I’m barely back, but it already seems like a rum-soaked dream — seven days and nights in Cuba, a breathtaking, heartbreaking, gorgeous, crumbling, humbling place. An incredible trip.

As our 40th birthdays approached, my best-friend-from-second-grade Amy (I know, it’s confusing) suggested we go on a trip to celebrate.

That was almost 10 years ago. We never went anywhere.

With 50 staring us down, we decided to get busy — and head south. Tourism is at a fevered pitch in Havana, as mending relations with the U.S. threaten to bring capitalism — and hoards of Americans — to Cuba. So far, so good: Upon our arrival in Havana in January, there wasn’t a Starbucks in sight, and while the city bustled, it was hardly too late to experience the real thing — the 40s and 50s-cars (“American car!” as the cab drivers bragged, beautifully preserved on the outside and not-quite-so on the inside), the gorgeously crumbling architecture and, sadly, some pretty intense poverty and deprivation.

Without getting too confusing, there are currently two ways for a typical American to get to Cuba: enter through Mexico or Canada; or join an educational tour. We did the latter, hooking up with the amazing Tom Miller, a Tucson-based writer best known in this case for “Trading with the Enemy,” a book he wrote in the early 1990s after spending 18 months traveling Cuba, getting to know it in a way few (if any) Americans were able to do at the time.

To be honest, I cringed at the idea of an organized tour (most of the 21 people on our tour — I wouldn’t go on one bigger — also self-identified as “non organized-tour-people”) but I was so glad we took that route. Tom has been returning to Cuba for years, his connections are unrivaled, and his line-up for Literary Havana was pitch perfect. I wanted to pinch myself — every day I thought, “Did Tom crawl in my head and plan this trip just for me?”

We visited a synagogue, talked to a documentary filmmaker, watched a theater troupe practice, toured Muraleando, a non-profit devoted to arts instruction for underprivileged kids — and so on. We sipped wine over lunch while poets read, wandered around Barrio Chino (Havana has a Chinatown!), checked out Hemingway’s bathroom (great shower curtain) and hung out by his empty pool. We also saw a remarkable contemporary dance troupe called Danza Espiral that we all agreed was one of the best we’d seen anywhere. It was awesome.

An important caveat, key in surviving an organized tour: Heads turned the other way when Amy and I went rogue, which happened a few times. We skipped the art museum tour and spent a day wandering around Old Havana, studying the latest Fodor’s, hitting up coffee shops, an outdoor antiques market, and an incredible print studio/gallery. After an entire week (no kidding) of nagging the hotel concierge, scored tickets to the Ballet Nacional de Cuba. We also took in a show at the Tropicana — kitschy, hilarious, and (consider yourself warned) pricey.

(One place we didn’t get to, either on our own or with the group, because it was closed was the national art school. It’s on my list for a return visit. Another: Fabrica de Arte Cubano — a giant disco/art gallery/so-much-more that was also closed.)

Our group met up in Miami (there’s a great hotel in the airport — I highly recommend it) and took a charter to Havana. We waited an hour to deplane when we got there, and when we left Cuba, that plane was delayed by several hours. But by then, we were accustomed to waiting. A week of Cuba — businesses unexpectedly closed, electricity inexplicably off, the poet your group was supposed to meet up with MIA — was charming. A few more days and I would have gone bonkers.

While in Havana, we stayed at Hotel Nacional de Cuba. It is old, giant, picturesque and a little decrepit unless you are on the sixth floor, reserved for dignitaries and other VIPs. The patio is elegant, overlooking the water, and as in most places in Havana, there’s usually live music. The bartenders were kind enough to warn me about the quality of the tequila when I tried to order a margaria. I settled into a week of rum and don’t ever need to drink another mojito, though there was one pina colada at a rest stop (of all places) that I’ll never forget.

A block from our hotel is Hotel Capri, recently refurbished and once a mob favorite. Parque Central in Old Havana also comes highly recommended.

