We arrived at the dock half an hour early. The sun-burnt tourists began to board the boat. [My husband] and I reached the spectacular corner from where we took photos of that bay as big as an ocean. The dream lasted barely five minutes. When the captain heard us talking he asked if we were Cubans. He shortly informed us that we had to go ashore, "boat rides are prohibited for nationals at every marina in the country." Rage, anger, the shame of carrying a blue passport makes us guilty -- in advance -- in the eyes of the law of our own nation. A feeling of deception on comparing the official discourse of a supposed opening with the reality of exclusion and stigma. We wanted to cause a scene and cling to the railing, to compel them to remove us by force, but what would it have served? My husband dusted off his French and told the group of Europeans what was happening. They looked surprised, whispered among themselves. None of them disembarked -- in solidarity with the excluded -- from that coastal tour of our island; none of them found it intolerable to enjoy something that is forbidden to us, its natives.
