So there I was, feeling alienated on the planet Cuba. I was starting to feel hopeless, but I was nowhere near my breaking point. I refused to believe that Interjet had no way of charging my credit card, so I decided to go wait in the ominously long line to check in with Interjet. I figured that surely, someone up there at one of the check-in counters would take pity on me. After almost an hour standing in line, I explained my situation to the lady at the counter. She started shaking her head and giving me the "look" before I could even get out my whole story. She pointed right back at the customer service counter from which I had just come, and said to talk to the agent there. I furiously wheeled around and walked back to the man. I whipped out my best Spanish, and told him that there had to be a way for him to call the international Interjet number and have them charge my card. At this point, he wasn't even trying to give me a look that said he was attempting to care. It had degraded to a blank stare. He just said no and told me to try asking a US or Canada based airline.
I was willing to try anything at that point. If he had told me to perform some crazy Aboriginal dance to the travel gods while holding a black widow and eating maggots I'd have done it. I sprinted over to the office for Air Canada, who told me that the only way was for me to go to their offices in downtown Havana. Wow, real helpful. Thanks for that, Air Canada. The office next to them was some Russian airline, but the angry shouting coming from within made me think otherwise about asking them for help.
American Airlines and Spirit didn't even have offices, so I wandered back out to the main part of the airport to try and figure out another option I could try. In vain, I attempted the ATMs again, and then went to the lady manning the desk at the VIP money exchange, hoping to skip the massive line of ordinary, non-VIP folk. She said she had no idea what I was talking about and to get into the normal line. I waited another 30 or 45 minutes, which was staring to feel like the new normal. I explained to the dude at the counter that none of my cards worked at any of the stupid cajero machines and begged him to help. He reached down, opened a drawer and pulled out a credit card machine. I almost freaked out on him. Was everyone behind a desk secretly hiding a credit card machine?! I didn't freak out though, because it seemed like this time someone was actually going to help me. I still held on to a shred of hope. He ran my first card, and the machine printed a tiny piece of paper that said "no aceptar." I handed him the next card. No aceptar. Finally, my last card. No aceptar. The man looked at the cards, then at me, then back at the cards. It looked like something clicked in his brain. He asked me if the cards were from the United States. When I confirmed that they were, he gave me the "look" and explained that as of rather recently, no place in Cuba will accept any card coming from the US.
My head started spinning from the gravity of that statement. It meant that even if I managed to find a way out of the airport, I'd never be able to pay for anything out there on Planet Cuba. I walked away slowly, and I'm amazed I managed to keep my jaw from hanging ajar.
I found a sign saying that there was a place where I could buy an internet access card outside. I walked out and to the little shop. A burly Cuban stood in front of the door and asked what I wanted. I told him I needed internet access and he did this weird jazz hands thing and said "ooooh the internet! You must be from the States!" I was in no mood for mockery, so I just started walking away. He apologized and opened the door for me. I went in and told the lady I needed the smallest time frame I could pay for and that I only had a few dollars. She informed me that the smallest dose of internet they sold cost exactly one dollar more than I had. I believed that for a hot second. Then she and her colleague gave me the damn "look."
I don't know why I kept going back to the Interjet guy. He certainly wasn't sympathetic or helpful. Part of me thinks it's because he never had a line or was helping anyone else. I decided to plead to him one more time. I begged him to please call the international line that I knew existed. I told him I needed to get on the flight. The whole time I stood there groveling, he simply shook his head at me. He then informed me that the flight was full and I would have to wait until the next day anyway. It was right around then, when I realized that literally no one would help me, that I almost broke. I put my back against the wall and slowly slid down to a seat as I began to cry. My mind went blank for a few moments and I almost gave up. But human resiliency is a beautiful thing, and we often underestimate it. I knew I had to escape my new prison cell, the Havana airport.
I walked over to the American Airlines counters. I stood in the business class line because it was nice and short, and I figured the customer service person at every counter would reject me anyway so I might as well get the rejection sooner. The person at the counter apparently had some major issue that took a good 30 minutes to solve, so it turns out I would have actually been better off in the regular line. Go figure. When it finally came to be my turn, I realized that I didn't yet have a specific story or request. I walked up to the man at the counter who asked me how I was. For whatever reason, I blurted out that I was terrible and trapped in Cuba and just needed to get on a flight, any flight, out of there. I looked at him. He looked at me. But it wasn't the "look" that I had learned to expect. It was a different look altogether; one of compassion and caring. I told him I was on the verge of tears and he asked that I please not cry in front of him because he would get me taken care of. He quickly reserved me a seat on the upcoming flight to Miami and called the American Airlines international line from his cell phone. He handed me his phone and told me to tell whomever answered that I needed them to process my credit card right away so I could get on the flight leaving in an hour. While I was on hold, he helped a girl who was behind me and in a similar predicament, but since she had cash she was in luck and skipped off happily to make the flight while I was still on hold.
