Guantanamo Bay

It's that time of the week - injecting a little geographic exploration into an otherwise sedentary life.

In the past five years, the phrase "Guantanamo Bay" has taken on new connotations. I grew up knowing its nickname Gitmo, more recently it has been dubbed Camp X-Ray (one of three detention camps contained in the naval base).

To me it is terra firma - the place of my birth. During the Vietnam War, Dad was given the choice of a tour in Southeast Asia or a stint (with his family) at the naval hospital at Gitmo. Obviously he chose the latter. The better choice, anyone would agree. I am a US citizen by birth, eligible to run for President - as much as John McCain is.

My passport merely reads "Cuba" - no specific location that might explain the circumstances of my birth. Upon returning to the US from travels abroad I am occasionally asked how I obtained my citizenship, or for how long I've held it. Try answering that question intelligibly with jet lag.

The stories from those years were both humorous and scary. A sort of gallows humor I suppose. 98 degrees on Christmas Day, cockroaches nearly as big as your hand. Bored drunken soldiers driving over land crabs in a game called "crunch crunch".

These days the name doesn't conjure up quite the same feelings. While my curiosity about the place has not waned, it has taken on a new dimension. I no longer wear the cool t-shirt emblazoned with "Guantanamo" and a red star that my friend made for my birthday years ago.

I always got strange looks when I told people where I was born. The strange looks are now followed by a solemn, "oh".

Did you know they have a Starbucks? Seems prying detainees with a venti latte is an effective means of interrogation.