over potholes was enough to convince Jack that the shock absorbers on the vintage Chevy were original. The ride in the back was about as comfortable as settling down onto a toilet bowl with no seat.
“How much farther?” asked Jack.
The driver just smiled.
The cab had no A/C, so Jack watched the city blocks pass through an open window. The “Cuban influence” in Miami was undeniable, but to Jack, this piece of Cuba— Habana Centro —looked nothing like his hometown. Ornate nineteenth-century apartment buildings lined the wide Paseo de Martí, styles ranging from Moorish to neo-baroque. Most were crumbling, all needed paint, and many had dropped huge chunks of stucco and concrete from decades of neglect. Dogs yapped from balconies, and it was obvious that multiple families were living in each flat, but colored-glass windows and decorative azulejos (Moorish-style Spanish tiles) were signs of former wealth. The cab stopped on a narrow side street. Jack double-checked the number above the door, and it was definitely the address that Andres had written on the doll’s foot. But the sign on the door, painted in crude letters, read ESCUELA DE BOXEO . Jack couldn’t hide his confusion.
“A boxing gym?”
“Sí.”
Jack reached for his wallet. “How much of the twenty-five CUC do you get to keep?”
The driver shrugged. “No bastante.” Not enough.
Jack tipped him ten CUC, and the note caught his eye. It bore the image of an electric power plant and boasted of Cuba’s Revolución Energética. The Energy Revolution.
“I’m curious,” Jack tried to say in Spanish. “What do you think of the oil spill?”
Again, the driver gave him only a shrug and a little smile. It was possible that Jack had mangled the question in Spanish, but more likely the driver didn’t want to talk about it to an American. Jack dropped it, thanked him for the ride, and climbed out of the cab. The door creaked like a wounded animal as it closed, and the tailpipe belched blue-gray smoke as the driver pulled away.
Jack stepped onto the sidewalk across the street from the gym and took a minute to absorb the neighborhood. His gaze drifted toward a twelve-story landmark bearing the Gotham-like emblem of a large black bat atop the art deco tower. Any true Miamian who had ever enjoyed a Cuba Libre (rum and Coke) knew the story of the old Bacardi building, “donated” to the Cuban people when the family fled Cuba after the revolution.
“Hey, dude.”
Jack froze, not sure he was hearing correctly. He turned, looked, and nearly fell over. “Theo?” he said, more an expression of shock than a question. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Theo removed his sunglasses. “What kind of welcome is that?”
Jack checked over his shoulder, more out of instinct than any real concern about confidentiality. “You can’t travel to Cuba.”
“Why not? You did.”
“I’m legal. I have close family relatives here.”
“Close family relatives my ass. There are card-carrying members of the Ku Klux Klan who speak better Spanish than you.”
“How did you get here?”
“Same way thousands of Americans do every year. Through Cancún. The Cubans are totally cool about it. They don’t even stamp your passport at immigration.”
“You’re breaking the law, Theo.”
“Actually, I’ve already broken the law. So we might as well make the most of it. After all, dude—we are still on our honeymoon.”
“This isn’t a joke. Don’t you remember how crazy things got when Jay-Z and Beyoncé went to Cuba? If they hadn’t been able to prove they had permission, they would have been prosecuted.”
Theo laughed. “Maybe Jay-Z and me can rap about it. Come on, let’s check out this gym.”
It was a can’t-beat-’em-join-’em situation, so Jack followed him across the street.
La Escuela de Boxeo was in an old building that in another century had served as the carriage house and horse stables for the wealthy residents on the Paseo. The
“How much farther?” asked Jack.
The driver just smiled.
The cab had no A/C, so Jack watched the city blocks pass through an open window. The “Cuban influence” in Miami was undeniable, but to Jack, this piece of Cuba— Habana Centro —looked nothing like his hometown. Ornate nineteenth-century apartment buildings lined the wide Paseo de Martí, styles ranging from Moorish to neo-baroque. Most were crumbling, all needed paint, and many had dropped huge chunks of stucco and concrete from decades of neglect. Dogs yapped from balconies, and it was obvious that multiple families were living in each flat, but colored-glass windows and decorative azulejos (Moorish-style Spanish tiles) were signs of former wealth. The cab stopped on a narrow side street. Jack double-checked the number above the door, and it was definitely the address that Andres had written on the doll’s foot. But the sign on the door, painted in crude letters, read ESCUELA DE BOXEO . Jack couldn’t hide his confusion.
“A boxing gym?”
“Sí.”
Jack reached for his wallet. “How much of the twenty-five CUC do you get to keep?”
The driver shrugged. “No bastante.” Not enough.
Jack tipped him ten CUC, and the note caught his eye. It bore the image of an electric power plant and boasted of Cuba’s Revolución Energética. The Energy Revolution.
“I’m curious,” Jack tried to say in Spanish. “What do you think of the oil spill?”
Again, the driver gave him only a shrug and a little smile. It was possible that Jack had mangled the question in Spanish, but more likely the driver didn’t want to talk about it to an American. Jack dropped it, thanked him for the ride, and climbed out of the cab. The door creaked like a wounded animal as it closed, and the tailpipe belched blue-gray smoke as the driver pulled away.
Jack stepped onto the sidewalk across the street from the gym and took a minute to absorb the neighborhood. His gaze drifted toward a twelve-story landmark bearing the Gotham-like emblem of a large black bat atop the art deco tower. Any true Miamian who had ever enjoyed a Cuba Libre (rum and Coke) knew the story of the old Bacardi building, “donated” to the Cuban people when the family fled Cuba after the revolution.
“Hey, dude.”
Jack froze, not sure he was hearing correctly. He turned, looked, and nearly fell over. “Theo?” he said, more an expression of shock than a question. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Theo removed his sunglasses. “What kind of welcome is that?”
Jack checked over his shoulder, more out of instinct than any real concern about confidentiality. “You can’t travel to Cuba.”
“Why not? You did.”
“I’m legal. I have close family relatives here.”
“Close family relatives my ass. There are card-carrying members of the Ku Klux Klan who speak better Spanish than you.”
“How did you get here?”
“Same way thousands of Americans do every year. Through Cancún. The Cubans are totally cool about it. They don’t even stamp your passport at immigration.”
“You’re breaking the law, Theo.”
“Actually, I’ve already broken the law. So we might as well make the most of it. After all, dude—we are still on our honeymoon.”
“This isn’t a joke. Don’t you remember how crazy things got when Jay-Z and Beyoncé went to Cuba? If they hadn’t been able to prove they had permission, they would have been prosecuted.”
Theo laughed. “Maybe Jay-Z and me can rap about it. Come on, let’s check out this gym.”
It was a can’t-beat-’em-join-’em situation, so Jack followed him across the street.
La Escuela de Boxeo was in an old building that in another century had served as the carriage house and horse stables for the wealthy residents on the Paseo. The
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