Any Given Day in Havana

“Havana is like a beautiful woman when she gets out of bed”. That’s how a veteran cabbie described his beloved city, as he steered his Soviet-engine, American-manufactured ’53 Cadillac up and down the Malecon. We approach the legendary “Hotel Nacional“, and without lifting a foot from the accelerator, turn into “La Rampa” (“The Ramp”) and zig-zag onto Calle 21. We’ve reached the house where I’ll be staying during the next four days. It’s a nice feeling to arrive in an unknown city and be able to call it home. “This is much more real”, I think to myself.

Upstairs Carolina and Lenin (yeah, that’s his real name) welcome me. They live together with their son at Casa Sandelis. They lead me to my room. I step out on the balcony and am struck by the Nacional’s proximity. I can see the interior of some of its rooms. “You’ll find less luxury but more love here”, says Carolina from the door, with a smile that inspires confidence.

The trip here has been a long one and I need to eat something. I walk a hundred meters to an inviting restaurant called La Roca. “A minute steak with Creole rice.” A laid-back waitress jots down my order.

Energy restored, I hit Old Havana. I get lost among its streets and am delightfully surprised when I come upon La Plaza de Armas and its second-hand (or third-hand, who knows?) book market. I rummage for a few minutes through diverse biographies of Che Guevara. “This is a first printing, and they’re now in their 30th, my friend, take it”. I choose a book of verses by Jose Martí instead.

I pass by La Bodeguita del Medio but tourist camera flashes shoo me away. After crossing the cathedral‘s square, I arrive at Café O’Reilly. A band composed of four mulattoes is singing “Chan-Chan”  in front of a dozen appreciative onlookers: several British, a Spanish couple and a group of young Cubans enjoying, as they down mojitos,  rather lively conversation. I park my bottom at an outdoor cafe and watch Old Havana transform at twilight.

I approach the group of youths and inquire where I can go tonight. A girl immediately pipes up: “Go to La Casa de la Musica. It’s the best place to dance salsa.” Another group member suggests checking out Miramar “to dance more reggaeton”. I confess that I’m a bit knackered, so they end up sending me to jazz joints in El Vedado.

I’m not really sure whether they play the sax better at La Zorra y El Cuervo or if Cuba’s best sax players are to be found in either of these clubs, but it doesn’t really matter now, does it? All I know is that between note and note, I’ve just put an end to any given day in Havana.