Leaving Cuba for the first time was an experience I could have never fully prepared for. I had spent my entire life in Havana, surrounded by the familiar streets, the warmth of my people, and the rhythm of an island that never truly sleeps. But on that day, I stepped into an airplane for the very first time, and everything changed. The sensation of takeoff, the momentary weightlessness, the view of the ocean stretching infinitely below me—it all felt surreal. And then, after hours of anticipation, I felt the jolt of the landing gear touching down. My first destination outside of Cuba was none other than the United States of America. A place I had only seen in movies, read about in books, and heard of in passing conversations. And the city that welcomed me? Houston, Texas.
