Luz de Castilla - Summer of '22 Book IX - 3. Sightseeing

“Good morning.” CJ climbed into the dark-green Hyundai Santa Fe and threw his bag in the back seat. “Nice car.”

“Thanks. It’s a government vehicle, but we have it for the next few days.” Camilo had found the young American waiting for him outside the hotel.

“We need to bump into one of those old Chevys at some point. I’d love to try driving one, but what I really want’s a few pictures of Owen and me with it.”

“Let me see what I can do. Maybe I can borrow one. I’ll make a couple of calls.”

Owen was in meetings until lunchtime. CJ had stopped by the Nature Conservancy’s breakfast table on his way to get coffee and backed away after kissing his husband goodbye. Jay was again in the midst of a tantrum and stared at CJ with disgust when he approached the delegation. He hoped Owen didn’t lose it during the final session.

“Hey! That’s the U.S. ambassador’s house.” CJ recognized the structure from pictures he had seen while surfing the net prior to the trip.

Camilo nodded as he slowed down and parked across from it. “Except no ambassador has lived in it since 1960.”

That year, Philip Bonsal had left when diplomatic relations were severed between the United States and Cuba. The embassy reopened in 2014 and was currently run by Benjamin G. Ziff, the chargé d'affaires ad interim.

“The guy in charge of the embassy lives in it now, right?” CJ wanted a couple of pictures. He reached for his bag and stepped out of the car.

“He does. It’s also where President Obama and his family stayed when they visited. Who knows? Maybe you’ll stay there during your next trip. After all, you seem to move in the right circles. The pictures of you with Biden in the White House were circulated by multiple media outlets, and I saw the one of you and Owen with the Obamas in your social media. Where was that one taken?”

“Our house in Washington. We had the Obamas and my fathers over for dinner when Owen’s parents visited last month.”

“See? You do move in the right circles to get invited here. Maybe you’ll be the next ambassador, you’ll get to live there, and you and Owen will have me over for dinner so I can meet your children.”

“Ha! Don’t talk shit, Camilo. I’m too young to be an ambassador, and I’ll be in school for the next couple of years.”

A fifteen-minute drive from the Hotel Presidente, the residence was built in the late 1930s out of coral limestone, with marble columns and floors. The two-story building was more than half the size of the White House. The property had a swimming pool, tennis court, beautiful grounds, and an enviable location near the water. It had been cared for first by the Albanians, then the Swiss, until it was partially refurbished when a new mission was established in 1977.

While the stop at the ambassadorial home had come as a surprise, the next one—some twenty minutes further west—was at a place CJ had mentioned he wanted to visit. His maternal grandparents, Juan and Olga Santos, had called Playa Baracoa home.

Leaving Havana, Camilo followed the Carretera Panamericana, which paralleled the coastline. Once structures appeared on the north side of the road—open land and agricultural fields stretched inland to the south—he slowed down. “Do you know where your grandparents lived? I could try to find their house.”

“No idea. How about we drive through town and stop somewhere I can walk to the beach?”

The village was small, with a population of around 7,000, according to Camilo. The houses, much the same as what CJ had noticed strolling through Havana, were not in the best repair. Whatever color they had been painted had long ago faded, and the stucco was either chipped or flaking off. It all looked as bad, if not worse, than some of the poorer neighborhoods he and Owen had explored in Mexico.

Camilo turned into an empty lot and drove to the end until reaching sand. CJ removed his sneakers and socks and jumped out of the car, grinning. The view was glorious. Blue ocean met tan sand in a strip of rolling white foam as waves crashed against the shore. The sun shone brightly, but trade winds kept the humidity down. It felt good, so CJ stripped his shirt off and chucked it through the open car window.

“Hope you don’t mind.” CJ glanced at Camilo and winked. “I’m way too white for being Latin. Maybe I can get as dark as you.”

Camilo laughed. “Not going to happen. There’s African blood in me, and I doubt you have any. The skin tone and the light eyes tell me your roots are in Spain.” While CJ dug his toes in the sand, Camilo followed, still wearing his boots. When he spoke again, CJ was surprised.

“Hay sol bueno y mar de espuma, y arena fina, y Pilar quiere salir a estrenar, su sombrerito de pluma. ¡Vaya la niña divina! dice el padre, y le da un beso. Vaya mi pájaro preso a buscarme arena fina.”