We spent three nights in Havana, then headed for the coast, to a port town called Matanzas and then Varadero. Matanzas is definitely off the beaten path — and worth the trip. We stopped by a book-making studio called Ediciones Vigía and watched artists piece together incredibly intricate, beautiful poetry books with a rare commodity, paper. From there it was on to the Pharmaceutical Museum – a perfectly preserved, extravagant Nineteenth Century pharmacy once owned and operated by a Dr. Triolet.

We stayed in Varadero, a beach town known for huge, all-inclusive resorts. We stayed at one. I don’t recommend that — I would have preferred to poke around the tiny town or score digs at the Xanadu Dupont Mansion. (Even if you don’t say at the mansion, stop by  – no one will mind and there are killer views.) Either way, the beach was stunning, truly “seafoam green” and, as the water stretched to the horizon, varying shades that empty your Crayola box as you try to describe them.

The restaurant scene is surprisingly good. In 2011 the government made way for paladares, restaurants run out of private homes, and the results can be stunning. The cuisine is mixed (some meals were forgettable, others not — and for not-great reasons) but so is the decor and setting — and for that, you’ll be grateful. Some of our favorites included Atelier, Decameron and Fontana. At Decameron, for example, we enjoyed a wall full of cuckoo clocks and amazing lemon meringue pie for dessert.

Don’t expect to find super souvenirs. We didn’t. There’s just not a lot of merch in Cuba. (Except for cigars, you won’t have any problems there.) Related: You’ll hear that gifts are appreciated, and while everyone we met in Cuba was extremely cordial, I got the feeling that cash would have been preferred to the costume jewelry I’d been urged to bring. You do want to bring your own over the counter medications (particularly Imodium and Pepto Bismol) and plan to leave some behind. That’s definitely appreciated. You might also want to pack some snacks; bottled water is everywhere but we didn’t see so much as a Pringle till we got to the airport on our last day.

I don’t feel like I’ve even begun to tell the story. If you’re going to Cuba or thinking about going, message me. We’ll talk.

Also: I posted more photos on Instragram. My account is @amysilverman.

The whole trip did. That’s not to say we didn’t all do our fair share of whining — and that after countless turns on the carousel, my world’s not still spinning just a bit, as I sit still to type this — but it was certainly our best trip to Disneyland yet.

And that’s saying a lot. We’ve gone every year since Annabelle turned 3, and were in danger of missing a year when I hatched a plan to spend New Year’s in Anaheim — never guessing what a popular NYE destination Disneyland is. Never mind. We saw both 2010 and 2011 in the Magic Kingdom.

This morning I asked Sophie, “What was your favorite part of the trip?” She didn’t hesitate.

“When we split up!” she said with a twinkle in her eye, knowing she was being just a little bit naughty in her admission. But I had to agree.

That’s when Annabelle and Ray hit the scary rides like Space Mountain and the Matterhorn, and Sophie and I rode the carousel or stood in line to meet the characters. If you’ve never had the privilege of watching Sophie make it to the front of the line to see Snow White (or Tigger or Alice in Wonderland or Gepetto or Goofy or Minnie or — you get the picture), you just haven’t lived, my friend.

It really is magic.

My favorite moment was when she motioned to Cinderella and asked Sleeping Beauty, “Hey, who’s that girl with the bangs?” I even got her onto the teacup ride, this time, and she needed no coaxing to run up on “stage” and dance with Mary Poppins.

Both girls cried when we left the park, and we had to promise that this wouldn’t be our only trip to Disneyland in 2011. Except for my feet, I didn’t mind a bit.

Sophie’s more demanding, but Annabelle’s got higher expectations.

That may not be the most P.C. of statements, and it may not be true forever, but for now I think I’m going to have to stand behind it. Funny that it didn’t occur to me til I got my four days alone with my older daughter.

I had a fantastic time in Portland.

