Canadians were free to travel to Cuba when Fidel Castro was in power as its Communist leader, and I was curious to see what he'd done to the country, when I was 35 in 1981.
Books showed beautiful people, and horses on perfect beaches, happy children in cute little uniforms walking side by side to school, lush green countryside, and an island promoted as having no racial discrimination because Cubans were all shapes and shades and Catholic.
The tour booked rooms in an old, expensive hotel on the waterfront, where Russian ships arrived several times a day, slipping by the downtown Havana hotel's cement patios and seawall to dock at the main wharves.
Attached to the booking was a small condition - we may not be staying in this hotel. The travel agent said that Cuba did that all the time, so be ready for it.
Our flight left Toronto late at night in the dead of winter because no foreigners were allowed to descend upon Cuba in the light of day, causing those foreigners to wonder what Castro was hiding from them and the free world.
I flew with the expectations of exploring the island, riding a horse on the white sugary sand of the crystal clear blue waters that lazily lapped at the shores. I wanted to see the museums and shop at downtown stores and taste the food that Cubans offered and buy giant ice cream cones made from exotic fruits and creams and spices.
I longed to see those happy child faces on their way to school and feast my eyes on the dramatic three-storey houses of the rich, mansions that boasted wide wooden verandahs on all three floors, set on streets lined with massive oleander vines climbing poles and fences in red splendor, along the sidewalks.
I knew these things were there just waiting for me, because the books and the travel brochures proved it did in colored glory, pages and write-ups and a "come and see me" attitude.
Wrong.
But I'll get to all that in the next post.
Our plane landed in the dark and we pulled out our passports and once again were reminded by the captain from the cockpit to be respectful and answer the customs officer's questions in clear English and smile a lot.
Okaaay.
Being told this twice put me on edge. I had horrors of being handcuffed and whisked away to prison to be never heard from again, if I didn't smile enough. Oh, yes, the captain said to keep eye contact with the authorities at all times, to prove we weren't hiding anything from them.
Customs at the Havana airport was in a small building and there were only two officers waiting to see us, so we lined up, mentally gambling on which officer was the least scary-looking in his seriousness and mood.
When I stepped up to the window where the Cuban officer stood a good foot above me in an enclosed booth, a great method of intimidation if I ever saw one, I expected him to do what he had done with the tourists ahead of me - look at the passport then at the tourist to match the face in the photo, check your papers to see that they were in order, ask a small question, then hand back the papers, and say not another word.
Wrong.
But I'll... You know what I was going to say.
Books showed beautiful people, and horses on perfect beaches, happy children in cute little uniforms walking side by side to school, lush green countryside, and an island promoted as having no racial discrimination because Cubans were all shapes and shades and Catholic.
The tour booked rooms in an old, expensive hotel on the waterfront, where Russian ships arrived several times a day, slipping by the downtown Havana hotel's cement patios and seawall to dock at the main wharves.
Attached to the booking was a small condition - we may not be staying in this hotel. The travel agent said that Cuba did that all the time, so be ready for it.
Our flight left Toronto late at night in the dead of winter because no foreigners were allowed to descend upon Cuba in the light of day, causing those foreigners to wonder what Castro was hiding from them and the free world.
I flew with the expectations of exploring the island, riding a horse on the white sugary sand of the crystal clear blue waters that lazily lapped at the shores. I wanted to see the museums and shop at downtown stores and taste the food that Cubans offered and buy giant ice cream cones made from exotic fruits and creams and spices.
I longed to see those happy child faces on their way to school and feast my eyes on the dramatic three-storey houses of the rich, mansions that boasted wide wooden verandahs on all three floors, set on streets lined with massive oleander vines climbing poles and fences in red splendor, along the sidewalks.
I knew these things were there just waiting for me, because the books and the travel brochures proved it did in colored glory, pages and write-ups and a "come and see me" attitude.
Wrong.
But I'll get to all that in the next post.
Our plane landed in the dark and we pulled out our passports and once again were reminded by the captain from the cockpit to be respectful and answer the customs officer's questions in clear English and smile a lot.
Okaaay.
Being told this twice put me on edge. I had horrors of being handcuffed and whisked away to prison to be never heard from again, if I didn't smile enough. Oh, yes, the captain said to keep eye contact with the authorities at all times, to prove we weren't hiding anything from them.
Customs at the Havana airport was in a small building and there were only two officers waiting to see us, so we lined up, mentally gambling on which officer was the least scary-looking in his seriousness and mood.
When I stepped up to the window where the Cuban officer stood a good foot above me in an enclosed booth, a great method of intimidation if I ever saw one, I expected him to do what he had done with the tourists ahead of me - look at the passport then at the tourist to match the face in the photo, check your papers to see that they were in order, ask a small question, then hand back the papers, and say not another word.
Wrong.
But I'll... You know what I was going to say.
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