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My license from the State Department listed me as a journalist. I was off to Cuba to write about the music. Turned out to be just too overwhelming. I might as well try to write about "American music" over a two week period.

Oh, I loved the music. Every bit of it. It was terribly naive and ethnocentric to think that I could figure out anything at all about the wonderful culture of Cuban music in a short period of time.

At least I got to see some of the island. It is as beautiful as the old postcards. The people are wonderfully sweet. To watch the younger schoolchildren holding hands to cross a busy street is to be transported to a more innocent time. The architecture, at least what still stands, is magnificent. The ancient American automobiles, painted brilliant island colors, make any heart skip a beat.

The dogs, though; nobody told me about the dogs. The Cubans don't feel that there is enough of anything to spare to take care of the strays on the street. It was too much for me. No animal should suffer because old men can't get along. Love is the tool. The only tool.