Fortunately the proprietor spoke what he thought was English, and we were able to secure very good rooms overlooking the harbor. How delicious the cool, marble-floored room appeared to us! How we luxuriated in the fresh, cold water, the juiciest of oranges, the iced pineapples, and all the delicious fruits they brought us, and, above all, in the balmy air and the feeling of repose and rest! We reappeared in the thinnest of gauzes for the repast called dinner.
Adieu, cold and ice! Vive le soleil!
This hotel (San Carlos) is situated right on the bay. The quay in front of us is garnished with a row of dwarfy trees and dirty benches, these last being decorated, in their turn, by slumbering Cubans. There were colonnades underneath the hotel, where there were small shops, from which the odor of garlic and tobacco, combined with the shrieks and the snapping of the drivers' whips, reached us, as we sat above them on our balcony.
The hotel is square, with an open courtyard in the middle, and all the rooms open on to the marble gallery which surrounds the courtyard. This gallery is used as a general dining-room; each person eats at his own little iron table placed before the door of his bedroom.
Our large room contains two iron beds (minus mattresses), with only a canvas screwed on the iron sides, but covered with the finest of linen sheets. An iron frame holds the mosquito-net in place.
Evidently a wash-stand is a thing to be ashamed of, for they are concealed in the most ingenious way. Mine in the daytime is rather an attractive commode; Laura's is a writing-table, which at night opens up and discloses the wash-basin. Otherwise there is little furniture: two cane-bottomed chairs, two bamboo tables (twins); one has a blue ribbon tied on its leg to tell it from its brother. Two ingeniously braided mats of linen cord do duty for the descente de lit. Oh yes! there is a mirror for each of us, which in my hurry to finish my letter I forgot to mention; but they are so small and wavy that the less we look in them the better we are satisfied with ourselves.
We have a large balcony, which has a beautiful view of the harbor and the opposite shore, two huge wooden so-called windows, which are not windows, opening on to the balcony. There is a panel in the middle which you can open if you want some fresh air. Glass is never used for windows, so that when you shut your window you are in utter darkness. Opposite is the door which is not a door, but a sort of a gate with lattice shutters, giving the room the look of a bar-room. There is space above the shutters which is open to the ceiling.
Any one in the gallery who wanted to could stand on a chair and peer over. Everything that goes on in the gallery, every noise, every conversation, can be clearly overheard, and if one only understood the language it might be very interesting.
The bars and locks on our doors and windows date from the fifteenth century, I should say, and it is with the most herculean efforts that we manage to shut ourselves in for the night; and we only know that the day has broken when we hear the nasal and strident Cuban voices, and the clattering of plates on the other side of the gate. Then we work like galley-slaves unbarring, and the blazing sun floods our room.
I don't know if bells are popular in Havana; but in this hotel we have none. If you want a chambermaid, which you do about every half-hour, you must open your gate and clap your hands, and if she does not come you go on clapping until some one else comes.