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The Señora towered over me on the front step of her Casa Particular, asserting that in no way could she accept less than 25 CUC, as her house was full and she would be taking a great risk giving me a room. I thanked her and turned to walk away, but she called me back. She looked me up and down and nodded me through the door, chin raised, bemoaning the inconvenience as she lead me to a windowless room. Her complaining annoyed me, but I didn’t take it seriously. If she had really been at risk, she wouldn’t have called me back, right? It was the same game that had nagged me all through Cuba, dissolving my fantasy of some utopian island nation of free education and organic agriculture. It was the woman at the bus station, aggressively demanding something, anything, out of my bag. “A pen? Soap? Give me your shirt!” It was the man on the dance floor tugging my hand, playfully insisting that I marry him and take him the the United States. I shut my door and flopped on the steel framed bed, staring at the high ceiling, the cracked pink plaster. A sudden knock came from the opposite wall. The maid squeezed through a hidden door. Now what?! “We have to hide your bag,” she said, stuffing my pack behind the dresser. She motioned me to follow, whispering over her shoulder, “The inspector has come. You’re not supposed to be here.” We crept through the den. The Señora stood stoic, facing a man hunched over her book of admissions, and watched as we slid silently behind his broad back. A Japanese guest, my new fake friend, was pouring tea when the inspector trudged into the kitchen. The Señora followed close behind, clucking on about who I was. ‘Too obvious,’ I thought, cringing. ‘Not great acting.’ The inspector hushed her and turned to me. “Where are you staying? Where are your bags,” he asked. “I haven’t found a place,” I lied expertly. “I just got in on the night bus from Santa Clara, I left my bags at the bus station.” I wondered if the Señora was impressed that this gringa could play the game. Then he asked, “Where is your passport.” I stumbled. “I…uh…left it in my bag at the bus station.” He raised an eyebrow. The Señora jumped in, rambling about her diabetes, guilting the inspector. I asked to go use the bathroom and slipped away, back to my bag. Behind clothes and journals I found my passport, stuffed it in the front of my pants, and returned to the kitchen. By now the inspector was losing patience with the Señora. I turned away from them and slipped the passport into my day pack. Then sat up, pretended to dig around, and pulled it out, exclaiming, “Oh, here it is!” They both fell quiet. He took it from me as the Señora exhaled, and something strange flicked across her stubborn eyes. “OK, you can go,” he said. I hurried out the front door to the old cobbled street. That was panic in her eyes, I realized as I searched Havanna for another room. Before I only saw manipulation. I thought it was an act, but there was something more serious than they let on. I was being fooled after all, into thinking their existence was less severe. It was desperation behind the aggression at the bus station. It was urgency behind the playfulness on the dance floor. It was a game only to me. The visitor. The one who can just get on a plane and leave. I returned later for my bags and peered nervously into the dimly lit den. Late afternoon light leaked through split seams of cracked window frames. The rays sliced the dusty air, falling on the Señora, who slumped before a small fan in her antique armchair. She stared into space and slowly waved her face with a pamphlet. “Um, Señora?” I stammered, stepping into the room. “I found another place to stay. Here is their card in case the inspector comes back.” She nodded absently. Exhaustion had replaced the fierce matron I confronted earlier.