Independence Day (Cuba)

He was blacker than most black people but with the whitest broad smile I've ever seen. I'd just checked into the Hostal Del Tejadillo and it was his first day on the job. He was taking his time trying to get the entire process right. I'd made the reservations on-line and Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me) had picked me up at the Jose Marti airport and brought me here. I have to give Cuban Airlines credit for a couple of things. Though the airplane was 1940's vintage with ropes for seatbelts, they had a cigar cart and a rum cart which is a perfect way to fly from Nassau, Bahamas to Havana, Cuba. I was smoked up and wasted when we arrived and had to pee really bad. Of course I was detained by Immigration as they questioned why I was in Cuba. "I am on a missionary mission," I explained hopping from one foot to another. He carefully eyed my passport for a full five minutes before stamping it. I already had a foot out of the door as I sprinted to the rest room where an old man blocked my entrance. I needed to throw change into a jar before I could enter. Capitalism is alive and well in Cuba. Michael ... pronounced Michelle by him ... carried my backpack to my room. He showed me how to turn on the facets in the bathroom, gave me a key to the safe and asked Bill and I if he can make any arrangements for us. "What kind of arrangements?" I asked. He winked. "Ahh Sir," he answered, "for the Cabaret?" "No thanks," we told him. "We going to Salsa tonight." And we did. A bunch of students at the University of Havana met us and walked us five miles to a tiny apartment where we were told that we must move all of the furniture before we could dance. So we did ... into the front yard ... except for the chair that the little old lady in ... she was the mother of one of the students and was in charge of the Boom Box. On a hot Cuban night, we danced with Communists who love Americans. Perhaps twenty of us were crowded in the tiny two bedroom unit. They taught me Salsa. I showed them Shag." Laughter errupted and neighbors showed up to join in. Salsa is religion in Cuba. At 3:00 in the morning, they carried us back to a street corner so that I could fall into a cab. In Cuba, Rum and Salsa go together. The Taxi dropped me off in front of the Hostal Del Tejadillo, which was closed. A giant metal door had been pulled down over the front door. Cursing, I banged on it. "Micheal?" Michael asked. "Stop it! "You're going to wake everybody up." "Let me in," I slurred. He did with the white teeth smile and told me that he would take me to my room. He was much bigger than me, so he basically carried me up two flights of stairs and put me to bed. The next morning, I stumbled downstairs in the same clothes he'd put me to bed in. Michael handed me a tiny cup of strong Cuban coffee. "You look like ..." he struggled with the words, "how do you say in English?" "Shit," I said rubbing my head and drinking the coffee. "That's it," he exclaimed. We talked throughout the afternoon. I'd slept through the morning. He gave me a book about Che Guevara who is a Jesus figure in third world countries and one of my heros. I asked him what he wanted from the States and he told me a Bible. When I got back I sent him one, along with a copy of Running With the Dolphins so he could learn a bit about the island I live on. I don't know if he ever got it. I tried to track him down to see but never could. It is a Communist country still and everybody in the world except Americans visit Cuba. Our Government hates their Government which hates our Government ... which is the way Government works (Mine's bigger than yours ...) This morning, on the Eve of American Independence Day, I find myself thinking of Michael ... I hope he got the books. Actually, I pray that he did.