I arrive at my case in Havana in the relative luxury of a taxi with 406,000 miles on the clock. It's the worst casa de particular that I have stayed at in Cuba so far, with no toilet seat, the remains of a cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table, and an air conditioning system that seems to be no more than a metal box stuck on a window, with a vent on it that can be opened or closed. It seems natural then that this Casa is the most expensive.
I do not know whether to feel insulted or not when my host Miriam advises me that I can not have guests under the age of 18 in my room, and that my second name "es demasiado complicado".
After settling into my Casa De Particular that I don't particularly like, I decide to face the early afternoon Habana sun in my jeans. It's after 2 o'clock and the midday heat has already passed and I want to blend in with the locals and not look like a tourist, as every time I wear shorts and t-shirts I hear locals saying 'Mirale extranjero' (look at the foreigner) when I walk past, and some of them even make hissing noises like I am a cat that has jumped on their table to steal their dinner. When I wear my bandana, I am thought to be an Italian. When I wear my baseball cap, Canadians greet me with a 'Yo Buddy'. When I don't wear any hat, everyone thinks I am German.
Within minutes of leaving my Casa, I am already starting to sweat and walk like John Wayne in my roasting-hot jeans, when I hear a young child in a school uniform say loudly to his mother: 'Mirale extranjero'.
Not long after this I arrive at the malecon (seafront promendade) and take a left towards Old Habana. After walking for forty-five minutes aimlessly, I discover I should have taken a right. What I see in that first three quarters of an hour of walking in the wrong direction is mostly poverty. An old women appears to be picking weevils out of a container of uncooked rice. Children play baseball with bottletops and sticks. Its sometimes difficult to tell the difference between historical points of interest and derelict buildings that the local Habano's live in.
Later in Old Habana I have a mojito in Bodeguita Del Medio, where Hemingway used to drink. Unfortunately I don't find any inspiration, so instead I write this drivel, squeeze the sweat from my pocket and take pictures for tourists that think I am a local in my jeans.
