Before dinner, Fidel and I sat outside, our wooden chairs leaned back on two legs, propped against a stucco wall. We were just staring at the palm trees and the whirlwinds of dust started by the fresh sea breeze.
We went inside when it was time to eat, and there were several friends from my old days at The Houston Post. I’ve written about them before. There was nowhere to sit — I suppose Fidel and I had lingered outside for too long — so eventually I sat with someone I didn’t know.
The buffet table featured an unusual pork dish. The server told me in Spanish (I don’t speak Spanish, but somehow understood him perfectly) that it was minced pork, formed into a patty and then steamed in banana leaves.
Then I woke up.
Strange about dreams, isn’t it? I’ve never been to Cuba and have no plans to go. Nor do I recall thinking about Havana, Fidel Castro, old newspaper colleagues or steamed pork before I went to bed.
You just never know what kind of journey you might take when you shut your eyes at night. They say that people dream every night, but it’s rare that I recall mine so vividly.
The thing about Fidel, he seemed like an okay guy.