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| Compliments of Nat Geo |
Most peeps know better than to ask how I ended up in Cuba. So I will tell. It's
sort of a mystery to me too. I remember this huge nip party in Cancun and the next thing I vaguely recall was the
smell of dead fish, stale beer and cheap cigars. I woke curled
up on the deck of a rusty tub that resembled a leaky ½ gallon milk carton, the kind with a missing peep on one side and Elsie
on the other. Missing Portion.
Indeed, the crew of two not counting me were two fat guys of
questionable origins and questionable scruples. However, the knew the superstitions
of the sea – never throw a cat overboard as it is very bad lucky. Actually they found me quite amusing
when I hacked up a fur ball the size of a fishing lure. Why these to sailors
were headed to Cuba
I could only guess. I was trying to figure out why I was headed there with
them.
Before taking on water knee deep – their knees, not mine –
we puttered into the harbor at Havana.
Before anyone could say, “Papers. I need
to see your papers,” I was off the boat, off the dock and scurrying like a rat
leaving a sinking ship. Nobody paid me any mind. At 4 in the morning even the street
sweepers were still.
Havana
is huge! I had always imagined the place as some sleepy forgotten enterprise
found in a Jimmy
Buffet novel. Vintage cars,
Spanish arches, thick rum, skillfully rolled fat cigars, Che Guevara
murals... the stuff of legends and exotic appeal. Glitz and glimmer sitting
next to grime and grit. And more. The Habaneros are proud and silently
defiant peeps. Life just happens here
despite itself. The city felt like it
was constantly pushing a boulder up a hill for no reason at all. Very weird.
Did I mention Fidel? He caught wind of the fact that I has
sneeked onto his little piece of fantasy island and hunted me down like a would be president would hunt down a dog for dinner. Except Fidel wasn’t looking for
dinner. He knew I sat with the Queen of England last year and wished to have
the very same privilege. Who knew Fidel
was on Twitter?
After he promised a TUNA banquet I humored the old guy. What a
coup for me. (Sorry dude, I just had to say it. Frighten isn’t it?) But at the
suggestion that I get a ride in a '57 Chevy to the gates of Gitmo, he balked. Pushed
my kitty luck a little too far. And once again I found myself wandering about
Paradise Lost.
