Editor’s note: This is the fourth of four parts on being stationed in Cuba in the late 1950s.

“But the sign says this is a post office.”

The man’s black moustache crinkled in a wider smile, a kindly look in his eyes. “Yes, it is a post office. I’m the postmaster, and my wife and I live in the attached house.” He said this very gently, with obvious good will.

“Oh, I’m very sorry. I’ll be going now.”

“No, no, please sit down. I don’t get many opportunities to talk to Americans. In fact, I have never spoken to one. They all go straight to the luxury hotel and never stop here. Probably most of them don’t speak Spanish, and I, unfortunately, don’t speak English, except for yes, no, hello, goo’bye and sank you.” He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. He gestured to the rocking chair I had just abandoned, saying, “So, please sit and let’s talk.”

“Are you sure I won’t be disturbing you?”

“I’m sure. Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

I hesitated for a moment and then sat. A cordial, relaxed conversation in Spanish ensued about ordinary matters. We spoke about our lives, our families, our jobs…

The shadows grew longer and spread across the road. A little girl, 8 years old, greeted the postmaster and came up to the porch. She wore a long blue gown and a cardboard crown covered in tinfoil. The postmaster introduced her to me who, he informed her, “came from New York, very far away.”

The girl, Margarita, smiled broadly at me, and said, “You know, there’s a frog that lives behind that box.”

She pointed to a mailbox affixed to the wall with a small space between the box and the wall, then deposited an envelope into the receptacle.

I said, “Really? Behind the box?”

She took my hand and tugged. I had no choice but to stand up and let her lead me to the mailbox on the wall.

“Look,” she said. She pointed to the space between the wall and the box.

“I’m afraid I don’t see him.”

Margarita looked into the space. “Ah, yes. He must be somewhere else right now.”

I had to smile. I sat down again. “That’s a very pretty dress you’re wearing, Margarita, and you’re wearing a crown. You look like a princess.”

She corrected me,“No, no; I’m a queen. We’re rehearsing a play we’re going to have at the school about Christopher Columbus, and I’m Queen Isabella!” She beamed broadly, and chattered enthusiastically about the play, giving all the details, gesturing dramatically. Then she curtsied and said goodbye to the postmaster, turned to me, curtsied and politely said it was nice to have met me.

After a few minutes a farm boy about 15 years old greeted the Postmaster and clambered up to the porch. He wore white field-hand clothing, a machete hanging from his belt. After he deposited a letter in the box, the Postmaster introduced him to me. The boy asked me some questions about the United States, chatted very briefly with the Postmaster and courteously took his leave of us.

The postmaster and I continued our amiable chat, when it hit me that it had grown dark. Looking at my watch, I saw it was almost 9 o’clock. I stood and said, “I’ve been taking too much of your time, sir. I should be taking the bus back to Pinar del Rio.”

At that moment, a woman came out of the house door and briskly walked toward us, a tray in her hands and a smile on her lips. The rich aroma of food frying in a pan drifted from the house and clung to her. The postmaster introduced me to his wife, who shyly smiled. The postmaster said, “Stay and join us for supper. The last bus comes by at 190 o’clock”

“Oh, thank you so much, but I couldn’t. Here I am, a perfect stranger. I invited myself to your home, when you come right down to it, which is not exactly the best of manners. I couldn’t possibly take advantage and eat your food too. It just wouldn’t be right.” I added, “I’ll start heading down the road and take the next bus when it comes.”

I was about to shake the man’s hand and thank him for his hospitality, when his wife set the tray on the small table around which the three of us were clustered. She pointed to the three plates and said, “But you must stay. Look, I’ve prepared supper for three people. Wasting food is a sin.” With a warm smile, she added, “Please, sit and share the meal with us.”

I saw three plates, each with two slices of French toast. There was a container of syrup on the side, with knives and forks. French toast with syrup! So un-Cuban, it seemed to me. So back home.

Anyway, I realized I actually was hungry. I felt I would really be imposing on them if I accepted their kind offer. But then I worried that if I didn’t accept their invitation they would feel offended. So, I thanked them for their hospitality to a perfect stranger, a foreigner to boot, and sat down to join them at their evening repast. I still felt some sense of guilt at having invaded their private space, and now eating their food. These were not wealthy people, to say the least. Certainly they would be deeply insulted if I attempted to pay them. These humble, generous people inspired a feeling of love in me, a love I didn’t know how to express. I wished I had a gift to present to them. Something. A token to show my appreciation. But, naturally, never expecting to have such an intense experience with anyone in Cuba, I had brought nothing.

# # # #

Now, in my old age, I recall this event at a post office in rural Cuba with affection. There was something about that evening so long ago that I could not explain in words, in human language, something ineffable that remains with me. I can still visualize the kindly faces of the Cuban rural postmaster and his wife.

I once again see and vividly “taste” the French toast soaked in syrup. I once more see the little girl dressed as the Queen of Spain, who knew of a frog that lived behind the mailbox. I can picture the adolescent farm boy with the machete who asked me intelligent questions about the U.S. How can I possibly explain the feeling of warmth that now invades my consciousness? A feeling of warmth accompanied by a sense of loss. Loss of a world that no longer exists. There are events in life that cannot be communicated to others by mere words. One must have exactly the same experience to understand it. Yet that is impossible, because no two people can ever have exactly the same experience. Not really.

Clark Zlotchew is an author of fiction and non-fiction and a Distinguished Teaching Professor of Spanish at the State University of New York at Fredonia.