Our Last Trip to Cuba #1: Prologue

My Cuban-born mother and I are sitting at cheap plastic table in the Cienfuegos airport, sharing a ham sandwich. It is the best meal we've had in days and we are debating whether to order another when a shrill voice pages us over the overhead-speaker system.

 The lady paging us is fifty feet away and looking at us as she speaks into her microphone. 
She could've simply called us over or maybe even walked over, but no.

She apparently didn't get the memo that things have changed between the US and Cuba, which tells me that nothing at all has changed.

So, fine. My mom gets up and I hold our table. Really, whatever it is that they want to talk to me about, I'm not interested,  We assume it's nothing and act like it's less than that.

Minutes later my mom comes back (she never left my sight), and as she sits down we say it again to each other, repeating it like chanting beads on a rosary.  This is it. This is our last trip here until the Castros die and the change comes. This island is crazy.