One characteristic of all tour guides is to include shopping trips in the itinerary, especially if the guide gets a kickback from the storekeeper. In the first releases on the People to People Ambassador's trip to Cuba, no mention was made of one of the days in Havana being a chance to buy the native crafts and shop for rum and cigars. Adding air fares and hotel bills to markups for tourists makes a shot glass saying "Best swishes from Hawaii" or a white tea towel embroidered in red thread reading "Dry between the lines" run over the price of two ounces of gold.

The day we hit the shops, the moment we stepped from the bus, cigar salesmen swarmed the delegation. Buses are so obvious, no avenue of escape is possible. My plan was to hit the big line of bookstalls in the square to give the impression I dwelt on a higher plane than street bargains and sidewalk crooks. I won the first skirmish by shouting to the pests in Spanish, "my hearing aid batteries are weak." (Las baterias de mi audiophonos estan debil.) Also in my favor was an old codger sitting on an iron bench, laughing at my defense. An appreciative audience always improves a performance.

The two busloads of Americans moved on to an upper story shop in an old fort without ever looking back. The young scamps gave up after a policeman arrived. I sought refuge in the cathedral. Cubans do not have the right of assembly; however, in deference to Pope Paul's visit in 1998, restrictions were lifted on the practice of religion. Roman Catholicism is the principal faith, however, an African variation called "Santeria" is widely practiced in the homes. The saying goes that if you scratch a Cuban Catholic, you'll find Santeria below.

Lack of decorum inside the church beat the misbehavior of the public anywhere in the world. A young couple threw down backpacks to change clothes behind a large pillar; men and women alike passed by chewing on cigars, or taking a drag from a cigarette. I feared that any minute a huge beam or a rock wall was going to collapse on top of this infamy. "Better to brave the street than to test the patience of the Heavenly Father," I decided.

Outside, I joined one of the American groups headed for the National Museum. They were easy to trail in the smoke stream off the freshly fired stogies. A flood of tears kept a bandanna over my mouth wet enough to prevent suffocation. (No-smoking zones are unknown in Cuba.) Inside the museum, I told a lady guarding a room of horse-drawn coaches to skip fumigating the cushions for moths next spring as the quality of the cigars burning in the room would give protection for two seasons.

Next door, a glass case held a spur lost by a Texan in the Battle of San Juan Hill. Many of the troops lost more than a spur from a yellow fever epidemic, so I had to hope the old boy had made it home with his other spur. The lost spur had a two-inch rowel mounted on a silver-plated gooseneck shank. Be my bet the boy was shot down off his horse looking for his lost spur. The guides ignored questions about San Juan Hill. Anti-American feeling by the government must forbid the subject, or maybe the guides didn't know the story.

Shopping forays dragged the day into a sudden realization that we had to be back to the hotel to dress for a reception at the U.S. Embassy. Dress code at the briefing stated "causal business attire is acceptable; no shorts or sandals at the Embassy." We arrived by taxi at our appointed hour. Guards opened the doors to a sparkling crystal chandelier salon equal to any grand ballroom in the world's castles. The purpose for the elegance was that in 1941, President Roosevelt ordered the place built for a retreat. The lady at the head of the receiving line was indeed of ambassador rank and stature, yet in Cuba she was only a minister there under the auspices of the Swiss government.

After drinks, we sat down for a briefing of the situation. The salient fact was that the U.S. agreed in 1994 to allow 20,000 Cubans to emigrate to our shores. Five hundred thousand entered the lottery. Thus, unlike any other foreign problems, our country must cushion against causing a mass exodus across the sea. Much more was discussed, but the threat of all these people fleeing, and the tragic impact of their confinement in a totalitarian state, overrode the rest of the discussion.

As final as the lights dimming in a club, we were dismissed. Long lines of taxis whisked us back to the hotel. Out the cab window, Havana looked much more serious after hearing the ambassador. "This country is in shambles," I thought. "Death or Socialism," Castro's slogans read. Darkened by the talk, it sounded like "death" had won ...

December 14, 2000