The uniformed woman's eyes narrowed as she looked me up and down, assessing.
Seconds earlier, she had told me that the currency exchange was one floor up at the Havana airport. Now, after processing my poor Spanish, blond hair and unaccompanied state, her tune quickly changed.
"He will take you," she offered, in the tone of a command.
Who? What?
My questions hung in the air, unanswered.
Already, a uniformed man had me by the arm, leading me not upstairs to the currency exchange but into a room barely bigger than a cubicle. In it was a small desk and two men sitting with arms folded, staring at me.
Click. The door shut.
This was not the Cuban experience I'd seen advertised by tour companies. I'd shunned those.
Instead, looking for a more affordable and authentic experience, I'd planned my own solo people-to-people exchange, taking advantage of the eased sanctions that opened doors, in a new way, to a world on the precipice of change.
Free of tour guides and defined schedules, I encountered a different angle on the postcard view. Beyond the white sand beaches, colorful old cars and pastel houses was an unscripted beauty on dusty streets, where hope for progress edges up against reality. There, I stumbled into friendships, enchanted by the immediate welcome, sharp humor and unglorified toughness of the people I met.
The lure, though, came with a hook: Cuba's beauty and friction are intertwined, and the triumph of unveiling one comes with the cost of unleashing the other.
In the small airport room, the sweat glands on my forehead leapt into action, but I saw no way out.
I handed over my cash. The officials took 13 percent, skimming 3 percent on top of the 10 percent fee I later learned the exchange center charged upstairs.
Forty-five minutes into my journey to Cuba, I felt robbed.
Soon, the country would steal my heart.
