In 1966, when I spent the summer in Cuba as a foreign correspondent for the old Chicago Daily News, I was able to conduct repeated interviews with Cuban President Fidel Castro. Each one was an experience. Then, I would have called them “unpredictable'' experiences.
My first interview with him began on a Saturday night, as was usual for him, at midnight. Then, I would have said that was because he was so frightfully busy. Actually, it is rather easy to interview Castro because you don't have to ask any questions - he starts talking and, about eight hours later, he stops talking.
At any rate, we were sitting in the lobby of the Havana Libre Hotel and he was moving systematically from subject to subject, while I listened. Then, suddenly, at 1:30 in the morning, he stopped talking. He looked at me very seriously and, not joking at all, said, "It's time to get the ice cream.''
I said something smart like, "Fine'.' Should I have said, ``Strawberry ripple, please?'' But I did have the idea that his comment had something to do with the huge Coppelia Ice Cream Parlor across the street.
Then he looked at me again, very seriously, and pronounced, "We now have twenty-eight flavors."
Again, right on the mark, I said, "Oh, that's very nice…" Which is what I say when I have no idea what is going on.
Now he looked at me again, still not joking, and he said, "That's more than Howard Johnson's has!''
To which again, right on the mark, I came in with, "Oh, that's very nice…."
Then he explained his little charade. "Before the Cuban Revolution,'' Castro said, "the Cuban people loved Howard Johnson's ice cream. This shows we can do everything better than you Americans!''
Now for a second story. A few weeks later, I was up in the countryside, at Banao, and Castro suddenly appeared. Then, I thought that was because he was everywhere. At lunch with about thirty of his military attachés in a big shed, Castro sat down very deliberately in the seat directly across from me. Almost as soon as we began eating, I realized he had done this because he was using me - the American journalist - as a foil for his ideological lessons.
Soon he was verbally attacking the United States, through me, with an abusiveness that grew in intensity. "How can you not be for the revolution?'' he would rail at me. And, "You call yourself a journalist, but you Americans never tell the truth.'' I fought back valiantly - I'm from the south side of Chicago and we won't easily take a lot of abuse - but it wasn't easy trying to posit the relative and balanced values of American journalism against his utopian “truths.” The language was not mine; nor was the crowd particularly on my side.
Then, suddenly, I got an idea that arose unconsciously, out of my instinct and memory. At the huge 26th of July celebration in the Plaza de la Revolution, I had watched Castro speak for nine hours without ceasing.
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