Any question, on any aspect of Cuban life, will eventually bring you back to the basic fact of the Revolution.
Articles by this author:
“Hello, my name is Vladimir,’’ read the tag on a black terrier mix dozing inside the entrance of the Museum of Silverwork, near the Plaza de Armas.
I wanted to see the island one more time before the U.S. travel ban lifts, and my countrymen start pouring in. And they will – we will – because Cuba has always been a magnet for Yankee tourists and Yankee interests.
I was walking along a dirt lane in a tiny, touristy, log-cabin village on Olkhon Island, in the middle of Lake Baikal, when a cow took exception to my photo-taking.
Our itinerary had been set nearly a year in advance, but in the wet reality of rural Guatemala, it changed almost daily, depending on road conditions.
I like to say I knew them when. The catch is, I can’t prove it.
A week after getting home from the Civil War, I’m still not back to normal. I’m out of synch here — as if I forgot something, or left something behind.
The participants aren’t just “playing soldier,’’ as critics often say. As one of my comrades explained at Gettysburg 10 years ago, he re-enacts “because I want to honor my fallen.’’
The event is being widely commemorated, including in Minnesota.
My amazing encounter happened in the spring of 2006, at the Los Angeles Times Book Festival.