When asked, Annabelle insisted she did, as well. But it’s hard to tell for sure with that one.

She registered some serious displeasure once or twice, and was certainly tired at the end of each long day, but for the most part seemed content. It’s just that Annabelle didn’t ooze joy in quite the way her sister does. She never does, I realized, as Annabelle napped against my side on the plane and I reflected on our four days together.

I know that’s typical. No one else I know wears her heart on her sleeve quite the way Sophie does. I was shocked on this trip to Portland to realize that in some ways, I prefer it.

Me, the one who doesn’t (forgive me, universe) suffer fools.

Sophie is so much harder than Annabelle in so many ways — and so often, that’s my focus. But in this case, for once, it’s the opposite.

I never have to wonder about whether or not Sophie is having fun. She tells me.

I worried all weekend about whether Annabelle was having fun, even though I shouldn’t have. She was enchanted by Portland, which she kept comparing to New York City, and her favorite part was when we wandered around downtown at night. We spent hours in the gigantic bookstore Powell’s, hunted for acorns, giggled with friends (both mine and hers) and she loved my very favorite store, the vintage treasure chest Flutter, as much as I do. (Maybe more. See her hamming it up in the picture above.)

But I worried about the stuff we didn’t have time to do, about whether she was missing Ray and Sophie, about whether I was much fun.

When we got home, Sophie opened her package of paintbrushes and hugged them like I’d brought her King Tut’s treasure. Annabelle curled up on the couch, quiet. Tired, I figured. She and Sophie took a bath and we had a brief family sing-along to Ray’s guitar, then it was time for bed. We tucked each girl in, and Ray retired to the bedroom after I claimed the TV.

The house was quiet for a while, then I heard a door open. I turned, looking for Sophie, my restless sleeper. Instead it was Annabelle. Red-eyed, she announced her stomach hurt.

“I think I’m lonely,” she finally admitted, after a long health-related quiz. “I got used to sleeping with you.”

In that moment, I knew without a doubt that Annabelle had a good time in Portland.

“I got used to sleeping with you, too,” I said, making room next to me, even though such behavior is typically forbidden past bedtime in our house. “Come here.”  

So Annabelle crawled on the couch and we extended our trip just long enough to see who got sent home on Project Runway last week.

Sophie found the one item actually not for sale in the home furnishings/clothing/accessories mecca: an artfully displayed pot of paint-splattered paintbrushes.

For a few minutes she played happily with them, allowing Annabelle and me to ooh and ahh over wool hats and teeny tiny rose shaped measuring cups. Then I noticed Sophie having a heated conversation with a saleslady, who was trying to explain that no, the paintbrushes were not for sale.

Uh oh. It didn’t matter that we have dozens of paintbrushes at home, that I had several in my purse and even an emergency pack in the glove compartment of my car. (And yes, I get how ridiculous the paintbrush obsession is.) Sophie threw herself and these particular paintbrushes down on the funky, distressed wood floor and sobbed. It took a good 15 minutes of coaxing by both Annabelle and me before she’d even lift her head.

By that point, I was exhausted. We were late to meet my parents for dinner and I hadn’t started packing for Portland — too busy celebrating Sophie Day, naturally. The day began with a play date with a friend from school, followed by a three-plus hour marathon at Chuck E. Cheese with two more friends, ice cream sandwiches and a LOT of tokens.

Then it was off to the mall, with a pit stop at home to change (filthy — thanks, Chuck E.) clothes.

It wasn’t what we did all day that got me so tired — more what Sophie did each time we had a transition. (Including the transition from home to her favorite place on earth — CEC.) She just absolutely refused to leave whatever we were doing. No matter how much I begged, cajoled, yelled and threatened. She went dead weight on me when I tried to pick her up. It usually took Annabelle to finally convince her to budge.

I stood in the middle of Anthropologie and watched Annabelle patiently whisper who-knows-what into Sophie’s tear-filled ear and thought (but did not say!), “Annabelle, we deserve a vacation, you and me.”

