Few things will make a cigar aficionado’s eyes dance more than a box of Cubans. I can’t say I’m really an aficionado, but when Jorge handed me a plastic bag with a wooden box in it, I knew what I was holding. Jorge, however, had no idea what a predicament he had just put me in. It was the morning we were leaving Havana. He met us at the airport and it was clear that he didn’t know about this pesky, Kennedy-era executive order called the Cuban Embargo. Why would he? He’s Cuban. He just wanted to give me a thoughtful gift as we were leaving to come back to the U.S. I opened the bag and saw the cedar box and knew that I was now thrust into a massive internal ethics debate as to what to do. The box said Cohiba, my knees weakened.
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