El Floridita Bar, Havana The barman ignores us, just another tour group, camera phones flashing, rubbing the fabled bronze beard for luck Young man with a shiner turns up in every shot having the drink we’ve no time for, nursing his hurts at the bar as Hemingway must have, taking time out from novel production, downing a fifth mojito, joking with his sparring partner friends, only one not smoking. Plenty of Cohibas in Havana, a plethora of famous beards worth stroking in a city marking revolution’s anniversary tee-shirts and postcards exclusively exhibit Che Guevara’s death grimace, his sacrifice for a nation not his own. Fidel’s face absent from the giant billboards masking hurricane-damaged fields. Our shiny Chinese bus passes ancient Cuban trucks. History disconcerting for the tourist, not one black eye amongst us, none sent reeling from the ropes.