Although I was a guest of the Cuban government, I was followed everywhere when not in planned meetings. But in my hotel, except for listening to my phone call (I only made one), They didn‘t constantly watch me. I heard they had a hard currency store in the basement, so I went down go buy a few post cards. After all, how cool was it sending post cards to friends from Havana in 1982?
Trouble was, when I had picked out my post cards, there was a crew from Aeroflot, the Soviet airline, before me in line, trying to buy some electronics. They were giving the poor Cuban woman at the cashier a hard time, berating her for not knowing Russian. They acted as if they owned the place, which, in 1982, wasn‘t entirely erroneous. They spoke no Spanish, of course.
Impatient to get to my postcards, I offered to translate to speed things up, and I speak both. The Russians were then happy, and walked off. I was next and held up my 5 or ten postcards. The cashier said she needed my passport to process the sale. I said said sure and handed her my passport. Her eyes went wide with surprise when she saw my US passport, probably figuring I had to be CIA if I was an American in Cuba, translating back and forth between Spanish and Russian. It was so written on her face, I almost started laughing.
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