Tuesday

Holidays on the other side of the globe often involve intricate planning and a set of hurdles to overcome before you can finally wake up in some exotic setting where the sun is shining and the booze is cheap. 

For me, the final hurdle is walking onto an aircraft, which is always bigger than a small African country and therefore according to my logical brain unable to be air-bound for any period of time.

The air hostess then says, "Please turn right and find your seat on row 92". Not even the Sidney opera House has 92 rows... I can't hear her because my heart is beating too loud, even louder than the engines being revved up.

As I walk down the aisle that never ends I start fretting about how full the aeroplane will be and who will be sharing my personal space for the next 12 hours. Will it be the obese man that I saw in the espresso queue or will it be the family with the three screaming brats? It is never the Brad Pitt look-alike with a personality of Hemingway. That guy is probably flying the plane. 

Eventually the boarding will be completed and I will thank the gods for the empty space next to me, just to see how the last person entering the plane moves straight to my row and my next 12 hours turns into living hell. The only way to deal with the situation is the simple classic solution of alcohol and Valium.

All of the above came true yesterday when Kirsten and I found ourselves at the Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris, boarding Air France flight AF 3532 to Havana, Cuba. The gate area was crowded. The last time I saw so many people was at a Saturday morning market in Calcutta. Why on earth would all these people want to travel to Cuba? Maybe I will soon learn the answer to that.

Kirsten and I are spending the next three weeks cycling around rural Cuba after a short visit to Havana, nursing our jetlags and drinking Mojitos.

We expected it to be a bumpy ride because of the reigning storm Sandy and its repercussions on the East coast of the USA. It happened to be the smoothest flight ever. We might as well have glided on satin all the way to the Caribbean. I watched French movies and Kirsten watched Woody Allen being neurotic in Rome and 'Salmon fishing in the Yemen'.

Entering Cuba was as easy as the Pope entering Vatican City. The expected horror stories of interviews in dark rooms with and without gloves never happened. After passport control it was a safety check again and against all odds I was allowed to take my 300 ml of water into the country. Kirsten was stopped by a security guard and he opened her bag. He ignored her collection of stage three prescription drugs but paused at her breath refreshment tablets. She offered him one but he politely declined, despite his vile cigar breath. 

The bumpy ride started when it was luggage collection time. The bags appeared on the carousel at the same pace as Syrian refugees entering Sweden. One per minute. My bag arrived last. Maybe because it was the biggest. It had to accomodate my usual minimum of 10 pairs of shoes.

Out through 'Nothing to declare' and into the chaos of everyday Havana. The next ordeal was to change Euros into the local CUC's. Spelled with C not K. It was a stampede only to be exceeded by the queue into West Germany after the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Then the mandatory hell ride into town by local taxi. We saw only one accident and found ourselves on the wrong side of the road only for half a kilometer. We were heading to the oasis of Havanas best hotel, the Nacional. Unfortunately it has seen better days and this is not a good prognosis for our future sleeping arrangements in this country.

The room was as dark and as cold as any winter on Greenland. The air conditioner sounded like a jet plane starting on a runway but at last we could stretch out between white sheets and dream of Brad Pitt with a personality of Hemingway.