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Che and I used to smoke dope together when he was living in exile in Mexico City. We would hang out at an Argentine restaurant near the Zócalo drinking wine and eating steaks.

Fidel would occasionally join us. He loved to talk baseball while Che would recount the details regarding the chick with whom he had spent the previous night.

They wanted me to go to Cuba with them to start the revolution, but I told them I wasn't interested. If I were to go to Cuba, I would tell them, it would be to visit Hemingway.
I'd joke with them that being a revolutionary was the first step toward becoming a dictator. They'd laugh and say that I was full of "mierda" and not to forget to pay the bill.
They were good guys who enjoyed the company of a callow gabacho who had a few bucks in his pocket. The last time I saw them they promised I would have a place to stay in Havana in the near future.
"Just don't get yourselves killed," I told them at our departure.
We embraced and that was the last time I saw either of them.

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