The next day I walked to the rental agency up the road and took out a Yamaha scooter. I wanted to find that Porsche.
Within half an hour I was in an area with the sea close by to the north and a scattering of houses on the far side of the highway. It looked right. I drove along the shoulder, scanning the yards as blue tour buses rushed by. No Porsche.
Back and forth I rode, the breeze off the water working first for me and then against me. A motorcycle cop rumbled past on his Virago. I looked over and smiled — Hello, my Yamaha brother! — but he ignored me.
In one yard stood a small wooden garage. Could it be in there? I bumped up a short dirt road and stopped before the house. I was taking off my helmet when a woman came out. "Carro?" I asked, pointing beyond the house. "Porsche? Mecánico?"
She held up a finger and disappeared around the side of the building. A few moments later, a young man appeared. "Hi," he said. "Can I help you?"
"Wow — you speak good English," I blurted in what, you'll agree, was not especially good English.
"I should," he responded. "I'm American."
David told me he was Florida-born and in Cuba to visit relatives. And yes, he told me, the man who lived at the house had a Porsche in the garage.
"He's making it," he added.
"Making it? Can I see it?"