A small island that bursts with colors, passion and song.  The people are hardworking but not hardened.   The history laid bare among the crumbling of its buildings and trees for all to see or ignore.   Cuba has a pulse of its own that permeates the air and enters you as you breathe in the Carribbean wind.   A pulse that cannot be explained alone by the drumming in the street, the rumbling of cars living beyond their ages, the shouts of a soon to be settled disagreement, the song of children playing, or the passion of a spontaneous dance between two on a street corner.  A pulse that echoed familiar in my Caribbean blood and home to me the land it seemed.