And so we will go, way too early tomorrow morning. (What was I thinking, booking a flight before 9 a.m.?) I’m dreading the goodbyes. They’ve already started. Tonight Sophie stood dripping on the bathmat, a cornflower blue towel wrapped toga-style (sort of) around her, and stared at me, her eyes getting redder and redder.

“Don’t go, Mommy,” she said.

“Oh Sophie,” I answered, scooping her up and helping her into her Dora nightie. “I’ll be back soon.”

She looked at me and sniffled bravely. (Crap, is she getting a cold?!)

I snuck into bed with her a little while later, to “cuddle to sleep.”

“Let’s talk,” she said, snuggling against me.

We chatted for a while, then I sang our traditional “Hey Jude,” and we both closed our eyes. I opened mine and watched her for a while. Sophie fell asleep holding my hand, the rest of her body slowly relaxing but the grip on my fingers just as tight as when she grabbed them.

I noticed that loose bottom tooth practically wiggling in the breeze and made a mental note to write the tooth fairy letter before I leave, and thought for a while about all the other stuff I better not forget to do before tomorrow at dawn.

Then I laid there for a little longer and thought about Sophie. I’ll miss her just as much as she misses me this weekend — maybe more — in a way I never thought it would be possible to miss someone, particularly (to be brutally honest) a “someone” like Sophie.

Life is funny that way, isn’t it? Sweet dreams, everyone! See you next week. I’m off to Portland to look for the biggest bouquet of paintbushes I can find.

This week is our Fall Break and on Thursday, Annabelle and I leave for a four-day trip to Portland.

Alone.

Annabelle and Ray have been away alone together several times — on a Brownie camping trip, and skiing at least once or twice. So I decided it was time AB and I take a trip on our own. I told her it would happen when she turned 9, and let her pick the city (within reason, I’m not sure what I would have done if she’d decided on Paris) and she chose Portland, Oregon.

This is in no small part because she’s got a friend there. Claire is the granddaughter of my mother’s very best friend, and after several attempts at hooking the girls up during various visits over the years, last spring it really took: These two precocious, curly-headed, older sisters announced they were BFF. They’ve been pen pals since — an eternity, in a 9-year-old’s world — and itching for a visit.

I bought plane tickets, booked a hotel room and started picking and choosing itinerary items. We’ll spend time with Claire and her family, check in with some of my pals and have some quality alone time. And maybe a VooDoo Donut.

There’s just one problem. Sophie.

(And, to be honest, Ray. He claims he doesn’t understand why I’m doing this. But that’s another story.)

It’s hard to say if Sophie “gets” the whole concept. She definitely wants to come along, does not want to wait til it’s her turn for a one-on-one trip. I promised we’ll go when she’s 9, but I’m sure it will happen much sooner. She’s already chosen her destination: Colorado, to see her cousins.

Envisioning a tearful farewell on Thursday, I took an extra day off work and declared Wednesday “Sophie Day.”

She did like the sound of that. “We can do whatever you want to do, all day long!” I told Sophie. Her face lit up and she did that thing where she vibrates all over.

So far, plans include a play date with a friend from school and a very long trip to Chuck E. Cheese. Maybe the bookstore, chocolate fro-yo and a dinner date at the mall with Gaga and Papa.

“Sophie Day” has served as a distraction, but I’m not so sure it will ease Sophie’s sadness or lessen my guilt when it comes time to get on that plane.

I  hope I’m making the right call with this trip.

I don’t have a lot of romantic notions about camping — except when it comes to Annabelle.

I’d like to think that she’ll look back on our trip last week as part of the Summer She Turned 9 — the summer she danced with her Gaga, performed in a play version of “Diary of A Wimpy Kid” and went to the beach with her cousins for the umpteenth time. The summer she went to Yellowstone.

