Ruminations of an Expatriate

While in the D. C. area recently I paid a visit to the Cuban Consulate to have some documents “legalized”.

When I arrived at the consulate, after a short walk following my trip on the Metro train system from South of Alexandria to the Columbia Heights station in NW D. C., there was a line of folks out front on the sidewalk. I took my place. Soon an older gentleman arrived and indicated there was a staff meeting in progress and that normally there is no line.

While we awaited the opening of the gate a gentleman from the consulate approached and provided applications for “letters of invitation”, used to invite family members from Cuba for a visit. The husband and wife behind me, I could see, did not have a pen so I offered mine. A fascinating conversation ensued which was joined by others in line. Those with whom I spoke offered many uncomplimentary things to say about USA government Cuban policy (travel and remittance restrictions in particular), and about Incurious George.

Being somewhat slow it had never occurred to me that one result of the lack of USA/Cuban diplomatic relations is that Cuban-Americans must travel to Washington D. C. to conduct business with the Cuban government. Whereas, for instance, Cuba maintains consulates in Veracruz and Cancun, Mexico to serve the significant Cuban populations. Likewise, there is a USA consulate in Merida to serve the significant gringo population.

So the nice couple behind me, she of Puerto Rico and he of Cuba, had to drive fifteen hours from Florida to process a letter of invitation to the husband’s mother. Likewise the couple behind them. A number of others had flown in.

When it came my turn at the service window I was having trouble understandig what the very fast talking lady behind the glass was saying. I apologized, she told not to worry, and immediately the two couples from Florida moved toward the window and translated for me.

As it turned out the person with whom I needed to talk was not there, so I would return the next morning. I heartily thanked those who had helped me and received smiles from everyone in the room, perhaps they were amused by the crazy gringo, though I prefer to believe otherwise.

The next day, sitting while awaiting paperwork, I struck up a conversation with Roberto sitting next to me. He had swam from Cuba into the Guantanamo naval base in 1993 and was kept at Guantanamo for almost a year before he was permitted to immigrate. He indicated that he wants to go to Cancun.

I received my paperwork, said my “mucho gustos” (pleasure to meet you) to Roberto and others I’d met, and left the building. I had just closed the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk when I heard someone holler “Christopher”. I turned to see Roberto approaching. He asked for a phone number so he could contact me when he comes to Mexico.

I gave him a card and headed on my walk to the National Mall, grinning to thoughts of another uplifting travel experience.