“Romeo y Julieta? Montecristo? Cohiba?”
I had climbed the unlit concrete stairs just off a quiet street in central Havana expecting to arrive at a smoker’s boutique. Instead, I found myself standing in Alfonso’s tiny apartment, where a cache of Cuba’s most forbidden fruit—cigars—was carefully piled atop his kitchen table. I hesitated, hovering in the doorway, staring at the wooden boxes. Is this legal? Is this legit?
The new era of on-demand private jet charter claims the skies
Imagine flying to an island hideaway in the Bahamas, with warm turquoise water, gentle trade winds, and beautiful white beaches. An icy tropical drink ...
Ignoring my trepidation, I picked up a Cohiba. The bands were clean and uniform. The label featured the tell-tale hologram. The logo was a perfect replica to my admittedly untrained eye. But simple logic told me this box—with an asking price of just $100 for 25 cigars—was too good to be true. And yet, Havana had already cast a spell on me, with its bubble-gum-pink and cherry-red classic cars whizzing past crumbling colonial ruins fronted by slender palm trees. So I pulled out my wallet and gave Alfonso two $50 bills. Counterfeit or not, it was a story. And a story is exactly why you come to Cuba.
