Day One: Crisis at the Casa Particular. On our first day of a four day mini-cation, my bestie Coco and I stepped off the plane into the breeze of Jose Marti's tarmac in Havana, Cuba. Concerned about the customs process for getting into the long banned country, we had triple checked our "people-to-people" travel visas and hastily prepared itinerary (in case they needed proof of the drinking with locals to come) as we entered the lines of the barely-there airport. Holding my breath and sweaty palmed, the seemingly15 year old female customs officer buzzed me through the door to the Cuban soil. Made it! After a few minutes of waiting for my travel companion to glide through the buzzing door and second round of security we were home free and haggling with taxi drivers and wielding wads of Cuban Convertible Pesos to last us the entire week. Everything was playing out well as we pulled up to the casa particular we had reserved through the interwebs back home in the land of the free. Up to the ninth floor, room 913... Stage one complete. Cue doorbell ringing and some excessive door knocking....No one. Twenty minutes later... still not a peep. Where will we sleep?!?!! At this point I was running through a savvy backup plan. Years of world traveling had prepared me for this moment. Idea one, leave a note in two languages courtesy of bi-lingual bestie. Idea two, use trusty Lonely Planet guide to find nearby casas who could help. This was a good start for two toasty ladies with some reasonably sized luggage. At this stage we had found some incredibly hospitable Cuban people to help us find some beds and temporarily store our bags. The best couple let us rest in their living room, while calling countless other houses to find space. The father-like owner ended up walking us to the first plausible house one block away which turned sketchy almost instantly. Upon arrival, a man from a group of drunks on the street pushed into the house with us and immediately started to kiss and grope my vivacious red haired friend. She seemed to be a magnet to the Cuban population with her milky-white skin and head of curly red hair. After being not-so-politely cornered in a stairway she made it away and pulled me with her back onto the street where I proceeded to pull a classic "crazy American" rant, roping a policia officer into the ordeal as the offender followed us down the street. It worked to deter him and I am still proud of my skills as a loud American woman making a scene. Turns out I've learned a thing or two on the tough streets of Philly. The next house we stepped into was like heaven and we immediately agreed to stay and thanked our Cuban hosts for their hospitality and problem solving. After collapsing onto our new beds and retrieving our bags we suited up for some live music and dinner on the Malecon.
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