Friday 27 September 2013

Havana Night 1

Suffering from first day syndrome meant our first night in Havana was anything but smooth. Having been recommended an amazing restaurant to go to by three different friends - La Guarida - and advised by our hotel no booking was necessary, we jumped in a taxi and set off. Taxi Number 1. 

Twenty minutes later we'd been deposited in a dark alley with the odd dog or overly-friendly local traipsing the streets, and a building that couldn't have looked less like a restaurant. Whatever it was, it was shut. 

With no Plan B we scuttled down the road and headed for the first building with a light on. This actually turned out to be someone's sitting room, but luckily we were welcomed in and conversed in mangled spenglish that we needed another taxi, Taxi Number 2, which was booked for us straight away. We were invited to sit in a room filled to the brim with furniture, framed pictures and memorabilia  from a life working in the theatre. It turns out our New Friend had trained ballet dancer Carlos Acosta and animatedly pointed out pictures of him on his walls. The phone rang and it transpired that Taxi Number 2 had been hijacked by another bystander so New Friend had to book us Taxi Number 3. 

Another long wait. Ever determined a language barrier wouldn't cause a total break down in communication, New Friend proudly produced two Chihuahua puppies - one shy, one utterly bonkers which sprinted laps around the sitting room in its over-excited state. When Taxi Number 3 arrived with fundamental looking car parts missing we thought we'd take our chances. 

Too late to now go and make another massive cock-up of finding a restaurant in a city we clearly had not got the hang of, we decided it safest to head back to the hotel. Lo and behold, it seemed the missing car parts were as crucial as suspected. Taxi Number 3 ground to a halt only half the way back. 

Now stranded on the Havana Malecon between road and sea, the taxi driver - sleeves rolled, bonnet up - made several optimistic efforts to pump life back into his wonky car. No luck. Like something out of a film, a shiny blue and white vintage car came cruising past and we started desperately waving like loonies. It was Taxi 4, a 1949 two-tone Chevrolet, that took us safely back to where we started, tummies still empty. Try again tomorrow.

No comments:

Post a Comment