It's half past two on a sweltering evening in the lavish, moving boondocks of Vinãles, two or three hours west of Havana. My sweetheart and I are perched on a bed, savoring the evening breeze in the 90-degree stickiness, gulping the remaining parts of some exceptionally dry rice and beans, with the last drops of filtered water we are "permitted to drink" until dusk. Gone were the $2 jugs of rum, mojitos and daiquiris, dewy mangos, and new coconuts. Cuba was all pointless fooling around until the point that we blew our financial plan on day four of ten. After Obama lifted ban confinements in 2016, we hurried to Cuba, anxious to encounter its nostalgic charms and unblemished shorelines. We found that American telephones, charge cards, check cards, and banks wires still did not take a shot at Cuban soil, which means any cash we required for the excursion must be raised front, in real money. Which is the means by which we twisted up SOL in that little orange house with j...