The question would be simple enough to answer anywhere else in the world. But I was in Cuba, so I knew that the answer would require further explanation.

``Soy Americano,'' I told him. ``I'm American.'' I knew that he would detect my Cuban accent, which would prompt the follow up question:

``You speak Spanish like you're Cuban,'' he said.

Once again, I had to explain myself. I've been to Cuba on eight different occasions as a journalist for South Florida television stations. I always get the same question and have to give the same explanation.

``My parents are Cuban, but I was born in the United States . . . in New York,'' I told him, my standard reply. His response struck me. ``Que dichoso,'' he said. ``How fortunate.''

Fortunate indeed. As much as I love Cuba, going there has made me proud to be an American. I'm grateful to my dad, who insisted when my mother was pregnant in 1956 that she stay in New York City so that their son would be an American citizen. Mom wanted to give birth in Cuba. After all, she was planning to return to her country in a few years. That was 43 years ago.

Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of my Cuban roots. I love Cuban culture, the food, art, music and especially the people. I have Cuban coffee at least once a day. In Miami when somebody asks about my nationality, I say I'm Cuban. But in Havana, I'm an American.

Why not? I've seen firsthand how Cubans are treated in Cuba. They can't walk into the hotels. They're stopped at the door of Havana restaurants. While foreigners get red carpet treatment, Cubans get little respect in their own country.

I sat in the press box during the Baltimore Orioles baseball game against the Cuban National team. I got goose bumps being there. I felt joy for the Cuban people who got to enjoy the spectacle. But the joy tempered with sadness when I saw what was going on around me.

The line for the bathroom was a mile long for Cubans. Thanks to my foreign press pass, I got to walk into a nice clean bathroom with an attendant. The bathroom was in a stadium restaurant that served mostly foreign visitors.

There was food for Cubans at the stadium -- cheese sandwiches, served unwrapped, with no napkins. At the dollar-only restaurant they had pizza, fried chicken and french fries served on paper plates. There was a large selection of fruit juices, sodas and ice cream. And plenty of napkins.

An attendant at the door stopped ordinary Cubans from walking in. But at one point two Cuban women who looked like prostitutes approached. ``Come in ladies, you are my guests,'' he told them.

Cuba is a country of ironies. The restaurant that sells the best food and has the cleanest bathrooms in the stadium is closed to ordinary Cubans. A mother who needs to change a baby's diaper or buy milk would be stopped. But two prostitutes can waltz right in.

As I watched the game I thought of all the contrasts in this country. Not the least of which was the fact that I had to come to the land of my roots to appreciate what I have 90 miles to the north.