“Poetry? That’s beautiful. What is it?”

If CJ was surprised at the intelligence officer reciting a poem, Camilo looked astonished. “You don’t know that? I learned it in elementary school. Los zapaticos de rosa by José Martí.”

“Dude, they don’t teach Cuban poetry where I went to school. Is there more to it?”

“Yeah. It’s the story of a privileged little girl who goes for a walk on the beach with her mother to show off her new feathered hat. The father encourages her and asks her to bring back a little sand. That’s what I recited.

“Subsequent verses recount the stroll, people they see, and meeting a sick child on the shore. At the end, Pilar, the rich girl, gifts her rose-colored shoes to the sick kid.”

“I like that. Proof that people can be well off and care about those around them. It’s something my fathers stressed while I was growing up, and something I try to live by.”

A smiling Camilo nodded. “I’ll find a copy for you before you leave.”

“I can look it up on the internet.”

“Not good enough. There’s someone I know who sells old books out of their house; they probably have one of Martí’s verses. I’ll get it for you. Something to take home with you.”

CJ took a few pictures, then moved closer to the water line. Squatting, he used a finger to write on the wet sand. Under Miss U Abo, he drew a heart. Standing, he switched to video mode and recorded the water washing his writing away. CJ felt a tinge of sadness but relished the opportunity to say a final goodbye to Juan Santos.

“Your grandfather?” Camilo asked.

“Yeah… When I started talking, I couldn’t say abuelo or abuela, so they became Abo and Aba. My brother called them the same thing, and my daughter now calls my grandmother Aba.”

“When did he die? Is he buried in Miami or Washington?”

CJ turned around with a sad smile on his face. “Four years ago and neither. He’s right here underneath our feet. My three remaining grandparents came to Cuba on a cruise before Trump stopped them, and Aba spread his ashes on the beach. I think she’ll like seeing the video.”

Once back in the car, Camilo drove around the lagoon in the middle of town and stopped at a market on the outskirts. “It’s hot. Want a guarapo?”

CJ had kept his shirt off, and the breeze blowing through the open windows felt great, but Camilo had his on. Between the top, the long pants, and the heavy boots, it made sense for him to feel warmer than his passenger.

“Yeah! I’ll even buy. Do I have to put my shirt on?”

“No. You’re fine. Haven’t you noticed how little most people wear? We’re in the tropics, and air conditioners are not common.”

“Another missing modern amenity, but Owen would approve. Less electricity consumption means less pollution.”

Camilo grinned. “I think I like your husband. Have you ever had a cucurucho?”

“I don’t think so. What is it?”

“It’s a cone filled with some sort of food. Peanut ones are common.” Camilo pointed at a rickety display in the outdoor stall next to the store. “Those are made with a mix of dried coconut, honey, papaya, guava, mandarin oranges, and nuts. The cones are rolled from palm leaves.”

The guarapo—fresh sugar cane juice—was light, and the cucurucho was delicious. CJ bought an extra one to take back to Owen. On the road headed east once again, they skirted suburban Havana with the ubiquitous agricultural fields to the south.

“I don’t know anything about you, Camilo. Are you married?”

“Come on, CJ. I tried to get in your pants. Did you think I’d be married?”

“Why not? I understand same-sex marriage’s about to be legalized here, so you could just be waiting. And gay men marrying women’s been a common practice forever. I know it’s still common in Latin America. Hell, the Russian in Mexico had a wife and children but still tried.”

“Not me. I couldn’t live with that kind of lie. I don’t advertise it, but those who know me are aware I’m not that interested in women.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

Camilo tapped the steering wheel several times with a finger before replying. “Not really. There’s someone who I think you’d call a friend with benefits in America. He’s a Navy officer, and you’ll meet him tomorrow.”

“Really? That’s cool.” CJ chuckled. “I’m looking forward to seeing what type of man you go for.”

“He’s older than you but has a similar look—in shape with a hairy chest. Hey, I meant to ask about your wedding ring yesterday. It’s kind of unique.”

Taking the band off his finger, CJ handed it to Camilo for a close look. “We had them custom-made. Two gold bands joined by five black titanium screws. The diamond was added two years ago when our daughter was born, and we’ll add two more stones after the twins arrive.”

Camilo returned the ring and glanced at CJ with a confused expression. “Twins?”