I imagine her collection of memories: Searching (in vain) out the window of her daddy’s giant truck for grizzly bears, then watching as buffalo practically brushed up against the windows during a late afternoon traffic jam.  The stink and gurgle of those weird “thermal features.” Learning to stoke the campfire and put up the tent. Doubling over in giggles with her mom when her little sister Sophie asked a forest ranger for “extra towels” and pretending to be Olivia the Pig in order to coax that darn Sophie to do everything from get out of the truck to pick up her feet and hike. Freezing in the tent at night, listening to the wind come up and the air come out of her poor dad’s mattress — and to her mom snoring. Looking at the stars, watching movies on the iPhone, making up family versions of the Double Rainbow Song.

And Margaret. I bet she’ll remember Margaret. For all her smarts, up to now Annabelle’s not been a huge reader — not in a can’t-put-that-book-down way. Not until Margaret. I read Judy Blume’s “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret” when I was in fourth grade (or maybe third) but it didn’t occur to me that Annabelle was ready for it until a dear friend warned me her own daughter had just finished it and might start chatting with Annabelle about periods and boys.

I packed a copy of the book in Annabelle’s little pink backpack, along with her Nintendo DS and “Spesh” and “Ella,” her security blanket and stuffed elephant. She devoured it. At one point I had to warn her to slow down, that she’d run out of reading material while we were camping (one of my own personal fears). But as it was, her timing was perfect: Annabelle finished Margaret on the last morning we camped — sunk into a folding camp chair, orange Croc-ed ankles crossed daintily, dangling inches from the ground.

(Ah, the drama of the last pages of a good book. My own favorite memory is from fifth or sixth grade, when my pal Glenna Clark played the theme to the movie “Ice Castles” on her family’s piano for extra tear-jerking effect as I read the final paragraphs of Danielle Steele’s “The Promise”.)

Annabelle turned the last page and heaved one of those great big satisfied sighs you sigh when you’ve finished the greatest book you’ve ever read, and I immediately thought about which Judy Blume to give her next: “Otherwise Known as Shelia the Great” is probably too young. I’m not ready myself for “Then Again, Maybe I Won’t.” Perhaps “Deenie”? It’s a delicious debate. But I’m glad I didn’t have any other books with me; it was nice for Annabelle to spend some time reflecting with Margaret.

“Margaret talks to God,” Annabelle told me one morning as we walked the now well-worn path from our campsite to the (thankfully very clean with flush toilets) bathroom. I know, I answered, waiting, worried — this whole god thing is still a sore spot for me, particularly as the Jewish High Holidays approach this year and I have no better answers as to how proceed with a religious education than I did last year. (We’re still attending the Church of Dance….)

“And now,” she continued, “when I’m worried about something, like where I’m going to school next year or stuff going on with friends, I have someone to talk to. I can talk to Margaret.”

Frankly, I can’t think of a better confidant.

I went to Southern California and rode “It’s a Small World” all weekend.

But I wasn’t at Disneyland. Instead, another friend and I strapped ourselves in our dear friend Kathleen’s Honda Odyssey as she led a tour around the world — Little Tokyo, Little India, Little Saigon. We sampled sweet Japanese mochi from a shop in business since 1903; let an Indian woman “thread” our faces and sell us pointy-toed, mirrored shoes; and I caved and let a very sweet Vietnamese lady apply rhinestones and flowers to my big toes for the first (and, ok, last) time ever.

Three days later, I’m still sore from the Chinese massage, and I’m not entirely sure what I ate at lunch yesterday at a restaurant called Hanoi.

It was wonderful, but by the end I ached for home. I thought leaving your kids was supposed to get easier. For me it’s harder each time. On the return flight to Phoenix, my suitcase was literally exploding with bags of cute tchotchkes for the girls. I actually had to take items out, in order to cram it into the overhead compartment.

I took a lot of photos, but no image was nearly as good as the one I came home to, above.