When I show this photo to people, they usually comment by saying that my parents were a very attractive couple, not that I was cuter than anyone they had ever seen. They never ask about Lon Chaney, Jr., The Wolfman, or whether the Cuba Libre in front of me was mine or my mom's. Some pick up on my blonde hair and fair skin compared to my parents rather swarthy Mediterranean looks, and ask if I were adopted, but I don't even dignify those questions with an answer. My hair got gradually darker as I got older, and now it's getting gradually lighter again. Some ask me about La Bodegita del Medio, which is the legendary bar where Hemingway hung out, and where the Mojito was invented.

I'm told that those days in Cuba were idyllic for me. Aside from the launch of my acting career (if one could call it a career), I spent most of my time on the beach, or hobnobbing with a whole host of Hollywood luminaries. Cesar Romero taught me to swim at one of the big Havana hotels, which provided no end of delight for me several years later when he was the Joker in Batman. I got to meet Fidel, and go for a helicopter ride with Raoul Castro, which my mother was none too happy about. The story goes that when we landed, she ran over, grabbed me, and screamed at the future head of the Cuban military. Evidently, he just laughed and said that I was a good boy.

Most of the time I spoke Spanish while we were there, which was a good thing, as the majority of people I interfaced with were Cuban. When we returned to California, my Espanol was far better than my Ingles, so my parents decided to nip that in the bud, and habla Ingles to me, solemente. So my Spanish became muy mal, and English returned as my language. People always try to tell me that if I lived in a Spanish speaking country, it would come back to me, but now four decades later, I doubt it. I don't think that the Spanish language is lurking somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, although considering what is lurking there, I wish it were Spanish. I have spent time in Mexico, Venezuela, and Argentina, not to mention California, and Spanish has not come charging out of my brain, finding its way to my mouth. C'est la vie. My parents should have let me speak both languages.

My memories of Cuba are only from the photos and the stories. I feel lucky to have lived there for a little while as a child, and it would be great to return one day to have another Cuba Libre and visit all those places in the photos. Of course, if the current President has his way, I'd be arrested as a traitor, or enemy combatant, or perhaps something even worse.

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