Standing at the end of Whitehead Street in Key West, I lean against the giant buoy that marks the southernmost spot in the United States and gaze across a blue-green Atlantic. I squint in the late afternoon sunshine, searching the pale pink haze at the horizon for any sign of land. Cuba is just 90 miles away. I wonder; is it visible on a clear day? Probably not, but I imagine I can see it anyway. What is it like, that exotic isle?
I turn around and pose for an accommodating tourist who offers to take my photo, willing Cuba’s distant shoreline to show up in the photo. But of course, it doesn’t. Just 90 short miles. So close, yet so far away. Soon, I hope. Very, very soon I will be able to bite into that forbidden fruit.