Cuba Bound

By Mike Huber

So, I had just finished a certification exam that required more studying than I care to discuss. It was December 2008, and I was mentally exhausted and in much need of a beach vacation to reward myself for passing this rigorous exam.  At the time I happened to be visiting Montreal and decided to hit up a travel agent to see what deals were available.  My only criteria were sun, beach, and relaxation.  It is rare that I ever take time to slow down, even on vacation.  It seems most of my vacations leave me more exhausted than relaxed (even though they are pretty rewarding).  At this juncture in my life I needed a “time out” to bask in the accomplishment of passing that exam, so I wasn’t looking for anything too adventurous.

The travel agent in Montreal listened to my criteria and recommended Mexico or Cuba.  As a citizen of the United States, I thought I was not allowed in Cuba and when asking the agent, she assured me it was not a problem.  Cuba was much less expensive than Mexico, it would meet my beach requirements, and it was off the beaten path since Americans were not formally supposed to travel there.  Cuba it is!

The flight to Havana was a short 3 hours from Montreal and I was already yearning for a Cuban cigar and a glass of Havana rum while admiring sights along the white sand beaches.  Once the flight began to descend it hit me as I could see the last of the Florida Keys fading away from the plane window “Wow, I wonder how much that travel agent really knew about the embargo for Americans.” I was about to find out.

Feeling a little bit nervous as I entered the immigration queue, I saw those ahead of me enter this little glass box.  The doors closed, they showed their travel documents, and once the doors opened on the other side they were officially in Cuba.  As it became my turn I entered the glass box, it closed, I showed my American passport when the immigration agent looked at it.  He said “Uno momento” and went in back to gather with four other agents who looked at me, then at my passport, and began passing it around like a Mickey Mantle rookie card.  Ahhhh, this is how my Locked up Abroad episode would begin I thought.

The Cuban people love Americans, and it is so rare an occurrence to see an actual American passport that it draws a lot of curiosity and attention, something I wasn’t particularly looking for.  When the agent went to stamp my passport, I quickly remembered about the embargo.  A Cuban stamp in my passport would not go over well when I returned to the United States next week.

“No Stamp por favor” I said nervously. He laughed said no problem and opened the glass box for me to enter Cuba. I made it! This is so cool!

What little I knew of Cuba was that my entire wallet was now useless. Health insurance, credit cards, ATM access:  Nothing would be accepted in this country due to the embargo.  I had about $200 Canadian and reservations to an all-inclusive resort to ensure I could enjoy a week relaxing and not worryimg about the limitations due to lack of cash.  This idea worked perfectly, with the exception that my travels would be limited to short day trips near the resort in Veracruz, and it wouldn’t allow me to visit Havana.

This was all fine with me.  I was able to relax at the beach while still having the ability to leave the resort to take in some local food and sights.  This included cigar stores, drooling over the 1950’s cars that were still in pristine condition, and of course soaking up some much-needed sun. The resort where I was staying was filled with Canadians and whenever they had those silly contests in the evening they would always ask where the person was from.  I was tempted every time I was called upon to grab the microphone and loudly say “The United States of America,” and then I would revel in the silence that was sure to follow that statement.  For once I listened to my Dad’s advice (Don’t do anything stupid, Mike).  For the entire trip I identified as a Canadian from Toronto (I couldn’t say Montreal as I didn’t speak French) and I successfully avoided the temptation to say otherwise.

As the week came to a close, I had a great tan.  I was relaxed and refreshed both mentally and physically. Mission accomplished!

Once we began our descent into Montreal a revelation hit me: I still had to re-enter the United States, with a tan, in January, from Montreal.  Would the US Immigration agent know I was in Cuba?

When the plane hit the tarmac, I did what any mature person who thought they were about to get into trouble does. I phoned my Mom and let her know that I may have overstepped, and she may be receiving a call from the US State Department in reference to my traveling shenanigans.  After hanging up the phone I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was a friend I had made at the resort.  He happened to be sitting behind me and overheard the conversation with my mom.  He let me know that I could use him as an alibi and that he was a member of a health club in Montreal that had tanning beds.  That seemed to be a solid response to any questioning I might soon face.  I’ll go with that, I decided. I began to feel a bit more confident as I nervously crossed into Vermont. The US Immigration officer had no questions for me and simply said “Welcome home Mr. Huber,” as he waved my car onward. It was only about 10 degrees that night, yet I still could feel the warmth from the Cuban sun glowing while breathing a sigh of relief I happily drove by the “Welcome to The United States of America” sign.  Cuba let me accomplish all my relaxation goals and tacked on a pretty cool story along the way.

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If you would like to read more about motorcycling in Cuba, take a look at Christopher Baker’s Mi Moto Fidel.

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