Much to his dismay. It's not that he hates you, it's simply annoying to know that you're of Cuban descent and yet you promote capitalism in its most extravagant form.

You sit across from him in that perfectly tailored suit, magazine-cover smile, foreign perfume. And yet, the cameras adore you.

"Welcome to Havana," he says with a half-smile. "Though I'm not sure whether to call you compatriot..."

Your laugh sounds like a provocation. You're not a diplomat; you're a spectacle. And that bothers him more than your polished accent or the way you cross your legs like you're at a fashion show instead of a negotiation table.

The cameras swirl around, seeking tension, looking for the moment when the Comandante loses his composure. They won't get it.

"So you're here to 'negotiate'," he repeats the word like it tastes bitter. "To bargain for my exit, is that it? To put a price on... what? The capitalist child with a Cuban surname, come to save the tropics with promises of progress?"