Some Coffee with Your Revolution?

I've been to most Caribbean islands. They are all different, to a degree. Five years ago, when it was proposed that I go to Cuba for work, I was not all that excited. I was sure it would be a little different, as island to island, they mostly are. Cuba turned out to be a lot different.

It is the thirteenth largest island in the world, and the largest in the Caribbean. It is ninety miles from Key West, and it's history is forever tied to Spain and to the United States. It has romance, music and spirit, in addition to several climate regions.

Cuba also has a murdering narcissist as its former leader, and his brother thug as his proxy. Because of him, emotion for Cuba is different that Antigua or St. Kitts or Barbados. While he smoked his cigars over the years, and bored millions with his speeches in the sweltering sun, whole generations have lived and died and were ripped apart. That's the difference; that's why the emotion.

You never know who Cuba is going to mean something to. That person might be a restaurant owner, a politician, or someone serving you coffee at Starbucks.

In fact, it meant quite a bit to a person serving me coffee at Starbucks.

"Been anywhere lately?"

I get that question a lot, because of my work. Most of my travel is racing to clients in cities in the Midwest, staying in bad hotels, and listening to loser sales people slurring their words at Outback Steak House. But every so often I do travel travel for work.

"I'm going to Cuba," I said.

The girl slid the coffee across the counter. Her eyes lit up. "That's where my mother is from."

Who would know? Melissa, as I eventually came to know her name, had a mother who had lived in Cuba until she was seven years old. The revolution forced her to leave, along with her mother and father. I studied her face. Her features could be Cuban: black curly hair; black eyes -- very Spanish looking.

I gave her my five year old pictures of Cuba, and she took them home to her mother and grandmother, who lived with her.

When I returned from my most recent trip to Cuba, I gave her my copy of a professional video that was taken on our trip.

"Download it to your computer's hard drive," I said.

I also gave her all my pictures that I took.

Ten days later I stopped at the same Starbucks. Melissa was working, and she handed me a note. Her mother and grandmother had written a note to thank me for the pictures.

They still have family and memories in Cuba, and thanks to the Brothers Castro and the strange embargo policy of the United States Federal Government, they may never see each other again. Many Cubans, though able to travel to Cuba, don't. They are afraid of being detained and tossed into prison.

Evergreen Park, Illinois, is a long way from Cuba, and the Starbucks (which will be closing) is a completely foreign concept to Cuba, but you never know who is serving you and what's on a person's mind.