...under a communist regime

We had been in Cuba a matter of minutes when the nature of its government hit home.
I had been hoping it would be the one place my beard would be welcomed unreservedly, given how all Cuba´s revolutionary heroes seemed to sport one.
No such luck, however.
Perhaps they thought I was taking the mick because I was immediately singled out at customs.
The One With the Common Sense - suffering by association - was also pulled to one side while a very pleasant man conducted the kind of rigorous interview usually heard on BBC Radio 4´s Today programme.
My profession as a journalist evidently set off his counter-revolutionary alarm because he was eager to know who I worked for, why I was in Cuba and what equipment I had with me.
I had read that declaring yourself a journalist can present problems when entering some countries but I´m a terrible liar and would have been found out within minutes had I claimed to be an insurance salesman, or something.
The extent to which access to information is restricted in Cuba was demonstrated by the fact my interrogator had never heard of the BBC.
He seemed very keen for me to admit that I wanted to see the country´s very different social system, which of course I did.
However, speaking those words aloud made me sound like some sort of ardent right-winger, bent on inspiring an uprising.
What made matters worse was when the One With the Common Sense revealed she worked in the human rights field and he began to ask whether she was planning to extend her work to Cuba.
At this point, I began to picture the concrete walls of the cell that would be my home until we regime-changers could be safely deported.
After about 20 minutes, however, we were told not to worry and sent to have our visas stamped.

Breathing a sigh of relief, we made our way to he luggage carousel to find our bags intact.
However, no sooner had we picked them up than we were approached by another official who explained he wanted to conduct another little interview.
We were then asked all the same questions in a perfectly non-threatening but equally probing way before being made to empty our entire rucksacks.
Once again, I was forced to quite literally air my dirty laundry in public.
Ignoring the underpants in various stages of decay and questionable cleanliness, he focused instead on an odd collection of items.
The injection pen for use should the One With the Common Sense accidentally eat a nut and suffer an allergic reaction occupied him for a while.
Then his attention turned to my portable hammock, which he was keen to probe, and a little packet of Chinese New Year Lucky Money envelopes I picked up in Vietnam.
And he studied the pages of every book I was carrying - even the innocuous bird field guides - lest it should contain some counter-revolutionary material.
I was just glad he didn´t ask about the shorthand notes in my little pad because I would never have been quick-witted enough to think of what I could say they were for, other than publication in this blog.
In total, we spent two hours waiting to be handed back our passports and released from the airport, by which time they had turned off the lights in the arrivals hall and most of the staff had gone home.

Just like Bangkok, where we started our trip, Havana is the kind of city where you really feel like you´ve stepped into a different world.
It´s beautiful, dirty, vibrant, fun and a little sad, all at the same time.
The modern heart is the old town where, despite careful renovations to many of its smartest squares and most historic buildings, the overall impression is one of not so much fading but crumbling grandeur.
Yet it remains full of life.
Salsa rythmns pump from five-story blocks lining the narrow streets as pedestrians dodge bicycle taxis or ageing sidecars, and elderly people watch the world go by from laundry-covered balconies.
Walk past buildings of similar age in Leeds or Liverpool on a Saturday night and you might find a goverment office, bereft of workers, or a department store with its shutters down.
Here, if you peek into the ground floor of an elegantly decaying 18th or 19th century block you will most likely be staring into someone´s front room, TV on and shutters open to the world.
There´s a complete lack of self-consciousness which allows people to dance in the streets and sit on doorsteps shouting to neighbours or playing chess or dominos.
The restored buildings are undoubtedly handsome.
But it´s the tired yet beautiful apartments where ordinary people live - amid original elements like intricate tiling or artful stonemasonry surrounded by peeling paint - that give the place its special character.

Neighbouring central Havana might not have the same quality of buildings but is no less fascinating for it.
Walking up one of its main shopping parades is like stepping back into the 1960s, with long-forgotten brand names or logos displayed within bricks above the windows.
Shop signs that must once have seemed so glossy and futuristic now offer only a retro charm.
Add to this the hundreds of classic American cars on the streets and you really feel you´re getting a glimpse of the past.
It´s amazing that these cars have survived so long, with many in use as taxis, although the secret to their longevity can often be found under the bonnet - where a more modern engine hauls around the bulky chassis.
Some of these things are so huge, they look big enough to fit the Anthill Mob of Wacky Races fame.
There are plenty of modern cars in the city - mostly state-owned taxis - and they form an unusual mix alongside dozens of Coco taxis (tuk-tuks shaped like coconuts) and seemingly every Lada ever made.
Indeed, for every ancient Chevy, Oldsmobile or Cadillac, there are about a dozen little motors that emerged from behind the iron curtain.
One Polish bloke we met was beside himself with excitement after seeing a tiny Fiat originally made for the streets of communist Warsaw.

I´ve been called a lot of things over the years but El Comandante has to be one of my favourites.
My ridiculous beard has been attracting increasing numbers of comments as it has grown - usually from mickey-taking wags - but I could definitely get used to being saluted in the street.
I reckon I look more like Fidel´s late, lamented revolutionary pal Camilo Cienfuegos than Castro himself but I guess he´s less likely to get a laugh.
On other occasions I´ve been nicknamed Hemingway´s son and Robin Hood (no, I don´t get that one either), while one bloke even called out Shalom to me. I´m not sure what to make of that.
The lady who ran the first place where we stayed said it was "very pretty" and that I shouldn´t shave it off. I´m not sure how I feel about that, either.
Meanwhile, the One With the Common Sense continues to attract a legion of followers, including one young lad who asked if she wanted a boyfriend.
Her biggest fan, however, was an elderly man who serves up water - drawn from a well and sent through a 17th century filtering system to make it potable - in Havana´s old town.
Clearly a couple of pints short of a full gallon, he greeted us noisily before asking from where we hailed.
A recurring theme of this trip has been that when the One With the Common Sense says in Spanish that she´s from Irlanda, it is inevitable confused with the Netherlands (Holanda, with a silent "H").
So, the old gimmer immediately chirped up with a chant of "Holanda campeon, Holanda campeon" and insisted on having his photo taken with her.
Neither of us had the heart to point out that she was actually Irish, and that the Netherlands had in fact been beaten in football´s World Cup final.
I eagerly awaited our return the next day for another clog-fest.
However, the barmy bloke seemed in no mood for more chanting.
And he clearly had no recollection of us because the first thing he asked was where we were from... before insisting on having his photo taken with The One With the Common Sense.