It all started with a book!

When I read Pico Iyer’s Cuba and The Night in the spring of ’96, I didn’t know it would turn my world inside out. But books do that sometimes. They pull you in, twist you around, and leave you standing somewhere else entirely.

It was a story about Richard, a photojournalist, not quite divorced, not quite free, and a young Cuban woman. It was about love and distance, about wanting something you can’t hold onto. I might have been a photojournalist myself if life had gone another way. But I had a son, just a year old then. A man makes choices. He does what he must.

And Richard—his name struck me. Not just a name on a page. My brother’s name. My brother died in my arms in ’86. A sign, maybe. Or just life, circling back the way it does. Nothing is an accident.

I read the book in one sitting. Couldn't put it down. The story played in my head like a film, every scene sharp, every word pulling me in. I knew this Richard. I understood him. A week later, I read it again. And that was it—I had to go to Cuba.

There was a travel agency next to my studio. I walked in, asked the owner if she knew how I could get there. Travel was restricted then—journalists, officials, that sort. She said she had an agent with a son who traveled there often, but she rarely stopped by.

Five minutes later, the door opened. It was her. With her son.

Nothing is an accident.

Introductions were made. He told me he was flying to Nassau in the morning. From there, a flight left for Havana every afternoon. No fuss. Walk up to the counter, buy a ticket, get a slip of paper for a visa, and you were in.

That was all I needed. Reservations made.