Up on the roof

I ruin my last full day in Havana with a monumental hangover, though the previous evening (I believe) was well worth the price, even though my recollections of it are now as hazy as the face of the girl who appeared from the shadows in the dimly-lit doorway of a former hotel. She was very direct, and in my inebriated state I wonder just how (or why) I resisted her unsubtle charms — and you may well ask just what I was doing there in the first place. 

However, redemption is at hand, a peace offering in the form of a solo violin — not an unheard instrument in this city but not a common one either. 

I get up, rather unsteadily, pull back the curtains and look out over the now familiar landscape of buildings and flat rooftops stretching out before me. 

Gradually I am able to stabilise the horizontals, make sense of the shapes and colours, control the feeling of nausea, and focus my vision. 

There is a man in a bright-blue boiler suit tending one of the many clusters of racing pigeon cages set out on the roofs of central Havana. There is also a woman in a red top and purple shorts, on the same roof, hanging out washing. 

I keep looking but I can’t see anyone playing a violin, maybe whoever-it-is, is inside, or I’m having an audio hallucination to augment the other effects of my over indulgence.

A pigeon lands and retreats inside one of the open cages. The man in the bright-blue boiler suit, who has been hiding behind a wall, sneaks up, reaches inside the cage, grabs the pigeon and throws it back into the air, where of course, because it is a bird, and has wings has wings, is able to fly, unlike me.

I see another boiler suit, a dark blue one this time, but there’s no one inside —it hangs from a washing line, swaying slightly in the breeze. 

And there, close by, I see a young girl playing her violin in the shade. She can be no more than 10-12, and wears a neat yellow and black checked shorts and top combination. 

Another girl about the same age (sisters perhaps) stands nearby in the sunlight. There is a basket of washing that (presumably) she is meant to be hanging on the line to dry, but she is more interested in her mp3 player, which I suspect is an entirely different style of music to the classical repertoire her sister is practising on her violin.

Hotel Inglaterra

The street-level terrace of the Hotel Inglaterra has a row of plants set out between the columns that border the colonnade, deterring the riff-raff from straying into the gringo zone, and the punters from leaving without paying their tab. People come and go via the two columns opposite the main entrance, where a doorman keeps a watchful eye on things.

I am greeted with a friendly smile, "Buenas tardes señor," and then take a seat at one of the heavy metal tables topped with hand-painted ceramic tiles.

On Paseo de Marti, buses crammed with people returning from work pass by in the cool dusk of a stormy day, reminding me of my privileged status, that I am just another tourist passing through, drinking beer and smoking a cigar.

The pavement traffic is also heavy, hands holding hoisted umbrellas, and feet trying to avoid the puddles from the recent showers. A few people stop and listen to the salsa band, peering over the wall of plants. A girl delivers me air-blown kisses, eyes sparkling. An out-stretched hand reaches through the plants, "Just one peso señor…" before the doorman moves him on. A man stands with a small pad of paper drawing quick sketches of the punters, hoping to receive a peso or two for his efforts. He passes the finished sketch across the plants and waits patiently. It is not very good, but at least he is trying.

Che Guevara makes an appearance, this being one of his regular haunts on his daily rounds. He also stops and peers over the foliage, eyes beaming, unlit cigar stub in his mouth, ever confident that that the tourists will want their picture taken with him despite his scruffy appearance — the beret with the star, the beard and the cigar will pass for the real thing, at least when showing the holiday snaps back home, or when posted on Facebook.

Two foreign girls are ushered in by the smiling doorman, and saunter to the table near the band. Soon they are sipping their mojitos and tapping their high heels to the salsa rhythm. 
The band is a regular fixture here, and even though it's a hotel terrace gig and not the Tropicana, there is no reason to play with any less enthusiasm, despite the same daily repertoire, and the transitory audience. The trumpet player, a cool looking guy in a grey suit and a black pork-pie hat, shuffles his feet from side to side and twists his torso between blows, dancing with his trumpet. He steps forward and beckons one of the girls to get up and dance, but she resists, arms folded tightly and shaking her head. He tries again, but she's rooted to the chair, her inhibitions in full control.

Meanwhile a young woman stands at the entrance, on her own. She wears a smart white jacket and clutches a replica Louis Vuitton handbag. But unlike the two foreign girls, she has to wait for approval from the doorman before she can enter. She sits at a table on her own sipping her Daiquiri through a straw and exchanging glances with two American men at a nearby table.

I finish my beer, stub out my cigar, and get up to leave. But as I step out of the gringo zone onto the rain-soaked pavement, Che Guevara grabs my arm and holds onto me firmly, hoping that at any second my face will melt in recognition and I will be only too happy to have my photo taken with him, for a couple of Pesos of course.

I manage to shake him off, even though he had latched on with determination, and I take off down San Martin into the gathering Havana night.

A final glance down the terrace reveals that the girl in the white jacket had joined the two American men at their table, and has a fresh Daiquiri in front of her.

A — Z of Havana

A is for ancient American automobiles, atrophied architecture, and absent anchovies.

B is for broken and battered, but beautiful.

C is for cracked, crumbling, cockerels crowing in the city, chess in the shade of the colonnade, Chan Chan, and “Cigar-cigar — Cohiba, very good price no problem.”

D is for Daiquiri, dirt, dust and debris, but immaculately dressed school children.

E is for erosion, effulgence, erstwhile elegance, exhaust efflux, Eddie, Egrem, and (Saint) Ernesto (Che Guevara).

F is for fading façades, fabulous, fun, fast girls and friendly (sometimes a bit too friendly).

G is for gringo-savvy, gyrating gesticulations, and gold teeth.

H is for (Cuban) high heels, Hemingway haunts, “Hello my friend…” and hot hot hot.

I is for incredible, impossible, irresistible and indescribable.

J is for joyful, juicy, jalopy and jaded jalousies.

K is for kool, krazy and kooky.

L is for laughter, love, and life!

M is for make-do-and-mend, music, the Malecon, music on the Malecon, Mojitos, maracas, and MAD AS HELL.

N is for no holes bared.

O is for oblique, open doorways and Oye Como Va.

P is for peeling paintwork, palm trees, potholes in the pavements, and promenading on the Prado.
 

Q is for quixotic, quirky and (Cuban style) queuing (an amusing take on an informal gathering).

R is for Rumba, rum, rice and beans, roadside repairs, and Rumberos De Cuba.

S is for seductive, sexy, Salsa, and sunset on the seafront.

T is for tantalising, taped-up trombones and “Taxi amigo?”

U is for unusual, unique and unabashed.

V is for vultures circling over the city hospital, and hasta la Victoria.

W is for waves washing over the Malecon wall, white marble staircases (behind open doorways), and “Where are you from?”

X is for x-traordinary, and MaXimo.

Y is for Yosvani (there is only one).

Z is for zanily zany, zeal, and zealously zealous.