In my imagination, Jose Marti International Airport was a run down building at the edge of a pockmarked landing strip.  Reality is vastly different.  Shiny and new, Jose Marti stands ready to welcome hordes of visitors.  They just hadn't arrived with us.

The terminal is nearly empty of passengers.  The handful disemarking from our plane are quickly swallowed up. 

The only obstacle between us and La Habana are the security cubicles - a row of opaque plexiglass doors.  You could see the shadow of those inside, but hear nothing.  Passengers are separated - no couples allowed.  I stand alone with my passport and wait.

I clear security in moments.  My traveling companion does not.  The doors on the opposite side of the cubicles are just as opaque - and it is clear there was no going back to see what is happening to other passengers.  I become nervous.  Moments tick by.  Then he comes out.  Smiling.  I relax.  Our first introduction to Cuban Time.

At the baggage claim are more people - mostly bored security police in matching uniforms.  Cubans embrace full employment, which means the airport, or at least the baggage claim, has two police officers for every passenger.   They seem uninterested in us, either as passengers or US citizens.  They check our bags in an unhurried fashion, taking only an apple to prevent bringing agricultural pests into the country, and wav us through.  Security is tight, but not uptight.