Shit, showered, and shaved by 8;
photo by hungrybison
I reach Havana airport by 10.
A coffee, two aspirin, and a body search later,
I await for the exodus.
1pm flight delayed,
3 pm,
4pm,
5:30,
take off now at 6,
exactly one hour after my connecting flight from Miami to Vancouver is scheduled to depart.
“Come back tomorrow, you can’t book onto another flight tonight.”
I unloaded only one,
one barrel,
on the woman,
and all of a sudden
I had a seat to The States,
on another plane.
Loaded onto a bus like a fleeing refugee,
I’m transported across busted tarmac to a small rundown building,
to wait in an unventilated room with a broken air conditioner hanging lifeless in a window.
An hour passes,
I’m told to go outside,
into the damp Cuban heat,
to wait in line,
to get onto another bus,
to go back to the building where I originally came from,
so I could stand in another fucking line,
to sit in another waiting room,
to board a plane that is now an hour late.
Finally I’m on board a plane,
vintage 1954,
and looking every year its age,
Got to make my way across The Gulf of Mexico in this thing.
After landing in Florida,
I rush off the plane to avoid the usual long lines that precede yet another inquisition.
I am told to go to an area where they will be checking for plant life,
drugs,
and other shit you’re not supposed bring into America.
I guess this is where they will locate the Cuban cigars I am trying to smuggle.
Cleared?,
No shit?,
Maybe God is looking after me.
After booking another flight to Vancouver,
I fall into a taxi to take me to a hotel.
Salsa music,
the stench of marijuana,
and the smell of Old Spice fill the car.
The dimly lit dashboard accentuates a yellow haze,
which will not dissipate despite the rush of air from my open window.
Grime fills my pores,
my teeth feel gritty,
I’m in desperate need of a shower and sleep.
No vacancy,
next hotel same thing,
repeat four more times.
Finally, a bed at the Holiday Inn.
Fresh sheets in the “land of the free”
for the truly fucked.
