Tales to Tell: Cuban Cigar Caper

Sometimes the wisdom that comes with age and experience is not all it is cracked up to be. Sometimes all it does is guarantee that you will miss out on an adventure. Sometimes, the openness, naivete, and blissful ignorance of youth are exactly what a traveler most needs. Just like the bean did for Jack, these youthful qualities can lead to an adventure. I have discovered that some youthful folly can serve the traveler well. I cannot speak for others, but the last thing I want to miss out on when I find myself in some far away land is an adventure. Youthful folly in the guise of a daring eighteen year old fresh out of high school was my ticket to a great adventure in the bowels of Havana in June of 2000.

In late June of 2000, I found myself with a group of educators in Cuba on a tour sponsored by the World Affairs Council of Philadelphia. Two of my fellow educators had taken their eighteen year old sons along. One day we visited the Museum of the Revolution in Havana. Cuba's Museum of the Revolution is housed in a lovely neo-Classical building, the former presidential palace. Having spent some time in the former Soviet Union, I was all too familiar with museums of the revolution. They are often more interesting on the outside than on the inside, and they are not air-conditioned. While this is not a consideration in December in Moscow, it certainly is a consideration in late June in Havana.

Very quickly the tour became tedious and tiresome not only to me but also to Drew, one of the two young men in our group. After about an hour, I was tired of the Socialist realist revolutionary murals, tired of photographs of Castro in the jungle, tired of the dummies in dusty old uniforms, tired of rifles and tired of the heat and humidity. I wanted out, and so did Drew.

We left the museum to wait outside for the other more stouthearted in our group. We hadn't been out on the street for long when we were approached by a black marketeer who asked us if we wanted to buy some Cuban cigars. We had been warned by our guide about these black market Cuban cigars, how they were always fake and how they were rolled in banana leaves. I also knew enough about the black market in communist states from my experience in the former Soviet Union and the former German Democratic Republic to be very leery of them.

With all the certitude of an informed adult, I dismissed our black marketeer's offer with a they're-rolled-in-banana-l

eaves put down. "No, no banana leaves," he immediately sought to reassure us. As I turned my back and started to walk away, Drew's face lit up, and he started to pummel the guy with questions. Before I knew it, the two of them were taking off for parts unknown. Without giving it any real thought, I followed in hot pursuit.

Soon Drew and I found ourselves in a Havana neighborhood that our guide had left off the tour. Cubans who hadn't paid much attention to us anywhere else were suddenly taking note of our presence in their midst. The buildings were in terrible decay. Balconies seemed so rickety they looked like they could fall into the street at any minute, and every now and then you could see an area where a balcony had once been and know that is exactly what had happened.

Our new friend led us into a ground floor apartment not only closing but also locking the door behind him. Suddenly, I felt just a little uneasy and wondered exactly what I had gotten myself into. As if on cue, two other guys appeared in the spartanly furnished living room. None of them knew much English at all. Spanish is not one of my languages, but I knew that Drew had studied it for four years in high school from which he had just graduated, and that made me feel a little better about the situation.

They went back into the kitchen and brought out several boxes of various brands of Cuban cigars. Drew and I recognized Cohibas, considered by connoisseurs the finest Cuban cigar, and Romeo y Juliettas, favored by Churchill. The cigars looked like individual works of art to me. The boxes they came in were beautiful, as well, but what did I know? When the men started talking price, Drew looked at me and asked, "How much is that?" I knew we were in trouble! "Drew, you've had four years of Spanish! Didn't you learn the numbers in the first couple of months of Spanish I!? How high can it be!?" Negotiations went back and forth in our friends' fractured English and Drew's even more fractured Spanish.

As the tediously halting and hopelessly fractured give and take continued, I was getting more and more anxious. Finally, Drew made a decision and forked over a hundred and some odd dollars for a box of fine Cohibas. "Good! Now let's get the hell out of here," I said with great relief. We went for the door and were stopped by the guy, who had approached us on the street. He physically put himself between us and the door and motioned for us to sit down. His actions came with an explanation in Spanish, but that did neither Drew nor me any good at all. A couple of tense minutes went by, and for the first time in my life, I had the panicky feeling that I was being held against my will. He approached the door, opened it, and looked out. Who knows what he was doing!? Checking for nosy neighbors? For the police? Maybe it was all just for show to give the tourists the illusory thrill that they really were involved in something clandestine and illegal. Drew and I will never know. Finally, the guy opened the door, shook our hands and bid us goodbye. We were left to our own devices to find our way out of whatever off-the-beaten-tourist-path neighborhood we were in and get back to the Museum of the Revolution.

Did we ever have some tale to tell that night at dinner! It left the group in stitches. I remember Drew's mother thanking me for accompanying him on the escapade! Somehow, she was reassured that an adult was on hand. As if an adult who knew no Spanish and nothing about the Cuban black market would have been any help at all, had we gotten ourselves into any more serious a mess than we actually did!

The hotel had a lounge with a great band. That night, Drew and I celebrated our successful foray in the Cuban black market with a shot of fine Cuban rum and our ill gotten black market loot. After the set, one of the band members came over and said in very good English, "I can tell from the way they're burning that those are black market cigars. You got conned."

Well, I didn't get conned. Drew did. Without the con, though, there would have been no adventure. No, that's not quite right. Without Drew, there would have been no adventure. No story to tell my family, friends and students. No memory to savor for the rest of my life. Wisdom was no match that afternoon for the folly of youth. Lucky me!

Well, I didn't get conned. Drew did. Without the con, though, there would have been no adventure. No, that's not quite right. Without Drew, there would have been no adventure. No story to tell my family, friends and students. No memory to savor for the rest of my life. Wisdom was no match that afternoon for the folly of youth. Lucky me! Drew and I in the hotel lounge celebrating our adventure