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I had a bunch of questions about how Cuba worked which for years had been nagging at me.None of those questions, however, had much to do with getting laid.Shabbily dressed, eating peso pizzas, and altogether too wrapt up in my camera: compared to a middle class, middle aged Italian man with his scrotum hanging out, I was nobody. It’s not that we’re white or exotic or sophisticated; it simply comes down to the fact that we’re carrying .The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 spelt serious problems for Cuba.
Kids, grandparents, cousins and aunts all turn up for a meal (sometimes these ‘cousins’ are actually spouses).
Eventually the restless Italian on the bus from Cienfuegos to Havana slumped into the seat across from mine.
There he sprawled out and fell asleep, unaware that one pink testicle had wriggled free of his tiny swimming shorts.
They were stale, older questions about revolutions and socialism and bearded men in berets.
Even if I hadn’t come to Cuba to get laid, Cuba clearly wanted me to get as laid as possible as fast as possible.