After months of making fun of the media's obsession with El Niño, we've quickly become disciples as it is soberingly clear that our fate — and finances, as every day costs big on a film shoot — are being left to this 'little boy's' whimsey. Our flight is delayed because Havana's José Martí airport is temporarily shut down due to heavy-duty winds.
      The weather problem becomes secondary as we smash into our FIRST OFFICIAL BUREAUCRATIC SNAFU: The kindly Mexican agent has matter-of-factly declared something in Spanish. Paul, our fluent-in-Spanish camera dude translates: "He says we can go, but we can't take all this luggage." Our eyes follow the ominous trajectory of the agent's finger and settle on a shiny new sign hanging above the counter that proclaims, in several different languages "ONLY 20 KILOS PER PASSENGER ALLOWED."
      We plead; we explain that we are a crew going to Cuba to film a documentary — we are nothing without our gear! We cover the counter with a satchel full of hard-earned credentials. He doesn't budge. The greenback Grant trick does not work. Apparently, this recent Castro dictum is intended to curb the flow of appliance-toting travelers who sell goods on the Cuban black market. Jeannie and I fall back to let Paul work some mano y mano Latin magic. He convinces the agent to fax the Cuban film institute, ICIAC, from whom we've received one of our credentials, and get them to waive this restriction for us. They agree to send the fax but warn that communication with Cuba is always difficult, and we brace for a long and nerve-wracking wait.
      We can't carry our equipment, because it's too heavy, and we can't leave it, because it's too valuable, so we take turns exercising ourselves around the tiny terminal and chatting it up with our fellow strandees . . . who prove quite interesting. The most exciting is Alicia Alonso, the famous (now wheelchair ridden) Cuban ballerina/Mega-Diva. Alonso was a prima ballerina with the American Ballet Theater in the '40s then returned to Cuba, and, sponsored by Batista, founded the National Ballet of Cuba in 1948. We decide that our being on the same flight is a very good omen for our premier diva trip — despite our current troubles. The other distinguished group is a posse of European 'sportsmen'. After a bit-o-eavesdropping it becomes clear their 'sport' is sex. These charming fellas are on their way to meet some Cuban jiniteras, young Cuban women who, for access to dollars and excitement, hook up with foreign men.
      Three hours later there is a flurry behind the check-in counter. A fax from Cuban customs: "Welcome Americanos!" Yippee, we're in!
      And one more thing.
      Si?
      That will be $400 in overweight.
      Oh.
      And one more thing.
      Si?
      Your flight's been cancelled.