CJ’s smile could not have been larger if he had tried. “Good! Something you didn’t know. Owen and I are gonna be dads again. Two boys. They’re due at the beginning of January.”

“Congratulations!”

Returning the ring to his finger, CJ tsk-tsked. “If you think I didn’t notice how you maneuvered the conversation so you could change the topic, you’re wrong.”

Camilo chuckled. “If you’re really a diplomat, you may be wasting your talents.”

“No, I’m not wasting anything. Being able to read people and interpret what they say and how they do it is just as valuable in diplomacy. Nice try, but it didn’t work. I’m not letting go, Camilo. You know a hell of a lot about me, and I barely know anything about you.”

“Be serious, CJ. Most of what I learned about you’s available to everyone. Magazine articles, TV interviews, social media…” The man went momentarily silent before sighing. “Look, even though I never admitted to it, you figured out I was with our intelligence service. That’s more than most others have guessed, and I think it’s the first time I admit it.

“I don’t make a practice of letting people into my life; it could be dangerous and interfere with my work.”

“Then why me? Why admit it to me now? And why am I in Cuba?”

Camilo glanced at his passenger and grinned. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask that.”

“I’m trying to become a more patient man.”

“You’re doing well; it’s been over twenty-four hours since you spotted me. Anyway, the reason I opened up to you is I like you. Not very professional of me, but I really do. If we lived in the same country, we’d be friends for sure.”

CJ shrugged. “I have friends outside the United States. Why was I invited to Cuba?”

“To carry back a message from our president to yours. I’m sure you suspected that.”

“What message? And again, why me?”

“Damn! You’re relentless. The actual message you’ll get Sunday before I drop you off at the airport. As for why you? President Díaz-Canel’s a fan of yours.”

“What?” CJ was not entirely shocked, considering the way Díaz-Canel had behaved at the welcoming reception. “Why?”

Camilo’s grin told CJ the man was enjoying himself. “I don’t know the reasons behind it and didn’t hear about it until after you cornered Yevgeny Domogarov; it just so happens our president did not like that particular Russian too much. Gossip says something happened when Yevgeny was stationed in Havana. He was here for six months before moving to Mexico City.” The Cuban paused momentarily and glanced at the younger man. “By the way, that was a masterful move to return a listening device to the Russian ambassador.”

Now CJ was shocked. “We’ll come back to that in a minute. You honestly don’t know what Domogarov did to piss off Díaz-Canel? Don’t you have an idea?”

“Nope, not a clue.”

“Okay, it’s none of my business anyway. How do you know that I returned anything to the Russian ambassador?”

“There, we got lucky. Pure dumb luck. The Cuban ambassador to Mexico was at the reception. He watched you talking quietly to his Russian counterpart and crept closer. When you moved away, he watched the man call an assistant over and hand a listening device to her.”

“Damn! Talk about being in the right place at the right time. Or a silly plot twist in a bad spy story.”

Camilo chuckled; he was most definitely amused. “You gonna write it?”

“Nope. I wrote a book about our time in Mexico that’s coming out at the end of the year. Someone suggested I should write an article about visiting the land of my grandparents, and I may do that. No time for novels.” CJ slurped the dregs of his guarapo. “Okay, so the president didn’t like Domogarov, and you guys know a bit more about my involvement than most people do.” He flashed Camilo an evil smile. “Until my book comes out, that is. I explain it all in it.”

“Really? Your government will let you do that?”

“No offense, but I don’t live under a totalitarian regime the way you do. The U.S. might prevent national secrets or details of a CIA mission from being published, but this was all me and Owen being pissed off and taking a chance.” The fib was something he and Owen had agreed to when suggested by their CIA friend, Jake Cruz.

“We’re getting close to our destination, so let me finish explaining why you. The president loved the fact a young Cuban-American had taken down Domogarov. All of a sudden, he wants to know everything about you. I’m attached to his staff, so he asked me to take point. He knows I’m not interested in women, so it may have influenced his decision. Google was very helpful. Once he read my report, he couldn’t stop talking about you.”

“Damn! Just damn!” CJ was starting to like the man. He suspected Camilo finally felt comfortable with him, and it was the reason for the frank conversation. “Okay, so I get the feeling you’re starting to trust me. Even if Díaz-Canel’s infatuated with me, tell me why you needed to use anyone, particularly Owen and I, to serve as couriers. Couldn’t you have handled it in Havana with someone from the U.S. Embassy, in Washington, or even in New York at the United Nations?”

