The Havana terminal and customs office gleamed with waxed floors and polished rails. A quick check at a baggage scale showed my black roll-on bag weighed 16 pounds below the 44-pound maximum. My training weight metered plus two pounds from home. The Livestock Weekly on my business card was blotted in dark ink. My costume consisted of a pair of neutral colored cargo pants held up by a gray leather belt and a blue cotton travel shirt topped by a red bandanna. A slight tic in my right eyelid started flicking from anxiety. Just before time to go to the glassed window, an idiot broke from another line and screamed, "I don't want to go back to Cuba! I don't have or want any money!"

The guy behind poked me into gear. I expected any moment to see three roughshod policemen stamp the raging fool into the floor, but any of the Cuban faces visible remained impassive or laughed aloud. All the customs officer did was initial the date on the Cuban visa. No delay occurred through the baggage inspection area; no questions were asked about my occupation.

We mounted two buses to bounce through pot-holed streets dominated by bold male pedestrians teasing girls in bright red dresses on the sidewalks, reckless bicycle riders wobbling across lanes, and beeping car horns predating the Revolution of 1959. Two-story colonial houses trimmed in white scrolls on backgrounds of green and yellow tints straining to cover patches of bare plaster stood ready to crumble if from nothing else than the weight of the clotheslines hanging across the windows.

The hotel personnel met us in the lobby serving cocktails from trays. The Hotel Melia Havana proved to be more a palace than a hotel. We dined from buffets filled from the offerings of the generous kitchens of Spain, the designers and owners of the place. The American team scored high on table speed as we'd only eaten airport snacks since breakfast.

After traveling all day, my eyes drooped so bad, the lids wouldn't open wide enough to see over the upper lenses of my bifocals. A young guy asked if I was going out on the town. I told him, "Yes, I was going to check the skyline on the glass elevator rising to my room on the sixth floor."

We boarded Cuban Air on the assigned day, November 1. Boarding time, however, proved a vague number saying "1300," or 2 p.m., yet meaning we'd leave Nassau in the afternoon before dark for Havana. Under the auspices of The People to People Ambassador Program, passing from Bahamas customs took so little effort, we passed into the foreign departure area before I realized it.

The U.S. Treasury Department of Cuban Assets Control's license listing each of the delegates' names on the travel documents to Cuba carried a lot of weight to pass all immigration officials. For years, I wore the People to People nametag from the long-ago China trip until the safety pin holding the celluloid envelope sprung out of shape. I marched through such red tape jambs and suitcase snoops at Miami and Montreal as smooth as taking the water slide into a country club swimming pool.

We needed the influence in Cuba. Not to pass Cuban customs, but to pass back into the U.S. Our embargo forbids spending more than $183 daily per citizen on all goods and services, and a more serious restriction limits the total amount of goods to be brought back into the United States to $100 for personal use only. (The Treasury license removes the $183 limit, but the $100 one stands under all circumstances.)

Studying the delegation departing the Bahamas, strolling by the duty-free shop and glancing away from the cigars and rum — a dead giveaway for a smuggler — I'd have bet this was the launching of the biggest fermented cane and stogie smuggling expedition since bootleggers sailed from Havana in the 1920s to circumvent Prohibition. This isn't saying they resembled the thugs on the posters in the Post Office, but I will say that unless the likes of Little Red Riding hood were working for Miami Customs, they were going to be stuck for sure.

We boarded the plane up a steep stairway, leading through a door more like a hatch. Seats must have come from an old movie theater. Takeoff instructions omitted bringing the seat back to an upright position as part of the trick of staying upright took gripping the armrest. Lady in the middle seat wanted to know the carryon luggage restrictions. I told her the important part was the nature of the carry off policy.

"The Cuban Air Force lacks fuel and spare parts," I informed her. "Furthermore, the airline belongs to the State and is bound to be suffering the same shortages." She stayed quiet the rest of the flight, real quiet.

November 30, 2000