Castro's Cuba

Cuba in two weeks - not enough time to take in the island, but the music, the cars and the people make it unique. I flew down there with my ex-husband, a generation older than me, who had been to quite a few countries, but he was a pampered, five-star hotel traveler - pools, happy hours, club med, arranged tours - and he couldn't compete with the the savvy of the local sharks. When we arrived at the airport in Varadero, we were given a customs form which we would have to turn in upon leaving the country.

'Don't lose that, Stan,' I said.
'What do you think I am? Stupid?' 
Varadero was okay for a night, a club med type thing, but not the Cuba I wanted to see. After an afternoon swimming and sightseeing, we struck out for Havana. 

We got a ride to Havana with two fellows we met at the bar and after looking for a guesthouse that wasn't full, we were recommended a room in a middle-aged couple's house one block from the promenade. It was wonderful, too, in that the wife was a great cook and it was just like being part of a family. Friends and family members dropped by who gave us advice as to what to see. Her nephew came over one night and told us he'd take us to the Havana Cafe so we waited until he showed up the next night. The Havana Cafe was designed in the old nightclubs of the 40s. You almost felt like Al Capone would walk in any moment. Two cars from the fifties were showcased and an airplane from World War II hung from the ceiling. The music rocked Cuban style and they had a fabulous floor show with can-can girls and musical acts. I've never seen dancing like I saw that night and it was one of the best nights I've ever experienced. The Cubans just know how to rock!

 

Al Capone's house in Cuba (now a restaurant)

When our trip was over, we arrived at the airport tired and happy and lined up to go through customs.  The immigration officer looked at my passport and the customs paper that had been given to me on arrival and which I had to resubmit. He nodded for me to pass. Stan got his passport out and opened it, and then rifled through it. And then rifled through it again.

'Where's the paper I got?' he said.
'You can't find it?'
'Dammit, it's gotta be here somewheres.'
'You can't leave without it.'
He was told to stand aside while he went through his wallet and after combing through it and finding nothing he dove into his rucksack, tearing it apart as he looked for his entry paper. I said I'd be waiting at the departure gate. He looked up at me and fear crossed his face. 

'I hope you get through,' I said. Half an hour later and just before boarding, he came rushing towards me, sweat pouring down his face and neck.
'Gosh, those guys just put me through the wringer. I thought they were going to bring me to jail and I'd miss the plane.'
'They were probably kidding with you. You're too old to put in jail.'
'Were you gonna leave without me?'
'That question is better left unanswered.'