To Iceland, With Love

“Pero, no hay sitio en el autobus.”

  John had to agree. “It’s pretty crowded.”

  The driver looked at them with patient pity and used his hands British butler fashion to herd them toward the open door. “Senora. Senor. Por favor.”

  Ushering Jane to the steps of the vehicle, he smacked the backside of the last rider to board. “Apartado, el gordo.” If the rider thus assaulted was not amused, those in front of him were even less so. Many curses and much grumbling ensued, mostly sotto voce, but in the end the bottom step was cleared for Jane and two pullman-style carryalls. Not for the first time, Jane found herself forced to acknowledge the existence of a higher power – in this case that of Cuban ingenuity in the face of dollar-bearing yanquis. But their problem was only half solved.

  “Coming?” Jane said half archly, half challengingly to John, who was still stuck in pedestrian class. The driver beckoned again, as though coaxing a very small child.

  “No way,” John protested.

  “Si,” the driver insisted flatly. “Way. La senora es muy bonita. Y son ustedes casados, no?” (“The lady is very pretty. And you are married, right?”) Obediently, John clambered up and, after a brief interlude of grunting and exertion on the part of the driver and conjugal hilarity on the part of John and Jane, the doors were forced shut and the camel set off. In a spume of thick black diesel exhaust. Slouching toward la Habana Vieja.