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Tossing back Cuba Libres in a Havana nightclub, a partially-lit Cohiba sticking carelessly out the side of my mouth, I was suddenly struck with the thought that the girl on my lap was interested in me for more than just my good looks.

I suppose I should have known something was up. But what the hell was I supposed to know, I was a tourist and my Spanish was sub-par, at best. We had told the taxi driver to take us to, (and I quote), "the sweatiest, grimiest nightclub in Havana", and that's how we had ended up at Club America, an oversized dance hall located just minutes from our respective casa particulares on the outskirts of Havana. The price was right and the clientele looked apt for a good time, so we had gone in without much debate. This was our first night out so the entire group was there, all the visiting medical students from California, and the only thing that struck me as odd as we entered the club was the absurdly hot Cuban girl who pulled me aside at the entrance and asked me something in her seductive Spanish.

"What'd she say?" I asked our undergraduate translator, my breath reeking of 8-year old Havana Club rum.

"She says that she wants to come in with you," the translator said.

I looked at the Cuban girl again. Her hair was dyed blonde, a color that looked ridiculously fantastic against her tanned face, and her brown eager eyes held me with their engulfing stare. "Porque?" I asked.

Some rapid Spanish. Then, my translator:

"She says that she doesn't want you to pay for her- she has to get in the club with a guy because the rule is that single girls can't go in alone."

Immediately my mind zoomed to the clubs in San Francisco some 5,000 miles away. In the fast-paced atmosphere of those places, single girls were encouraged to go to clubs alone. They attracted the men, and the men brought the money, and this made for a great deal of drunken monetary extravagance with the club owners reaping the benefit.

I smiled at the Cuban girl and immediately her face lit up in with the most gorgeous smile I had ever seen. "Es bien," I replied quickly and held out my arm. The Cuban girl blushed, took my arm with hers, and brought her body close to mine.

In my dreams I have always imagined what a Havana danceclub might look like. There would be an upbeat salsa band blasting away on an elevated stage, a packed dancefloor full of attractive Cubanas, and waitresses with cigar trays and mischief in their eyes. Club America was exactly this save for one thing- the Cubanas on

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