The Cubans
I sat in a fluorescently lit makeshift office of an albergue with a woman in a cheetah-print dress, Gucci belt wrapped around her waist, and high heels that kept tap-tapping at the linoleum floor. Her face was steeled before me. I was yet another person asking for her documents and date of birth, where she had been and where she was going. Although she didn’t say much, by the click of her heels against the floor, I knew she was nervous. Her husband stood in the corner with their belongings, gripping the handle of their elephantine suitcase, looking over at her more in the spirit of child to mother than husband to wife. His belt was Gucci too, along with his loafers, but on him I doubted their authenticity.
