As graduation loomed, the pressure of job hunting clashed with a restless urge for one last adventure. While classmates sealed corporate offers, Efraín found himself plotting escapes instead of career paths — the kind that start with a casual drink and end in a run-in with Cuban intelligence.

Disclaimer

• All characters and events in this chapter —even those based on real people—are entirely fictional.
• The following chapters contain coarse language and situations and due to its content it should not be read by anyone.

Chapter 31 “More unofficial trips”

The MBA chapter was winding down, and with it came the inevitable reckoning—job hunting. As offers trickled in, my classmates exhaled sighs of relief, the weight of uncertainty lifted from their shoulders. They seemed to transform overnight, shedding the existential dread that had plagued them for months.

I, however, found myself caught in a tug-of-war between two opposing forces. One voice urged me to return to Mexico, embrace responsibility, and embark on a predictable path of corporate life. The other—the louder, more reckless voice—tempted me with visions of adventure. This was the final hurrah, the last flicker of freedom before we were swallowed whole by office cubicles and quarterly reports.

One evening, sitting in a Russian-themed bar, surrounded by Soviet memorabilia and nursing a Moscow Mule, inspiration struck. Gazing at a faded portrait of Lenin, I turned to Andy and declared, “We should do it. One last adventure before we sell our souls to corporate life!”

That’s all it took. One impulsive declaration and our grand post-MBA escapade began to take shape.

The summer of adventure practically planned itself. Europe was the obvious destination, and soon, whispers of reunions in Eastern Europe and trips to Russia and Asia began circulating. We mapped out potential pit stops in China and Thailand, eager to visit classmates who had scattered across the globe.

But before summer arrived, there was spring break.

One night, with drinks in hand and inhibitions long gone, someone threw out the idea of Cuba. It was illegal for Americans to visit directly, but Mexico offered a convenient workaround. A few winks and nods later, our Cuba-Mexico spring break was officially in motion.

The allure of Havana—the vintage cars, the live music echoing through the streets, the promise of Mojitos—was irresistible. We knew we were flirting with the forbidden, but that only added to the excitement.

The logistics, of course, were a mess.

Booking tickets from the U.S. was impossible, so I roped in my mom. I transferred funds from my friends, and soon, the stage was set. By the time spring break arrived, my mom’s house in Mexico City had transformed into our unofficial headquarters—a chaotic blend of nationalities that felt like a mini United Nations.

Days were spent by the pool, while nights were reserved for the city’s wild side. We hit up Bulldog, my favorite club, dancing until our legs gave out. This, we thought, was the height of our indulgence.

We were wrong.

Havana welcomed us with open arms, and for the first few days, everything went smoothly. Our cover story was simple—market research for MBA projects. Cuban authorities nodded approvingly, and we soaked in the vibrant city.

But all it took was one slip-up.

One of our friends, a U.S. Army veteran, innocently snapped a photo of a military base. A few miles down the road, we were stopped.

The interrogation that followed could have been ripped straight from a Cold War thriller. One by one, we were pulled aside, and grilled by stern-faced Cuban officers who suspected us of espionage. The former US soldier thought about making a run to Guantanamo.

The incident cast a shadow over the rest of the trip. When we flew from Santiago de Cuba back to Havana, we were once again detained for questioning. “The flight will leave when we say so,” one officer remarked, his voice laced with authority. We had just asked him if we would lose out flight.

When he interviewed us Mexicans he asked why were we living in  the empire? He told us Cuba had great schools (Maybe, but not surely not for business) and that we were in no trouble as Mexico had always been a friend of Cuba. He wanted us to give away the leader. Total Nonsense that some years later make a good book chapter.

The rest of the trip we noticed we were followed everywhere. There were soldiers close to us on the plane from Santiago to Havana, parked cars outside our hotel and “undercover” agents at every bar we went. Thankfully it was just for the last  nights.

It wasn’t until we boarded the plane home to Mexico that we finally felt free. As Havana disappeared beneath the clouds, the weight lifted.

Despite the run-in with Cuban intelligence, my desire to show Mexico to my international friends never wavered. In here I knew that if we were stopped a few bucks would save us.

Throughout the year, I curated the perfect three-day itinerary for visitors. Teotihuacán was always the first stop, followed by Lucha Libre at Arena México, nights in Coyoacán, and tequila-fueled dancing in the city’s vibrant bars.

Koreans, French, Thai, and Chinese friends all took part in these whirlwind weekends, getting a crash course in Mexico City’s culture, chaos, and charm.

By the time graduation rolled around, I realized these impromptu tours were more than just sightseeing. They were a celebration—a reminder of the connections we had forged, the adventures we chased, and the friendships that made our MBA experience unforgettable.