“We’re here. I’ll answer that one after we pick up Owen. It’ll be easier than repeating myself.”

Finca Vigía—Lookout Farm in English—was built at the end of the 19th century, some 25 kilometers east of Havana. Sitting atop a large hill, surrounded by lush foliage, it offered sweeping views of the Cuban capital.

“It’s beautiful.” Stepping out of the car, CJ aimed his phone at the house and snapped a couple of pictures. “Two down, one to go.”

Camilo walked around the car and stood by CJ. “What was that?”

“This is the second Hemingway house I have visited. Been to the one in Key West a couple of times but never to the one in Idaho. Since that one’s not open to the general public, it may be a while until I can weasel my way in.” CJ grinned when Camilo laughed.

Hemingway rented a room at the Hotel Ambos Mundos in Havana until marrying his third wife; she disliked the cramped space, so in 1940 he bought Finca Vigía. He wrote much of For Whom the Bell Tolls at the farm based on his experience as a journalist reporting on the Spanish Civil War. It was also where he authored The Old Man and the Sea, the story of a fisherman persevering when the world seemed to be against him. It won Hemingway the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Following Fidel Castro’s overthrow of the American-backed military dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista, Hemingway maintained good relations with the new regime. However, physical illness and depression led him to leave Finca Vigía in 1960, never to return.

“It feels as if we stepped back to the fifties.” Inside, the home turned into a museum appeared frozen in time, staged as it must have looked while Hemingway was in residence. CJ waved a hand at the long room with a wall of windows. “And it feels like it belonged to Papa. Books and trophy heads are everywhere. I don’t even know all the animals up there. It’s all in pretty good shape.”

“It wasn’t always like this.” Camilo ran a finger over a table, looked at it, and nodded. “At least they’re keeping up with maintenance.”

“How bad was it?”

“It’s still not perfect, but it’s getting there. Your National Trust for Historic Preservation considers it endangered even after all the work Vila did.”

“Who’s he?”

Camilo looked surprised. “Really? You don’t know who Bob Vila is?”

CJ shrugged. “Name sounds familiar.”

“I met him a few years ago when I was much younger, and he was here with the Finca Vigía Foundation people. He’s a Cuban-American who restores old houses, and they’re a group out of Boston who stepped in to save the place.”

“Yeah… I think I know who you’re talking about. Pretty sure I watched a couple of episodes of him working on old homes on public television.”

“They raised money and obtained permits from both our governments to bring the place back to life. They’ve worked on the house, the artwork, the books, and his papers. One of their partners is the Kennedy Library, and we donated a trove of documents to them.”

“For real? I’ll have to ask Ambassador Kennedy about it.”

“President Kennedy’s daughter? You know her?”

“I’ve met her, and Owen and I will be at the library in December for an event.”

Camilo draped an arm over CJ’s shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. “You do move in interesting circles, my friend. I think I’ll keep track of you even after we’re done with our current project. I have a feeling we’ll be hearing a lot about you in the future.”

As soon as he saw their minivan approach the hotel, a smiling CJ stood and waved. He and Camilo had been sitting on the front steps, waiting. Although the other members of the Nature Conservancy planned on having lunch at the hotel, Owen was joining him and his new acquaintance.

Jay exploded out of the van the moment the driver stopped. “You did this. I know you had something to do with it.” An accusatory finger pointed at CJ accompanied the shouting.

“Excuse me?” CJ was baffled and looked at Alicia chasing after Jay.

“Dr. West, this is inappropriate.” When she made to grasp his elbow, he shook her off.

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who was humiliated. You stood by when they said I should not be part of the ongoing negotiations. They said they didn’t want me back in the country!”

“Ouch.” CJ slapped a hand over his mouth a moment too late. He could not wait to hear the details.

“Ouch? That’s all you have to say?” Jay glanced at Camilo before returning his glare to CJ. “What did you tell them? Or did you have your little bodyguard here run the errand for you?”

CJ shook his head in disbelief; the guy had lost it. “Little? Have you seen the size of those arms? He could crush someone’s head with a good squeeze.”

“What? Is that what you’re gonna have him do to me? He’s your errand boy and your attack dog?”

