Storm clouds roll in over downtown Havana. In the streets, people scurry for cover, huddling beneath doorways or fumbling for umbrellas amid the first spits of rain.
A rumble of thunder soon turns to a torrential downpour. Bolting for shelter, I find myself in a packed corner bar where the rum and conversation flow thick and fast.
Ordering a beer from a surly waiter, I take a seat beside a guy reading a novel in a Panama hat. Behind us, a vintage, pastel green Buick hisses past the open window, tyres splashing torrents of water onto the pavement.
I've hardly had time to sip my drink when a man enters the bar. He's dressed in a sparkly-green dress, high heels and a cream feather boa around his waist. A chorus of wolf-whistles and cheers fills the bar. Raising a hand, he smiles appreciatively; he's clearly a much-loved local character. By now, the rain is pelting down. Rolling down the shutters, the staff - no strangers to extreme weather - batten down the hatches. For a short time at least, we are to be prisoners, strangers forced to take refuge against the elements.
From the corner, a group of musicians strike up a tune. A woman plays the flute, and there's a guy with a trilby pulled low on double bass, a leather-faced old-timer on bongos, and an assorted throng of vocalists.
They kick in with an uptempo number, the atmosphere instantly elevated. Leaping from his stool, the man in drag breaks into a salsa, the crowd whooping and urging him on. Soon, half the bar is on their feet, the entire room a blur of gyrating limbs.
Fleetingly, the man in the Panama looks up from his novel. Even the waiter brightens a little.
When the first few numbers end, the bass player works the room, shaking a basket of loose change under our noses. In Cuba, any situation turned to your advantage is a chance to make a fast buck.
Gradually, the rain dies off. As if following suit, the band plays a handful of slower-tempo numbers, and the mood shifts from electric to melancholy. Wandering between tables, a woman dressed in red slacks sings a soulful ballad, shaking a maraca in each hand.
Little by little, the place begins to clear. When the storm clouds finally dissipate, only a handful of punters are left, staring from bar stools into half-empty glasses of rum.
Perhaps for the first time, I'm keeping my fingers crossed for more rain.
