Raining over Havana

Mum bought a book of this post title at the local book market.  I've told her that it is therefore her fault that it's been raining (on and off) for the past two days. 

Our first day back in Havana, we walked all the way from our apartment in Calle 23 in Vedado to Plaza de Armas at the other side of the old town.  And back again.  

Armas is where the antique book market is located.  Mum sat in the park while I went around every stall asking "tienes penguino".  They thought I was nuts until I found a chap who spoke English and I asked him the word for publisher.  They still thought I was nuts.  In the square full of antiques,  the only Penguin I could find was "Confessions of a Working Girl".  I don't think I can navigate the postal system here so it will be sent off to the UK when I get home.

We did a full circuit.  Down Calle 23 to the Malecon, a little inland at Ave de Italia, and then eventually down Obisbo, the tourist shopping street in the old town.  On the way back, we went along Simon Bolivar to Ave of the President's (Calle G).

After a nice long rest in our apartment, our night's excursion was Waoo restaurant followed by a jazz bar.  The burgers were nice (but not as nice as the dinner we'd had sitting on the driveway at El Idilio the night before). 

We were slightly early for the jazz, so joined the queue/mill of tourists sheltering from the rain.  Once inside the surprisingly small jazz joint, we waited an hour for the musicians to arrive and get set up.  Small tip: book at table ahead of time and ask for front row.  Then turn up at 11pm and you'll have time to get settled and get a drink before the band starts.  The music was great, especially with the flutes, but the sound man could have used a few pointers.

"Mum, the weather is a bit crap, shall we take a taxi to the Fort to see the canon ceremony" is where I should have ended the sentence.  But I continued, "or should we walk for miles across the city, get soaking wet, catch a ferry, and walk another few miles".  We did the latter.  So we've seen a lot of Havana in the past couple of days.

I'd like to speak more spanish.  Then I could tell the schoolboys asking for money that they should learn a real profession, not begging.  I could string the hustlers on for my entertainment instead of getting irritated at the constant, "hello, where are you from?"  I could tell the men offering suggestive remarks and sounds that I'm old enough to be there mother followed by a short feminist dissertation. Oh well.  Next time....

The city is interesting.  Not pretty.  Not really even picturesque.  Dirty.  Smelly.  Smoggy.  Broken - the roads, the houses, and sometimes the people.  But under repair (and a health and safety nightmare).  Peeks into doorways reveal a woman on a chair with a jug of coffee a stack of tiny cups.  This is her income.   A small desk to get your nails done (no, they won't sell me a bottle).  Electronic repair shop.  A very clean and tidy car workshop.  A sort of handbag/shoe/toiletries/cleaning products store where I do get nail polish. 

We pass a fruit cart with a fabulous smell of limes.  These are sold to people by throwing a bag on a rope from their apartment window.  Fruit is put in the bag and up it goes.  I think we should institute this at home. 

We finally arrived at the Fort, via a very white statue of Jesus, at about sixish. We had the place to ourselves so meandered through the canons,  saw the sunset, and had an ok meal at the restaurant. The hoards arrived at a little after eight so we secured ourselves a spot at the front and waited for the show to start.  The edge of amateurish added to the event.  One soldier couldn't get his drum secured.  The first canon lighting was a fizzer so they had to light it again.  There was flamboyance aplenty.  It gave me a fright when it did fire.  Very loud.

Then we got a taxi home who fleeced us with the, no you gave me the wrong note trick.  I've decided he has a sick child at home.  Or karma will get him.