Hangover IV: Las Vegas To Cuba
It's only day one in Havana, so the headline is not about the week's tally of hangovers.
The last clear thing I remember is being in my hotel room in Las Vegas at 2:45 a.m. on Sunday, listening to the Muzak alarm on my iPad. Then, I remember I had my rolling suitcase in one hand, slinking through the casino floor at the Mirage—who could tell if it was 3 a.m. or 3 p.m.?—and then I was on an airplane before a brief stop on my front patio and in my master bedroom in Mexico, unpacking and packing all sorts of lightweight, tropical clothes. Then the alarm was ringing again at 4:45 a.m. (I believe that would be Monday) and I was on a bus to Mexico City.
I kept seeing donkeys outside the bus window as the sun rose and the fog lifted (clearly not from my brain), and then I was eating huevos rancheros waiting for my plane to leave. The gate sign did say La Habana, and now I'm here, in my room looking out at the waves crashing over the wall of the Malecón. (Take that Dave! Not even six hours and I have written it—that's an inside joke, but what would a blog titled Hangover IV be without a few inside jokes?)
There are no tigers in my room. There are no missing traveling companions—well, that one was easy as I'm traveling alone. And as far as I know, there are no Maori war tattoos on the side of my face in black ink; I'm waiting to check out the mirror, but I think the Cuban custom officials might have been put off by any fresh face decorations that weren't documented on my passport photo—they are very touchy about that stuff around here. Mike Tyson has not walked out of the bathroom. There are no Asian drug dealers trying to blow my head off. So, this must be a real trip.
It's true. How many people can say they were in Las Vegas one morning, and in Havana by the following day for lunchtime? That might have been a Rat Pack boast back in 1958. The trip could have been quicker, but I did have to get rid of all my smoke-permeated clothes from the Big Smoke Las Vegas and put together some appropriate outfits for 90 degree weather in Cuba. I packed a sweater in case the first cold wave of the season drops the nighttime temps into the 60s, but otherwise it's all polo shirts and khakis from here on out.
I'm back in Havana for a week of reporting, and to take part in some of the activities for the Partagás Festival, an annual excuse for cigar lovers to come to Havana, not that any of them ever really need an excuse. I've never attended this event, so I'll check out of a couple of the dinners and spend some time with my good friends who are here for the gathering. Oh, I will be doing some work, too, filling out my notebook with some stories for my Cuba Report in Cigar Aficionado over the course of the first few issues of 2016.
I may file some blogs this week too (that's technically called work), and I'll report on anything new and interesting that I find while continuing my investigation of all things relating to restaurants and nightclubs (i.e., more excuses to eat and drink rum and smoke cigars). And, for the record, I did eat at the city's best roast chicken restaurant, El Aljibe, last night, my first night tradition in Havana. Somewhere throughout the evening, there were a few glasses of rum, and a couple of cigars.
I'll let you know if a tiger shows up in my room.
