A Night Out with Lisandra and Mayo. Crooked Police and Petty Thieves

Our last evening in Havana before flying home.

At 6 p.m., we meet Lisandra (26) and her friend Mayo (27) in front of Hotel Inglaterra. We first met Lisandra on the beach in Varadero on our very first day. When we returned to Havana yesterday, I called her.

It’s pouring rain. Lisandra and Mayo wave down two bicycle taxis and negotiate the ride to a nearby pub for about 3 CUC total — a fair price. But when we arrive, each driver demands 3 CUC. Although I suggest we split the difference, Lisandra and Mayo insist on covering even our share.

We head upstairs in a stylish, crowded little bar and order food and drinks. Lisandra — dark-skinned, slightly boyish in appearance, warm and self-assured — sells antiques in Havana’s old town square. She speaks openly and confidently, including about her criticism of the government. According to her, going to university in Cuba isn’t worth it — even doctors earn far less than those selling goods to tourists. The key, she says, is languages.

Like Rosalia (whom we met in Varadero), Lisandra studied English three years, four days a week — and she actually speaks it very well. Now she’s learning German. With two foreign languages, she plans to become a guide. Through her work, she meets many foreigners — sometimes more closely than expected.

Mayo works in event organization and studies IT at university. Though he doesn’t speak English, he communicates through humor, gestures, and photos.

We talk for hours. Thanks to a bit of strategic ordering, we manage to treat them to only two drinks — prices here are close to Estonian levels.

Throughout the evening, we meet other travelers. Two tall, blonde Norwegian girls — both named Solveig — currently volunteering in the Dominican Republic. A friendly Parisian who apologizes on behalf of the French for being arrogant and monolingual. He’s part of a group studying Spanish here.

I try calling Rosalia, who is somewhere in the city with friends, but the language barrier makes it impossible to understand where she is.

Around midnight, Marek — slightly under the weather — heads home. The rain finally stops.

At 12:30 a.m., we’re handed the bill before closing time and move to a nearby park. Mayo disappears for a while, and Lisandra and I sit alone talking. Later he returns with more friends. Eventually, we walk toward the Capitolio, from where they will take a taxi. My accommodation in Old Havana is within walking distance.

We exchange warm goodbyes.

Unfortunately, our farewell catches the attention of two policemen sitting in a nearby patrol car.

They approach and ask for everyone’s documents. After checking them, they tell the others everything is fine and they may leave. They do. My passport copy, however, remains in the officers’ hands.

They speak only Spanish. Once my friends are gone, they inform me — very politely — that I will receive a warning because I carry only a passport copy, not the original. Absurd, of course. Since they mention no fine, I let them write their report. They ask for extensive personal details.

When finished, they calmly announce that I must pay 10 CUC (about 8 euros) for the warning. I ask whether I receive any paper. No.

It’s obvious corruption. But it’s “only” 10 CUC. I pay. We part on friendly terms.

I’m not ready to end the night.

Instead, I head to a lounge club Lisandra and Mayo had mentioned but avoided due to the 5 CUC entrance fee. Inside, the main dance floor is heavily air-conditioned and stylish — but sparsely populated. In the smoking lounge area, I strike up a conversation with two English guys, Frank and Max.

Frank once worked for a month in a hostel in Tallinn. He knows several Estonian start-ups and works for an IT company in London. Max runs a start-up in Germany.

While we’re talking, someone quietly steals my sweater from the couch beside me.

So if you ever visit Havana and see someone wearing a blue Monton sweater — that’s my involuntary Estonian souvenir left behind in Cuba.

Eventually, I take a bicycle taxi back to the old town square. The bakery is open — I buy a few fresh rolls, eat them, and go to sleep.

The final night has been properly celebrated.