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the dancefloor weren't just attractive. They were downright gorgeous.

The place looked like, (and probably was, now that I think about), a relic from the 1950s. That neo-classical American architecture you sometimes see in older American buildings was apparent in all corners of the dance hall and the two bars on the opposite ends of the room had smooth, classic looking facades, complete with tuxedo-dressed bartenders serving drinks behind them. Colliseum-style seating led down to the packed dancefloor where a number of scantily-clad tan Cubanas bounced their hips seductively to the fast rhythm of the salsa band onstage. Curious eyes shot to you the second you walked in the room and, if you were lucky enough, you might get a smile.

"This place is amazing," I commented, wide-eyed, as we were led to a table.

The Cuban girl on my arm gave a slight tug. "Como?"

I shook myself and looked down at her. "Eses muy excellente, seniorita. Me gusta este lugar mucho" (and yes, my accent was terrible).

The blonde Cubana laughed and tugged playfully on my arm.

The group took a seat around a black, rounded table overlooking the sea of salsa dancers. We ordered three bottles of rum from the waiter, (as well as several liters of generic Cuban cola because the girls didn't dare sample this fine rum without a chaser), and when the tab came I was shocked by how cheap everything was. The eight of us paid no more than 5 bucks a piece for this VIP bottle service and when we tipped the tuxedo-clad waiter ten bucks a gigantic smile appeared on his dark Cuban face. We then proceeded to drink. And drink. And drink some more. Money wasn't an issue here, not like it was in the states. 8 dollars bought you a bottle of the some of the finest rum in Cuba and if you wanted a cigar, man, 5 bucks bought you a Cohiba fit for Castro himself. Even the guy giving out the napkins in the bathroom blushed beet red if you flashed a single dollar in front of his eyes. In America we may have been just poor students but here we were like the freaking Rockerfellers.

And the Cubana who had walked in with me well, she got a bit drunk and was very soon perched on my lap, her tan slender arm wrapped around my neck, her very slim mid-riff exposed as she leaned back on my shoulders. She smelled of rum and flowers. We toasted Cuba Libre after Cuba Libre in the darkened Havana night club and as the rum filled my blood I began to feel a very strong urging in my pants that had not been there previously. My Spanish started

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