As the elevator music droned on the phone and it felt like the last bits of sand were trickling out of my hourglass, the man helping me asked if I had to check my backpack. I said yes (because when I arrived in Cuba, I realized that my mace and knife were in my carry on and managed to get through Colombian security. Whoops). He asked why and I pulled out the mace and knife and placed them on the counter. "Woah," he said, taken aback, "remind me not to go on a date with you! But really, can you throw them away if it means you make this flight?" I nodded furiously and finally a lady on the other end of the phone answered. I incoherently blubbered my story out to her and I could tell she was giving me the "look" over the phone. She informed me that she simply couldn't process a payment so close to the flight. I hung my head and ended the call. I told the man what happened. He said he wasn't surprised and had also booked me a seat on a flight to Miami the next morning. He then handed me his cell phone again and told me to use it to call anyone in the US I needed to as many times as I needed to. He gave me the confirmation number and said to tell whomever I got ahold of that they just needed to call American Airlines, give them the confirmation and have them charge a credit card. After a number of calls that probably cost the poor guy a fortune, my friend answered and agreed to finish booking the flight. I had never felt so thankful to have those two in my life at that moment.
At that point, it looked like the airport was closing down. No one stood in line for any airline or to change money, and the employees were starting to trickle out and head home. The man at the counter motioned for me to come a bit closer. He looked around a bit to make sure no one was watching and then slid something to me under his hand. It was the equivalent to about $200 USD in Cuban currency. He told me to use it for cabs and food and a place to stay. He then told a couple of other American Airlines employees sitting nearby that I had just found some money in a secret pocket and needed a place to stay and asked if they knew where I could go. I asked him what they were talking about because they were saying a bunch of words unfamiliar to me and he shrugged and said he didn't know because they were speaking Cuban. I asked where he was from and he said Argentina and that, like me, he couldn't wait to get out of there.
I almost cried again, this time not from sadness but from sheer relief at his unbelievable kindness. I didn't know what else to do besides thank him profusely and he simply waved it off and said he could just as easily be in my position. One of the other American Airlines employees asked me if having some internet access would be helpful and I said yes and he jetted off saying he'd be right back with some internet time. The other employee then told my Argentinian savior man where I should stay, and they arranged it for me and gave me the address. I gave the Argentinian one of the biggest hugs of which I was physically capable and he said to be at the airport the following morning around 6:30 and that he'd see me then.
The man who'd run off to get the internet access card returned and then handed it to me and walked with me outside to get a cab at the request of the Argentinian. On my way out, the Interjet employee from earlier walked past me and recognized me. He winked at me and said "remember next time, on the Planet Cuba, bring plenty of cash." I wanted to slug him hard in the face.
My Cuban cab driver confused me as he literally would hear me say something clear as day in Spanish and say he couldn't understand me, and I would repeat it in the exact same manner and he would then all of a sudden understand me. It got annoying rather quickly. But then, it had been a very, very long day.
Another quick side note- in Cuba, the main and most popular places to stay are spare rooms in the homes of Cubans. So that's where I went to stay. At a home about 10 minutes from the airport. All of the homes we had driven past were vibrantly colored but well protected by tall metal fences and gates as well as multiple locks. The cars would be the dream of any collector. People mingled on their neighbors' porches and simply talked.
My home stay was at a mint green abode on the street corner belonging to an older couple and their two dogs, a bulldog named Ron (Spanish for rum) and a basset hound named Irene. My room was rather spectacular considering it was around $25 a night. The couple with whom I stayed were so loving and welcoming. They simply told me to be careful and not leave the premises but told me to feel free to walk around in their little garden. The lady and I bonded over her gnome- I told her that I once collected them. I wandered the garden for a short while and watched the picturesque sunset.
At one point, we were all seated around the kitchen table, just talking. They seemed excited and curious about Colorado, and asked me if that's where all Westerns are filmed. I showed them pictures of snow and of my guinea pigs, and every single one delighted them. The lady informed me that their dog Irene was pregnant and probably going to have puppies that night. I said no way- she wasn't nearly fat enough yet.
I went to bed early and got up early. I wasn't going to miss that flight, no matter what. I hopped in a cab, my host parents gave me kisses and hugs and I was off. At one point, the cab driver pulled over and let five other people pile into the back seat, saying they were all going to the airport too. They all clearly had no idea I spoke Spanish because they kept talking about how crazy I was to let them ride along. Whatever, people, crazy was starting to take on a whole new meaning to me.
I got to the airport a little after six. The check-in counters weren't even open yet. I waited anxiously as the American Airlines employees began to filter in and set up shop. I wondered if the Argentinian would be there. I saw him walk in and couldn't help but smile. I was there because of him, and my friend who had completed the transaction in the US. While I waited in line, he caught my eye and waved, motioning for me to make sure to go to his counter. I had to let a couple of people go ahead of me to make that happen, but of course I did. He asked me how I slept. "Marisa, your nightmare has ended," he said as he handed me my boarding pass. I wanted to cry, laugh and smile all at once. I was feeling a bit crazed. He told me to give him a hug, so I did, and I also gave him my favorite collection of Oscar Wilde short stories, inside of which I had scrawled a thank you note.
I couldn't believe it. I was getting out. I can't imagine how people who are seriously trapped in much worse situations feel upon finding freedom. Relief washed over me as I made my way through immigration and security and to my gate. My nightmare had ended. Or, so I thought…