When Jay called Camilo CJ’s bodyguard, the Cuban officer stood and moved to stand right behind CJ. At the end of Jay’s tirade, he took a few steps closer and stood nose-to-nose with the American scientist.

“No, Dr. West, nobody plans to crush your skull. If I wanted you dead, I’d simply shoot you.” He tilted his head slightly downward; when Jay followed suit, Camilo unsnapped his holster’s cover. “Insulting a Cuban government official while you’re a guest in our country is not advisable. I suggest you make your way inside the hotel and attend to whatever you need to do to get ready to leave.”

Raúl had witnessed the confrontation in silence up to that point. He gingerly put an arm over Jay’s shoulders. “Come on, man. Let’s finish packing and get a beer and a bite to eat.”

When Camilo excused himself and went to talk to the driver, Alicia took CJ’s hands in her own. “I’m so, so, sorry, CJ. Owen will tell you what happened. You have my sincere apology for Dr. West’s behavior.”

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” CJ wrapped the woman in a hug. “He’s not the first person to dislike me for no apparent reason, and I’m certain he won’t be the last.”

Alicia leaned in a kissed him on the cheek, then did the same with Owen. “You guys enjoy yourselves. I want to see pictures. Owen, please give me a couple of days to decompress and deal with Jay. You, Raul, and I will get together later in the week to draft a report for the bosses.”

“What’s—“

“Did you—“

“Next—“

CJ, Owen, and Camilo all spoke at the same time the moment they were in the Santa Fe. In concert, they chuckled immediately after.

“I go first. The two of you have been together, and you’ve had plenty of time to talk. What’s up with the gun, Colonel? You didn’t have it on yesterday when we met.”

“It’s Camilo, Dr. Liston. Although CJ saw right through me, I was trying to be discrete when I followed him, so I didn’t carry it with me. I do most of the time, and there was no need for subterfuge today.”

“Fine, I’ll call you Camilo if you call me Owen.” He glanced at CJ in the back seat. “Since I’m sure you were going to ask about Jay… he got into a disagreement with one of the Cuban scientists and called his comments stupid.”

“Damn! I think he’s the stupid one. I don’t care what you said about him being smart, Oz. The man’s an idiot.”

Camilo glanced at Owen in the passenger seat. “Did someone tell him he wasn’t welcome back at that point?”

“Yep. I’m sure it was done publicly to placate the individual Jay insulted; he looked ready to beat the crap out of our dear Dr. West. Reminded me of what CJ looks like when he feels threatened.”

“Hey! That’s not fair. I don’t go around accusing people of shit unless I can prove it. Jay probably tries to act as top dog to compensate for insecurities. And for the record, I haven’t thrown a punch since the Mexican asshole tried to kill me.”

“True. And that’s because you’re learning your words can be as deadly as your kung fu shit.”

“It ain’t kung fu!”

‘Whatever…” Owen turned to look at Camilo. “You should have heard him last month when we took my parents to lunch, and a U.S. Senator recognized him. Someone neither one of us likes very much. Without looking at the man or mentioning his name, CJ tongue-lashed him while explaining to my mother why he wouldn’t shake the senator’s hand. He realized what my husband was doing, and I almost felt sorry for him.”

“Really? Which senator?” Camilo sounded extremely interested.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not about to give you dirt on an American politician.” CJ leaned into the space between the two front seats. “We were meeting a reporter that day, and he witnessed the whole thing. I’m sure it’ll be mentioned in his article.”

“Did the senator do anything?”

Owen chuckled before replying. “Yeah, he left the place with his tail tucked between his legs. Not much you can say when someone half your age calmly states facts for disliking you. All in public.”

“I was right about you, CJ; you have big cojones.” Camilo glanced in the rearview mirror and winked. “Owen, I told him he led an interesting life and that I’d be keeping track of him to see what he does next. Presidents, diplomats, elected officials, celebrities… You seem to charm people wherever you go. When you’re not beating them up, I mean.”

“You figured that out already? It usually takes people more time to—ouch!” A grinning Owen rubbed the spot CJ slapped on his arm.

La Bodeguita del Medio was a ten-minute drive from their hotel. Once Camilo parked, they walked the remaining two blocks to the historic watering hole. Opened in 1942 as a convenience store midway on a block of narrow Empedrado Street, its function and location gave rise to its name—la bodeguita meant small market, and del medio referred to it being in the middle.

