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Authors: Margaret Truman
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armed uniformed officers (military or police?), their expressions also uniform. A truck with a telescoping antenna extending high above sat near the uniformed officers twenty feet from the aircraft’s exit door. A young woman got out, followed by two men, one holding a shoulder-supported camcorder, the other with a microphone mounted on a long metal pole and tethered to the camera by a cable. A sign on the side of the truck read CANAL 2 : TELE REBELDE .
“The Cuban free press,” Smith commented to McCullough.
“There’s a second channel,” said McCullough. “The Cubans love their TV, especially soap operas from Brazil.”
“I heard CNN just opened a bureau here,” said Smith. “Speaking of CNN …” A mobile crew from CNN’s Havana bureau had arrived and quickly set up next to the Cuban crew.
The sudden opening of the door by a flight attendant allowed a rush of hot, steamy air into the cabin. Led by McCullough, the twenty members of his mission descended to the tarmac where they were greetedindividually by two representatives of the Foreign Investment Ministry, established in 1994 to foster foreign cash infusions for the country’s ailing economy. Mac Smith was surprised at their apparent youth, although he knew that Castro had initiated a program under which hundreds of bright young Cuban men and women were sent abroad to study Western marketing, advertising, and manufacturing techniques.
After handshakes, one of the greeters led McCullough to a podium where the Cuban spoke into a microphone. “It is my pleasure, on behalf of the Independent Socialist Republic of Cuba, to welcome members of this distinguished delegation to our country. I bring personal greetings from Prime Minister Castro, who wishes you a pleasant and fruitful stay in our country.”
McCullough spoke next: “On behalf of my colleagues, I thank you for your gracious greeting, and we look forward to meetings that are both informative and substantive.
Gracias!
”
The entourage was led to a fleet of black Mercedes limousines, engines running, drivers standing ready beside open doors. McCullough and the others entered the vehicles. Minutes later, sandwiched between an escort of marked military vehicles equipped with flashing lights, they headed for Havana and the hotel in which they would be housed during their stay, the venerable Nacional, on Calle O, off La Rampa.
“Looks like The Breakers in Palm Beach,” said one of the delegation as the limos turned into a long, palm-lined driveway. The neoclassical, twin-turreted building perched on a hill above the Malecón, Havana’s sweeping six-lane seaside boulevard, protected by a seawall. The entourage entered the hotel’s huge vaulted lobby with its wood-beamed ceilings, Moorish arches, and Arab-inspiredmosaic tile floor. The Nacional had been Cuba’s narcissistic centerpiece during the high-flying, extravagant Batista years, the playground of America’s rich, famous, and infamous, whose photographs still adorned the walls of the Bar of Fame.
“Of course it does,” a female advertising executive replied. “Same architect.”
“I didn’t know.”
Check-in had been previously arranged; a dozen bellhops stood ready to lead the newly arrived guests to their rooms. Before they dispersed, however, they were led to a public room where a woman billed as their official guide introduced herself and handed them a written itinerary covering the rest of that day. In excellent English, she assured them there had been ample time built into the schedule for sight-seeing. One of the men from the Foreign Investment Ministry then introduced a representative from the U.S. “Interests Section.”
“I’m sure many of you know that diplomatic relations with Cuba were severed long ago,” he said in a New England accent. “The Special Interests Section was established in 1977 to function as a quasi-embassy, sans ambassador. We’re limited as to assistance we can provide visitors—our mission
“The Cuban free press,” Smith commented to McCullough.
“There’s a second channel,” said McCullough. “The Cubans love their TV, especially soap operas from Brazil.”
“I heard CNN just opened a bureau here,” said Smith. “Speaking of CNN …” A mobile crew from CNN’s Havana bureau had arrived and quickly set up next to the Cuban crew.
The sudden opening of the door by a flight attendant allowed a rush of hot, steamy air into the cabin. Led by McCullough, the twenty members of his mission descended to the tarmac where they were greetedindividually by two representatives of the Foreign Investment Ministry, established in 1994 to foster foreign cash infusions for the country’s ailing economy. Mac Smith was surprised at their apparent youth, although he knew that Castro had initiated a program under which hundreds of bright young Cuban men and women were sent abroad to study Western marketing, advertising, and manufacturing techniques.
After handshakes, one of the greeters led McCullough to a podium where the Cuban spoke into a microphone. “It is my pleasure, on behalf of the Independent Socialist Republic of Cuba, to welcome members of this distinguished delegation to our country. I bring personal greetings from Prime Minister Castro, who wishes you a pleasant and fruitful stay in our country.”
McCullough spoke next: “On behalf of my colleagues, I thank you for your gracious greeting, and we look forward to meetings that are both informative and substantive.
Gracias!
”
The entourage was led to a fleet of black Mercedes limousines, engines running, drivers standing ready beside open doors. McCullough and the others entered the vehicles. Minutes later, sandwiched between an escort of marked military vehicles equipped with flashing lights, they headed for Havana and the hotel in which they would be housed during their stay, the venerable Nacional, on Calle O, off La Rampa.
“Looks like The Breakers in Palm Beach,” said one of the delegation as the limos turned into a long, palm-lined driveway. The neoclassical, twin-turreted building perched on a hill above the Malecón, Havana’s sweeping six-lane seaside boulevard, protected by a seawall. The entourage entered the hotel’s huge vaulted lobby with its wood-beamed ceilings, Moorish arches, and Arab-inspiredmosaic tile floor. The Nacional had been Cuba’s narcissistic centerpiece during the high-flying, extravagant Batista years, the playground of America’s rich, famous, and infamous, whose photographs still adorned the walls of the Bar of Fame.
“Of course it does,” a female advertising executive replied. “Same architect.”
“I didn’t know.”
Check-in had been previously arranged; a dozen bellhops stood ready to lead the newly arrived guests to their rooms. Before they dispersed, however, they were led to a public room where a woman billed as their official guide introduced herself and handed them a written itinerary covering the rest of that day. In excellent English, she assured them there had been ample time built into the schedule for sight-seeing. One of the men from the Foreign Investment Ministry then introduced a representative from the U.S. “Interests Section.”
“I’m sure many of you know that diplomatic relations with Cuba were severed long ago,” he said in a New England accent. “The Special Interests Section was established in 1977 to function as a quasi-embassy, sans ambassador. We’re limited as to assistance we can provide visitors—our mission
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