Katia

I sip a Crystal in what my companions and I call the "Terrace Bar," the bar adjoining our hotel, or rather the other half of our Siamese-twin hotel (Vedado/Horizontes), reachable by an intricate series of indoor stairways. Actually it is called "Café La Habana" or something like that. The night we arrived, the tour offered a "snack" in the Terrace Bar. Ham and melted cheese (I got them to leave the ham off mine) on crispy French bread (Crystal or other drinks extra). I smoked the first (and second) cigars of my life with Josh in the Terrace Bar. Some of us stayed up late (before the 4:30 wake-up call) in the Terrace Bar our last night in Havana. I really miss the Terrace Bar, open-air (but with roof for the rainshowers), people walking by, 1959 Chevys parked outside, shirtsleeves at 10:00 p.m. in December...

I sip a Crystal in what my companions and I call the "Terrace Bar." I came alone after dinner, but I am not alone for long. I am promptly joined by a young woman, short sausage dress, copper skin, permed blonde highlights, substantial makeup. She sits down as if I had been expecting her.

"Whereyoufra?"
"Estados Unidos."

She is pleased that I speak Spanish, and the conversation continues its course.

"What's your name?"
"What are you doing in Havana?"
"You like it?"
"Won't you buy me a drink?" (hisses at the waiter)
"How long you staying?"
"Where you staying?"
"You traveling alone?"
"Do you need a girlfriend?"
"No one's married in Havana."
"Do your companions need a girlfriend?"

When she sees that it is futile, she downs her cuba libre in one long pull (deliberately tendering regret-inspiring views of her large pink tongue grappling with the straw), and bids me farewell. Katia, she said she was a medical student and lived in Old Havana. Fare well, Katia.

Jacqueline

I think it's called Makambó, the little café with the African name across from our hotel and down toward the Rampa. I stop in for a quick pizza by myself before heading out to see the Morro and Cabaña fortresses our last full day in Havana.

Makambó, like an American coffee shop straight out of 1959, deserves a vignette of its own: The counter, the tiles, the bald, Spanish-looking waiter, the dollar menu (not all items available).

I am almost finished with my snack when the inevitable happens: A very young black girl sits down on the stool next to me, as if I had been expecting her.

"Whereyoufra?"
"Estados Unidos."

She is pleased that I speak Spanish, and the conversation continues in its usual course.

"What's your name?"
"What are you doing in Havana?"
"You like it?"
"Won't you buy me some cigarettes?"
"How long you staying?"
"Where you staying?"
"You traveling alone?"
"Do you need a girlfriend?"
"No one's married in Havana."
"Do your companions need a girlfriend?"

You sure you won't buy me some cigarettes?"

"No, it's not good for you to smoke. Let me buy you a beer."

"I don't drink."

"But you smoke. OK, how about a pizza?"

She gazes listlessly at the menu.

"How old do you think I am?"

I look her up and down. "Sixteen."

"Seventeen. You sure you don't need a girlfriend?"

"No, I'm too serious."

Jacqueline keeps yawning. "It's so boring here," she complains. She lives in Old Havana. After high school, she wants to study to be a stewardess.

"But what are you going to buy me?"

Finally she settles on the pizza and claps her hands at the waiter.

"It's so boring here. You sure you don't need a girlfriend?"

"No, I'm too serious," we reply in unison. I try lamely to encourage her to enjoy the things she can: the parks, the museums, the free education, the Malecón. But I know in my heart that what she really wants is Macy*s, new SUVs, and Lancôme.

I show her my guide book, wrapped in a piece of paper I found in the hotel room. "Do you think if I keep the book hidden in here, people won't know I'm a tourist?" She laughs. I too know that I can be spotted from a mile away with my blondish hair and bluish eyes, and wearing "yeens."

Only now do I remember what was on that sheet of paper from my (state-owned) hotel, namely a list of rules for travelers, in English:

I wish I still had it.

"It's so boring here," Jacqueline yawns, wiping her mouth. She has wolfed the pizza for my benefit because I was almost ready to leave when she sat down.

"OK," she says.

I am ready. Out in the street I intend to catch a cab to visit El Morro and La Cabaña, take the ferry back, and catch a 4:00 show.

"We will walk out together, yes?" I've often wondered why she insisted on that. To be seen with an American? To show her pimp she has indeed been trying to make a sale? But I want to give her my blessing, such as it is.

"Yes."

I bid her farewell in the street, and I hug her tight. And I mean it, Jacqueline.