The building appeared to be in good repair compared to those around it. The fresh coat of light-blue paint with a darker color accenting the door and window frames popped. There was a line to enter, and peeking through the window, revealed the place was crowded. The few unoccupied tables were being cleaned by frantic staff.

“Tourists,” Camilo said. “It gets more crowded every year. Wait here for a moment. Let me go talk to the manager.”

CJ shrugged, and Owen nodded. Not wanting to obstruct pedestrians, they stepped off the sidewalk into the street—vehicle traffic was nonexistent—and faced the entrance.

“Definitely tourists, Oz. I hear English, Spanish, German, and a couple other languages I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I heard someone speaking Russian.”

“Hey, it’s really crowded, so I don’t think we’ll be able to talk business,”—CJ air-quoted the word—“we’ll have to do it after lunch or in the morning. We have a long drive tomorrow.”

“Yeah...” Owen did not sound very enthusiastic, likely due to how early they were supposed to leave the hotel the next day. “Might be better when it’s just the three of us in a car. Move it.” He slapped CJ’s behind and motioned toward the entrance. “I think Camilo knows people.” The man was motioning for them to join him inside. Some of those waiting in line did not look happy CJ and Owen were able to simply walk in.

Camilo placed a hand on CJ’s lower back and steered him towards a corner table near the bar. “I had to pull rank to get us seated right away, but I promised we would not linger after eating. I hope that’s okay with you two.”

Owen nodded as he sat and glanced at the menu. “Ceej, I may be running with you for a while after we get back home. All we’ve been eating’s Cuban food, and I feel the fat congealing around my waist.” Looking up, he nodded at the server. “Un mojito y el pargo frito con tostones.”

The woman grinned; Owen had ordered the fried snapper with tostones in accented but perfect Spanish.

“Un mojito, pan con lechón, y mariquitas, por favor.”

“I’m impressed,” Camilo said once he ordered the fried chicken, and the server left them alone. “Most first-time visitors to Cuba have no idea what to order. The fact you ordered a pan con lechón with mariquitas instead of a pulled pork sandwich with plantain chips, as most tourists do, probably impressed our waitress.”

“CJ grew up eating this stuff, and my first stop when I moved from Australia was Miami. His grandparents force-fed me Cuban food, and I fell in love with it.”

“Force-fed you?” CJ stared at their companion. “He took to it right away, Camilo. Hell, we have this stuff about once a week. I meant to ask you something; the paint and plaster outside and in here look fresh. Recent remodeling?”

“Yep. The roof leaked, and the plaster was crumbling before both were replaced. Of course, that meant getting rid of all the signatures, and people complained. But they’ve started it again.”

The restaurant’s light-blue walls were decorated with pictures of well-known individuals—CJ recognized several Latin American artists—and random scribblings. Those were signatures and comments from patrons.

“Oz, you have a marker in your backpack?”

Owen nodded, opened his bag, and handed a black Sharpie over. Sitting with his back to the wall and a clear view of the entrance again, CJ turned and wrote on an empty spot. He took a picture of his scribbling: Owen & CJ – EEUU - Agosto 2022. “Now we have to come back at some point to make sure nobody erases it.”

“It’ll be there. You’ll have to visit when they hang your pictures up. How are your drinks?” Camilo pointed at the cocktails the server had already delivered.

Owen sipped again and smacked his lips. “Excellent. We actually grow yerba buena at home so we can make authentic ones.”

Although many bars use spearmint to make mojitos, they do not taste like the original cocktail. Yerba Buena has a citrus-like taste that comes from the stem, whereas spearmint gets its flavor from oils in the leaves. To make a Cuban mojito, one muddles a few sprigs of Yerba Buena with white sugar, key-lime juice, and rum. The drink’s completed by adding ice and club soda—never lemon-lime soft drink.

The Americans had two a piece, while Camilo stuck to fruit juice. Since he was driving a government vehicle and carrying a firearm, he claimed alcohol was not a good idea.

Across the harbor from Old Havana stood El Castillo de los Tres Reyes Magos del Morro—Castle of the Three Magi Kings of Morro. Morro in Spanish means a rock visible from the sea that serves as a navigational landmark—the fortress was commonly called El Morro. Perched on a promontory on Havana Harbor’s east side, it was built in the late 1500s to defend against raids by Spanish Crown enemies.

