Refried Neurons

Breakfast was included in our stay, and it was both wonderful and odd at the same time. Wonderful, because it felt homey and made with plenty of care. Odd, because it was so different from what we’re used to.

We were served eggs, freshly pressed pineapple juice, hamondada — a poor cousin of mortadella — some yellow cheese, and black coffee. No option for tea or milk. And when I say yellow cheese, I mean exactly that. The closest comparison would be a low-quality Emmental. I still remember, as a child in Poland, we had only two types of cheese: white and yellow. White was like cottage cheese. That was it — no cheddar, comté, or stilton. Just yellow and white.

After breakfast, we had a lovely chat with our host, who kindly organized a local guide for us. The guide was supposed to speak English… and he did, sort of. His English was better than my Spanish, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say he spoke English.

Anyway, we hopped onto his rickshaw — a very popular form of transport in town — and off we went on our tour.

The first stop was just 200 meters away: a charming church. Pretty, but as we’re not really into sacred architecture, we were much more impressed with what came next. Barely 20 meters further, our guide suddenly stopped again and, without much explanation, took us into a courtyard with a boxing ring in it. I think he may have placed a quick bet or two. It turned out to be a national youth boxing competition that would go on for several days — we promised ourselves to come back and see it again.

A few minutes later, the tour continued. We passed the Capitol (about which we learned absolutely nothing), and then reached the stunning Bacardi Building, one of the world’s finest examples of Art Deco architecture. We didn’t go in — just admired it from outside.

Next stop: Plaza 13 de Marzo and the Museum of the Revolution, followed by Parque Céspedes La Maestranza, where our guide proudly showed us a statue of a Samurai. It was a gift from Japan, commemorating the 400th anniversary of one of the first Japanese diplomatic visits to the island.

After much confusion over our guide’s “samurai translation” and with lunchtime approaching, we politely asked him to take us to his favorite restaurant and leave us there.

Ten minutes later, we were dropped off on a lovely street and led up to a rooftop terrace restaurant. First impressions — great. But then came the shock: Cuba wasn’t as cheap as we expected!

We ordered lunch and a massive bucket of mojito — and I do mean bucket, about 600ml of it. There were a few other tourists around, and a live band started playing salsa. I usually love live music — though preferably not while eating — but it was still nice to finally hear some salsa since our arrival. Once the band finished, they made their rounds collecting tips.

With full bellies and lighter wallets, we headed back to our B&B for an afternoon nap. Only later did it hit us: we had paid $40 for lunch — steep even by London standards. The restaurant didn’t accept cards (as we soon learned, almost none in Cuba did), and we later discovered we’d been taken to a classic tourist trap, with inflated prices for wealthy Westerners. I’d bet good money our guide got a little extra for bringing us there. Lesson learned.

Some people like ticking boxes of “places seen.” We prefer to wander — to see how locals live and experience the city beyond its polished tourist facade.

After our nap, we headed out again, walking through streets both elegant and run-down, past boys playing football in narrow concrete alleys. We stopped for a coffee by a lively square where tourists were dancing to street music, and eventually found ourselves in a welcoming, very local-looking bar.

It felt like something straight out of an old movie — dark wooden bar, bartenders in white shirts, a 1930s kind of vibe. We ordered a couple of beers just as a band began to play. And wow — Cubans really do know how to sing and move. We could have stayed there for hours, just listening and soaking it in.

At some point, a group of Cuban ladies decided it would be a brilliant idea to make this stiff white woman dance with them. There is a video of that, which I plan to hide very deep in my archives — but I had so much fun.

After a few dances (and beers), we made our way back to Central Park and the Hotel Inglaterra area. More live music — but this time, something felt off. A woman with a beautiful voice was singing to a few tourists seated in the hotel bar. None of them danced; they just stood there filming with their phones. Meanwhile, just beyond the barriers, a crowd of locals danced joyfully in the street, enjoying the music for free.

It felt like a scene from an old movie — locals once barred from posh American hotels, gathering outside to hear the music. Only now, it was a Cuban hotel, and the locals still couldn’t afford to go in.

And that’s how our night ended — walking back through dimly lit streets to our lovely little B&B, full of music, mojito, and Havana’s contradictions.