\n<\/p>\n

Toronto born and based, Brit is an avid leisure cyclist, coffee drinker and under-a-tree park-ist. She often finds herself meandering foreign cities looking for street eats to nibble, trees to climb, a patch of grass to sit on, or a small bookstore to sift through. You can find her musing life on her personal blog,\u00a0TheBubblesAreDead.wordpress.com<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It’s funny how life weaves experiences and occurrences together so seamlessly. Just the other day I was talking with my ex-pat roommate about his imminent return to the U.S. He left home nearly 3 months ago and, using Buenos Aires as his base, went on a little spin around Latin America. He also told me […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7,"featured_media":6195,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1,2568,2562],"tags":[2305,155,1426],"yoast_head":"\n