The coffee order seemed as confused as insurgent orders given in the
dark. No, we didn’t want café americano. We were hungry as horses and
wanted pan dulce to eat on the run. But the menu was full of meals and
plates, sit and stay. Our guide book explained how Fidel ate here
regularly while he was exiled and planning his return trip on the old
boat Granma to launch the revolution. We saw him at various tables,
cigar in his mouth back in the days when people smoked here. Over the
clutter of dishes and cutlery we heard the horns and congas of salsa
music. The espresso was weak and had coarse coffee grounds that were as
gritty as beach sand. Fidel came over and sat down. We must all
sacrifice for the revolution, no? he asked. He patted our shoulders then
returned to his table, his maps, his plans, his place in history. We
paid our bill and left a tip worthy of a better world. Stepping out of
the café, we wanted the underground rail, but found ourselves among the
Agricultural Workers Syndicate, indigenous people with noses sharp as
shovels, on their way to a political rally. When we came to the next
block, we turned left.