“What are the chances this thing will cave in and we’ll drown?” Although the inside of the Havana Tunnel they were traversing looked okay, CJ thought it looked old. “You guys do regular maintenance?”

Camilo momentarily glanced in the rearview mirror. “You guys?”

“Yeah, you know, the Cuban government.”

“Actually, since the turn of the century, an international firm has handled maintenance. And it’s not that old anyway; it was built a couple of years before the revolution.”

“This reminds me of Old San Juan.” After paying their admission, CJ, Owen, and Camilo moved away from the guided tour, assembling past the entrance.

“They have one of these too?” Owen had yet to visit Puerto Rico.

“Yeah… we really need to fly down for a weekend sometime soon.” CJ caught up with Camilo, who had moved ahead of the couple. “You ever been to Puerto Rico, Camilo?”

“Nope. The only time I’ve left Cuba was to attend a meeting in Venezuela. Maybe one day I’ll even travel to the United States.”

“Get in touch if you do. We’ll show you around if you have the time.”

The fort offered impressive views of Old Havana in one direction and an endless sea in the other. Standing at the parapet, CJ took pictures of both vistas. Camilo obliged by snapping a few of the couple with a turret in the background and in front of old, rusty cannons. The maritime museum housed in the structure was interesting, and the lighthouse built in the 1800s afforded even better views.

Outside the walls, they stopped to buy snow cones and watch a young guy dancing for tips to music blasting out of an old boom box.

“Crazy Latin dancing solo at El Morro Fort. Oh, Havana, I’ve been searching for you everywhere. I knew that I would make it, I knew what I’d find here, But I can always find my Cuban skies in Papi CJ’s eyes.”

CJ’s smile could not have been bigger when he leaned in and kissed Owen’s cheek. “You can serenade me anytime you want, Oz.”

“You have a good voice, Owen.” Camilo appeared impressed. “Did you just make that up?”

Owen shook his head. “It’s an old Billy Joel song I’ve heard a bunch of times. CJ’s dads play him frequently. That one always hit home. I changed a few of the words to fit.”

“What’s the name of the song? I’ll have to look it up.”

Since Owen had been in meetings while CJ played tourist, Camilo offered to give him a driving tour of Old Havana. They stopped at El Floridita for daiquiris and a photo op, in front of the capitol for more pictures, and drove by some of the most impressive colonial structures.

Their final stop before returning to the hotel was the Latin American Stadium. “Either one of you a baseball fan?” Camilo asked when he stopped and turned the engine off.

“Not me. Although the game’s somewhat popular in Australia, I never watched a game until CJ took me to one after I moved.”

“What about you, CJ?”

“Meh… I played when I was a kid, but if I’m watching, I prefer basketball. Baseball’s too damn slow. I can’t sit still for that long.”

Camilo chuckled. “Yeah, your Major League Baseball games do drag on. I think some of it’s all those commercials. I catch a game now and then but prefer to watch live.”

“You have access to broadcasts?”

“Yeah… Not everyone has it, but I try to catch a couple of games a year. I’m a Yankees fan.”

CJ slapped the man’s shoulder. “And here I was, starting to like you. The Washington Nationals, the Baltimore Orioles, and the Miami Marlins, for me. I go to a handful of Nationals games every year with either Owen or my dad.”

“I can understand the Nationals and Marlins, but why the Orioles.”

“Because Baltimore’s not that far from Washington, and they have an incredible stadium.”

“Did you know the Orioles played here? That was a long time ago. But the Tampa team did too, when President Obama visited. He sat with Raul Castro. Unfortunately, the Cuban National Team lost that game.”

“Let’s hope that’s not the last time Major League Baseball plays in Havana. Heck, this would be a great place for a couple of spring training games between Tampa and Miami. Or a good location for a triple-A team.”

Back at the hotel, CJ and Owen took advantage of the nearly deserted pool. Although CJ had spent two days walking around town, Owen complained about stiffness due to all the sitting. While he did laps, CJ sunbathed and wrote in his journal.

Wanting a break from traditional Cuban food, they had dinner at Restaurante Beirut. They raved about the humus served with warm flatbreads. Afterward, they sat on the Malecón retaining wall again to enjoy a cigar. Because they had an early wake-up call, they bypassed their nightly cocktail.