HAVANA—Set against a backdrop of gutted buildings and faded hope, Michael is all smiles.
He’s fiftysomething, sports a greying moustache last in fashion in the ’70s, and stares out from beneath a ball cap emblazoned with a red maple leaf.
Sauntering into a downtown Havana bar, his left arm wound tightly around the waist of an attractive young Cuban woman, he’s in his element. She, meanwhile, is working.
The Vancouver Island native flashes a grin at two European mates who, like him, have come to regard Havana as a second home. The bartender welcomes him like an old friend. Everyone here, as the song goes, knows his name.
“There’s a lot worse places to be,” Michael says, in a toast to shared good fortune. “This is the promised land.”
Michael is on the inside of a well-kept secret. (more...)
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