In common with the rest of the country, the breathtaking and crumbling national capital offers up hope and despair, pleasure and pain in equal measure. I love it one minute and hate it the next. It’s certainly a place of international significance and is well worth the entry fee but it comes with a cost, at least for me.

In total I spent nine days in Havana old town, two at the beginning of my visit and seven at the end. In a way I feel a bit sorry for the old girl, she didn’t get the best of me. By the end I was ready for home, if I’d have spent more time there at the beginning I think we both would have benefitted more.

Nevertheless it’s a real city. Big and bustling, crumbling but proud, a polished lipstick smile for the dollar carrying gringos but a dirty arse.

If you so desire, you can visit this place with money in your pocket. Get your 50’s American car transfer from the airport to your 5 star hotel, get driven to the handpicked restaurants, take the horse carriage rides, get the guided tours of the many places of historic significance, go see the sanitised Cuban themed shows in the flashy venues. All of this is possible, and some do this (not as many as used to before Covid). In a way, it is what it is. Havana needs to offer a rich person’s international city break if it’s going to get any income at all. I understand why the government has spent money in order to be able to provide this. They need hard currency and one way is to milk this from the tourists that expect that kind of experience. They used to pile off the floating behemoths for just that.

However, you don’t need to scratch much beneath the surface to see the real Cuba. In fact escape the clutches of your tour leader ushering you from one polished place to the next and it will come and find you pretty dam quick. The near constant hassle, of the type I’ve mentioned many times, but won’t bang on about yet again, the squalor and poverty metres from the sparkling new squares, the shaky internet and electricity, the lack of shops. The real Cuba I’ve seen over the whole island.

I always try to start with the positives and Havana has many of these. In fact positives that I have come to recognise and value over the weeks I have come to understand the country more. Of course, I start with the music. Whilst not of the mind blowing standard of Santiago, and OK OK a bit more tourist focused and friendly, damn! You just can’t knock the talented musicianship on show. There’s nothing quite like walking down a street, getting sucked in, grabbing a cold one and diving straight in to the vibe. It can’t be beaten, anywhere. Full stop and period. There is no better country in the world for live music.

I managed to take the long taxi ride twice to Fabrica de Arte. A huge, multi-level, multi-media arts hub. I’ve seen a few of these around the world, but none that can touch this place. Changing art exhibitions, umpteen stages, umpteen bars, food concessions and a vibe of appreciative international and local people. It truly is a one of a kind. Unpretentious and involving. A mixture of music from a world class jazz quartet, to soft rock indy, to Cuban traditional, all making people shake under one roof.

Another day I headed to a cool neighbourhood famous for its graffiti and street vibes, in time for the Sunday afternoon Rumba session. Eight musicians blasting out their African derived call and response rhythms to a packed alleyway of sweating locals. Another day, around the corner from my accommodation, a vacant building lot with a big band all miked up, a brass section for 4 or 5 people. The encounters go on.

I’ve said previously that Cubans live on the streets and nowhere is that more apparent than in Havana old town. My Air B and B was only 30 metres from one of the poshest tourist squares, yet the street is a thriving community of old and young. Dilapidated buildings, kids playing in the street, food stalls, me slap bang in the middle of it all. And boy is it loud. Street vendors shouting at the top of their voices at 7am. The scooter mechanic whose workshop is the street revving engines while fixing them, dogs fighting, kids screaming, parents arguing, real life.

On Friday it turns into a genuine street party. I drink a couple while watching from the balcony, then breath in, walk downstairs and buy a few more from the can stall, buy a burger and stand with them listening to the deafening reggaeton. I won’t say that I was warmly welcomed but I was certainly tolerated, probably because I had the balls and wanted to escape the tourist bubble. I strategically hand out a few cans and the smiles are more forthcoming.

But I’m ready for home. The novelty factor of Cuba has long since worn off. The minor things that were easily ignored are no longer. Dog shit everywhere because there are stray dogs, and because the people don’t pick up. In fact, apparently it’s OK to just drink your beer and throw the can on the floor, or if you can be arsed throw it on the overflowing dumpster that wasn’t emptied the whole week I was there. Insects swarming the place along with cats and dogs feasting on who knows what, with the stench growing daily in the 35 degree heat. People spitting in the street and pissing in corners if they want. Too young girls chasing the old fat white guys. Some old fat white guys accepting.

The can’t do attitude of every worker in a state owned business. The inability to queue in order. The taxis that cost more than at home. OK OK fuel shortages etc. but the cycle taxis cost more than an Uber at home as well. The lack of shops that sell anything useful. The necessity to pay for everything with wads of low value cash. The non-functioning toilets. The non-drinkable tap water and hard to find bottled water. The flaky internet. The flaky electricity. The feeling that everyone wants something from me. Yes I’m ready for home.