As a child, I was the happiest whenever a new venture was about to start, and I welcomed each of them with endless anticipation and hope, always curious about the unknown and ready to interact with the world.
My first-grade school trip with Tía Cecilia to Viñales, the most beautiful valley in the world, remains the first expedition that I recall.
I remember the day-long trips to the beach, where I could secretly lust after the beautiful young men as the saltwater glistened against their chiseled, tanned chests.
There were the joyous moments when I rode the brightly painted traveling carousel erected on the empty lot a block from our house. And God, how I can still feel the excitement of reaching for the brass ring prize time after time.
But nothing—not even the salt-kissed young men—could match the exhilaration of riding the Ferris wheel and roller coaster at the big amusement park, with Tío Patrício by my side.
No matter the thrill of any escapade, I’d always be the happiest during my trips to see Papá and Mamá, my maternal grandparents, and stay with them at their comfortable farm. I loved my life there because it was the one place where no one ever bullied me, and no man ever desired me. I began my life on the farm and returned to it as often as I could. The farm represented everything that was happy and safe.
I do not know why it is that my earliest complete memory of such trips comes from 1960, when I was six, years before the revolution took it all away and forever changed our lives. I remember every preparation, every detail, every smell, every taste, every emotion I felt.