When I landed in Miami, I already knew there wasn’t much “American” left in that city. The place was basically Cuba with better air‑conditioning. The taxi driver who picked me up was Cuban, of course. First thing he asks: if I’m alone and if I want company. No supermarkets, no shopping malls, no postcard America. Another world entirely.
That first evening, while I was alone at home, someone knocked on the door. The police. They surprised me, but they weren’t there to cause trouble. They were there to inform me I had an appointment the next morning at the American Consulate. Ten‑thirty sharp.
The following day, I arrived on time. A man in his fifties opened the door and told me I’d soon meet the consultant. Then she appeared: tall, thin, blonde, elegant, perfectly put together. She shook my hand and reminded me we had met years earlier in Rome, when she worked at the Ministry of Education as the first executive director.
“Of course I remember you. How are you?” I said, genuinely happy to see her again.
From that moment on, nobody in Rome ever understood why I turned down her offer without even asking about the salary. It was a big offer, a serious one — too serious for a simple man like me, beyond money, beyond ambition.
“I’d like you to work for at least 30 days on a training and communication project for young Cuban managers. You’ll have everything you want and more. Please, don’t say no.”
Classes would run from 10 to 12, then from 2 to 5.
I remember the first lesson: about fifty people, half men, half women, all professionals. After the usual introductions — name, surname, age spoken out loud — I started warming up my Spanish by telling Cuban jokes. They all wanted to know which part of Cuba I came from.
The first real moment of reflection came when I highlighted the difference between teaching and communicating — something many Italians don’t even understand.
Days flew by, and in the end everything wrapped up with a cake the students had made for me. They were happy about the 30 days we spent together. Everyone wanted my phone number. They were shocked that I didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t do drugs.
In my youth I had been a rugby player — a sportsman’s mindset. Meanwhile, the Italian consultant invited me to dinner to celebrate and to finally understand what she had been missing. People were so attached to me they simply couldn’t forget me.
I’m a lucky man, always with two possibilities in front of me: the first, a wonderful woman inviting me to dinner after 30 days of silence; the second, the voice of my destiny telling me it’s time to go.
A ritual kiss, a goodbye, and she asks me: “Where are you going? You’re leaving me alone?”
Kissed her goodbye.
Left.
And never looked back.
Freedom has always cost me more than comfort.
Nando
The hardest thing to leave is what others would kill to keep.