Be afraid America.

The sun was low in the sky as we roared away from the airport in a taxi. Soon we were darting through traffic in the streets of Havana. Decrepit vehicles from a bygone era belched toxic fumes through the open windows. The roar of ancient motorcycle engines filled our ears. Everywhere we looked, images of Che Guevara gazed contemplatively back—from buildings, billboards, posters and street art. We had arrived in Cuba.