Have Glove, Will Travel_ Adventures of a Baseball Vagabond - Bill Lee [68]
One minute into the ride, a screaming red light slashed across my rearview mirror. Oh, fuh-uck, I thought. All this deep snow has just turned into deep shit. I figured the troopers had decided to take up the chase after all. From the rear of my vehicle came a muted thump, the sound of the cruiser’s bumper kissing my Pathfinder’s ass while that crazed driver drew a bead on me with his Dirty Harry magnum.
But, no, it was all freeze frame when I glanced back. That cruiser remained parked near the rest stop. The young patrolman stood alongside it, scratching his head as he watched this demented son of a bitch drive balls out on some clandestine mission that was obviously too vital to national interests for even the elements to delay.
Lickety split, I moved up the grade to level ground and found the whole highway rolled out white in front of me— buried under more than half a foot of snow, it’s true, but without a single vehicle upon it. Clearly, no one else was insane or wired enough to risk this drive. This did not deter me. Space-men cruise in where angels fear to tread.
After stopping off at Craftsbury, I broke speed records to reach Dorval Airport just in time for my departure, only to learn that the airline had canceled the flight. I spent the next half hour cobbling together an alternative plan. Mixing and matching the schedules of several rogue carriers produced an itinerary. First I had to drive twenty miles north to Mirabel International Airport. From there, I could fly direct to Mexico City, catch a shuttle to Cancun for a brief layover, and continue to Havana on Mexicali Air.
I had to avoid any delay getting through customs. My flights practically piggybacked on each other. Luckily, the Mexico City customs officials took a casual approach to their work. As soon as my fellow passengers and I got off the plane, they herded us into a bar near the main terminal where we waited to be checked through. I sat in a booth, draining a mug of beer while reading a book. I forget the name of that novel, but the plot must have engrossed me. I never heard anyone call us to the checkpoint. When I finally looked up, the passengers and the custom officials had left.
I scrambled outside and found an information booth. The woman in charge told me the next flight to Cancun would leave in twenty minutes. Shortly after touching down in that city, I found a man who sold Havana visas for $15. With my visa in hand, I could roam all over Mexico, ready to fly into a Communist country without anyone vetting me a single time.
I could have smuggled in a dirty bomb or some other nuclear device. Who would have known? In the pre-9/11 world, security professionals in many countries approached their jobs so casually, it was no wonder terrorists could travel the globe with impunity. Mexican customs officials scrutinized your luggage only if they suspected you of dealing drugs. But when you brought drugs into Mexico City, you were sneaking sand into the desert. Whenever the federales caught anyone with pot or cocaine crossing their border, they would slap the dumb bastard upside the head and say, “You’re going the wrong way.”
As our plane approached the Havana airport, we noticed that the landing strip was not quite as modern as what we were accustomed to in the States. No lights. Okay, I exaggerate. We did see lights, but together they cast about as much illumination as a single 30-watt bulb. The runway resembled an ancient chariot race course with all its ruts, cracks, and potholes. Our plane, a small DC-9, stutter-stepped as its wheels scraped the ground.
Going through Cuban customs offered us a surrealistic experience. Custom officials enacted a ritual as soon as they learned I lived in the United States. First they stamped my visa and handed me an identification card. Then they mimed stamping my passport. No kidding—the stamp never touched a page, so they left no record of my having entered the country. Castro had ordered this procedure. He did