“What are you here to write about?” the Harvard professor and historian who’s researching what will be one of the few histories of Guantanamo asks me. We're the only two people on this media trip, and we're making small talk as we cross the water from the landing strip to the base.

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “I’m never quite sure. But the stories and I always find our way to each other.”

*

Among the Americans and Canadians I know who travel to Cuba, there’s a joke about Cubana Airlines. The fleet is old and the planes feel dangerous. But the Lynx Air flight to Guantanamo, operated by a US outfit, trumps any Cubana experience I’ve ever had.

First, I am weighed. “Even with her bag she’s less than I am!” the agent screeches to her colleague, as my face reddens and I step off the scale. Guess they know that I lied about my weight. 

At 3:30, 30 minutes after we were scheduled to depart, the pilot appears, asks for our laminated boarding passes, opens a door, and hustles us out onto the tarmac. “Hurry,” he says, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

The co-pilot gives us a quick safety briefing: in the seat pocket, tucked into a Ziploc bag, there’s a life vest and oxygen tubes. “We’ve never had an accident,” she says, “but you never know. Just in case.”

She takes her seat in the cockpit. There’s no armored door; in fact, there’s no door at all. I can see the controls and gauges, the lights that blink as the engine sputters and catches. It’s a seventeen passenger plane. No refreshment cart. No flight attendant. No window shades. No bathroom. But there is a little ashtray in the armrest.

The seats are hard and uncomfortable, and as I try to sleep, I wonder about the 11 passengers on the flight. Who are they? No other media but me. There’s a contractor, I know, because I talked to him at the gate. His company clears unexploded ordnance and cleans hazard sites around the world. We’ve been to many of the same places, so we talk for awhile. He wants to write a novel one day. No one else speaks.

*

The professor and I talk about narrative, about telling a good story that means something. We agree that the stories told about Cuba, about Guantanamo, tend to lack depth. We talk about writers we like. Writers who make us crazy. Our media escorts, two Navy men, listen quietly, slapping mosquitoes on their arms.

*

“You’ve got a choice,” the officer who has been my main contact, tells me. “You can eat at Subway, Mickey D’s, or the Jerk House.”

“Personally, I recommend the Jerk House,” says the professor, who has been here before. Though I’m curious about the chain restaurants’ outposts here on Guantanamo (I want to know who works there), I vote for jerk. A Jamaican cook pumps my hand up and down and says, “Welcome, sistah,” before serving me up a plate of “straight from the island” pork and chicken with all the trimmings, which I eat at a picnic table bolted down to a concrete slab under the stars.

*

For some reason—and it could be stupid—I say that I’ve been to Cuba before. But my admission opens the officer up. “When I leave here,” he says, “I want to visit Cuba. See what it’s really like.” Underneath the camo, there’s an idealist, a man who loves Russia and Spain, who can be at home anywhere, one who is sad about ignorance and immigration policies, one who believes that the Statue of Liberty should be torn down if we’re not going to live up to the ideals inscribed beneath her feet.

*

I buy a Starbucks coffee from a Filipino man who smiles and hands me my change. The van drops me off at my guest lodging, a two story apartment that’s all for me… some seriously sweet digs. There are two TVs, two bedrooms, a washer and dryer—even soap and dryer sheets. There are toiletries from England. The art on the wall is all palms and beach scenes. There’s a leather notebook with guest information, and a welcome letter from a Commanding Officer, who hopes we can “set aside some time to experience the small town atmosphere of GTMO and to take the opportunity to see what makes this place such a unique destination.” The captain hopes GTMO will be our home away from home. Someone will come to clean up after me in the morning after I’ve left for my day’s tour.

So far, it’s easy to forget that 255 men are still being held here, less than a mile away, inside the wire.