The torn shred of paper, with its lingering fibers bending against the wind circulating through the windows: “46 Neptuno” boldly soaked in blue ink. Neptuno you can pronounce in a bad Spanish accent. “Forty-six”, on the other hand, would best be uttered as “cuatro seis” evoking some wild look in the driver’s eyes and you ending up in some strange place along Neptuno, the long street running between Cuba’s Old Havana and the University. So the paper does the work, yet the driver still looks a bit confused.
You slice the air with one outstretched arm, palm perpendicular and flat as it hacks downwards. “San Nicolas,” you say and with your left arm you slice that down in the same motion, “Manrique”. Is Manrique pronounced ‘Man-Ree-kay’ you wonder? You look at him, perform your little trick again, and repeat the street names that you believe sandwich your rental apartment. He nods as the car speeds down the barren streets, old cars coming and going from view.
The car squeals as the wheel is hooked to the left. The driver is scanning the numbers of the street. They are in the 3 or 400’s. We went too far, haven’t we? The map showed it being between San Nicolas and Manrique but it was obviously wrong. He shakes his head and takes several one ways turns until you are racing parallel to Neptuno going towards Old Havana. After several blocks, we resume the quest on Neptuno.
The driver is getting more aggravated. His passenger is looking out the window, perhaps marveling at the gritty debris called Havana; a non-Spanish speaking rube with a smile, a torn piece of paper suggesting “46 Neptuno” and a small bag.
He starts rattling off a bunch of Spanish. What more can you do? Scratch your chin in befuddlement? Repeat your San Nicolas cross-street stunt? Wave the address around? Get out? If you get out, then what are your chances of finding anything? And the taxi agreed to a fixed fee, he can’t be happy.
He yells out the window at a middle-aged man in a linen shirt and loose pants. Invariably they are discussing where “46” is. Too bad that “46” isn’t anywhere but on a bad electronic communication suggesting it is a valid address. He is explaining that “46” doesn’t exist in some method or manner which you reasonably have put together given the street addresses and his frustration.
You dig out a phone number and hand it to him. A short call ensues. Wherever you are, you need to go the other way.
He pulls to a stop and gives a quick nod and points at a door, as the apartment owner comes up to the taxi. You hand the taxi driver extra for his troubles? Is it not enough? Is it too much? Is he still upset? Shouldn’t the apartment owner cover something for the bad information? These are the questions, noted in perfect English, running around in your head. You thank the driver as he speeds off, shake the hand of the apartment owner, neatly dressed.
“The address says ’46 Neptuno’” you note. He shakes his head, noting the correct number. You aren’t going to get the point across. This must happen to everyone that comes to this “address”
“So we have a slight issue,” he notes in decent English. “You see all this construction on the street?”
You nod. Construction is a chameleon here, blending almost perfectly into the cityscape. Do you really notice torn up streets when everything around it is in a state of decay?
“Well there is no water available in the apartment for the next couple days.”
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