"How can you go to Cuba? You're American." I hear this over and over again from friends. From the Cuban Americans I meet in Miami, I hear worse: "Be careful - it's horrible, dangerous." Usually, it's because the Cuban Americans are afraid of being detained there; so afraid they've never gone, therefore I choose to ignore their advice. Besides, I've already got my license and Cuban visa, which was simple and easy and didn't even take very long.

I'm traveling with my girlfriend, who is Cuban American and has been to Havana already around a dozen times. We each travel with an enormous duffel bag filled with gifts for her Cuban relatives, and when I arrive at the Miami airport, I see everyone has at least one similar bag, which we all stop to have shrink-wrapped. Some passengers have many bags, some have wrapped up entire bicycles, Christmas trees, even a wooden chandelier. Besides our duffels, we bring only two small overnight bags, one packed with both our clothes, the other filled with canned and boxed food - things like Hershey's Kisses and Krispy Kremes that Cubans have never seen. I wonder at the necessity of this traveling picnic; I truly have no idea what I'm in for.

The airport in Cuba's Santa Clara, where we arrive just an hour after takeoff, is small and simple, crowded but not inefficient. At passport control the slender immigrations agent with the Frida Kahlo mustache is kind, though she asks me twice if I know anyone in Cuba. I get my first real glimpse of what to expect when I am told to stand in a special line because my bag has been tagged for food. The elderly man who inspects my duffel carefully saws off the shrink-wrap with his only tool, a tiny, anemic penknife. "Chocolate, cookies, candy?" These are the first things he sees on top. I nod, afraid to trust my lousy Spanish. He zips up the bag, nods, and sends me on my way.

Outside, the parking lot is a mix of cars from the 1930s all the way up to modern day--American Chevys sit cheek-by-jowl with small Russian box cars; most vehicles look like they've seen better days. I meet Kooki, my girlfriend's elderly Prima (cousin), who has hired a regular old car and an elderly driver for us. She gives me a big hug and a kiss, then proceeds to talk to me in Spanish as if I were fluent. "Mi Espanol es malo!" I stammer.