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.