The customs officer never smiled. He was already an attractive man, but a smile would really have softened up that look he had on his face when I stepped up to the window
I handed him my passport, because he said, "Passport."
He looked at it and studied my photo for a while, then looked at me, and studied me for a while, which made me a little more nervous than I already was. His eyes were glaring at mine by now.
Then he looked at my passport photo again, then back at me again, so already he wasn't following the pattern of those tourists he'd checked through before me, and my stomach flipped over, and I thought, I'm in trouble.
His dark eyes narrowed on mine after a third photo check, and I held my breath.
Then - "Papers."
I didn't dare breathe as I handed him my papers that were shaking all on their own. The people behind me waiting their turn, my friends, were fidgeting and nervous, which didn't help me at all.
The officer studied my papers a little too closely, so unlike the others he'd observed, and I was sure I was headed for prison in handcuffs right then and there, doomed forever.
Finally, when I could stand the suspense not a second longer, he shoved the papers back at me, then my passport, and gave me one last look.
I said, "Thank you," so humbled by now with relief that I would have been willing to dig ditches instead of playing the Canadian tourist, if he'd asked me to. Heck, I would have volunteered.
I moved aside and a nervous friend took my place up at the window.
My legs wobbled across the small floor space and over to the door where the other tourists were exiting, smiling and happy, while I was swallowing and terrified.
Outside, the night was black and as soft as a rabbit, fragrant and sweet. I saw buses lined up beyond the cement and drivers waiting down on the pavement.
And for some stupid reason, I panicked and started to run.
Tourists stared and guides stared as I whizzed by them in panic, going nowhere but into the night, anywhere to get away.
I can't believe I did that.
A man was yelling my name and running after me, and I kept right on going.
I heard, "What are you doing!"
And then reality clicked in. And I stopped. And felt so stupid.
When he caught up to me, a friend, I said, still shaking, "He scared me."
He said, "I know. But running away?"
I said, "I should never have come to Cuba."
WRONG.
I should have come to Cuba, and I was glad I did, in the long run.
We didn't get our luxurious hotel on the water, the one we paid for. The bus took us to another hotel about three blocks in from the luxurious one.
It had a small lobby and no shops. It had a small elevator with a female attendant. They did not let us ever use the elevator on our own.
The rooms were small but clean and nice. There was a rooftop patio and a deep pool with a lovely view over houses and rooftop gardens and chickens pecking in the plants.
In the morning, roosters crowed, rooftop roosters sitting on ledges and clothes lines in the light of dawn, a wonderful sound and sight in Havana, Cuba in 1981, on my first day there.
I handed him my passport, because he said, "Passport."
He looked at it and studied my photo for a while, then looked at me, and studied me for a while, which made me a little more nervous than I already was. His eyes were glaring at mine by now.
Then he looked at my passport photo again, then back at me again, so already he wasn't following the pattern of those tourists he'd checked through before me, and my stomach flipped over, and I thought, I'm in trouble.
His dark eyes narrowed on mine after a third photo check, and I held my breath.
Then - "Papers."
I didn't dare breathe as I handed him my papers that were shaking all on their own. The people behind me waiting their turn, my friends, were fidgeting and nervous, which didn't help me at all.
The officer studied my papers a little too closely, so unlike the others he'd observed, and I was sure I was headed for prison in handcuffs right then and there, doomed forever.
Finally, when I could stand the suspense not a second longer, he shoved the papers back at me, then my passport, and gave me one last look.
I said, "Thank you," so humbled by now with relief that I would have been willing to dig ditches instead of playing the Canadian tourist, if he'd asked me to. Heck, I would have volunteered.
I moved aside and a nervous friend took my place up at the window.
My legs wobbled across the small floor space and over to the door where the other tourists were exiting, smiling and happy, while I was swallowing and terrified.
Outside, the night was black and as soft as a rabbit, fragrant and sweet. I saw buses lined up beyond the cement and drivers waiting down on the pavement.
And for some stupid reason, I panicked and started to run.
Tourists stared and guides stared as I whizzed by them in panic, going nowhere but into the night, anywhere to get away.
I can't believe I did that.
A man was yelling my name and running after me, and I kept right on going.
I heard, "What are you doing!"
And then reality clicked in. And I stopped. And felt so stupid.
When he caught up to me, a friend, I said, still shaking, "He scared me."
He said, "I know. But running away?"
I said, "I should never have come to Cuba."
WRONG.
I should have come to Cuba, and I was glad I did, in the long run.
We didn't get our luxurious hotel on the water, the one we paid for. The bus took us to another hotel about three blocks in from the luxurious one.
It had a small lobby and no shops. It had a small elevator with a female attendant. They did not let us ever use the elevator on our own.
The rooms were small but clean and nice. There was a rooftop patio and a deep pool with a lovely view over houses and rooftop gardens and chickens pecking in the plants.
In the morning, roosters crowed, rooftop roosters sitting on ledges and clothes lines in the light of dawn, a wonderful sound and sight in Havana, Cuba in 1981, on my first day there.
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