Yes, we don’t have your luggage

We checked out of the Saratoga in Havana early on Sunday, but since the plan was to spend the day in Habana Vieja before taking a late afternoon taxi to Marina Heminway, about 20 minutes up the coast, we decided to leave our luggage with the bell captain, Jorge. Which, I have to admit, made me a little nervous. But Jorge is a good guy and he even speaks a little English, so when he took me back to the room where the luggage is stored and showed me that our things were all together and would be “muy seguro,” I thought, What the hell. What could go wrong?

 

 

 

Now you’re probably thinking that I was worried about losing what was inside my luggage, but no, what I was more concerned about was the luggage itself. Shirts, pants, underwear—I lose that stuff all the time. But my rolling duffel bag? I love that thing. So much so that, over the years, I’ve bought several others from luggage.com and sent them to friends as birthday gifts (never underestimate the thoughtfulness of a really fine piece of luggage as a gift). It holds more stuff than you can imagine, is very lightweight, and although it’s gone through more airports than a French model, it still looks brand-new.

The other thing I love is my aluminum briefcase (which I sadly left at home). The Zero Halliburton felt too modern for Havana; instead, I used a camera backpack that was big enough to hold not only my camera and lenses but also a video camera as well. And no matter how much I trust the bell captain in any hotel, my camera gear never ever gets left behind. Fortunately it didn’t this time either. But its big brother, my rolling duffel, did. When I returned to the Saratoga late in the afternoon, Jorge nervously rubbed his hands together when I asked him to get my luggage and take it to the waiting mini-van. “Si, claro, Señor David,” he said, “I would be happy to but no si puede.”

 

 

 

Why was that? I asked him. “Don’t you have my luggage?”

“Yes,” he said, “We don’t have your luggage.”

Seems my rolling duffel bag had decided to join a German tour group that had left on a bus for the airport just before I’d arrived.

“So my luggage is gone?”

“No, of course not,” said Jorge. “It is at the airport.”

“With the Germans?”

“Exactly,” he said with a smile, as if this cleared everything up.

“How do we get it back?” I said.

“Ah,” said Jorge. As if he hadn’t thought of this possibility. “Perhaps I could make a call.”

Meanwhile, Hardy started going ballistic. First he yelled at Jorge then he moved on to the concierge before settling in at the reception desk where he demanded to see the general manager of the hotel, “Immediately!”

The receptionist rang a bell on her desk and went back to her work. No manager ever appeared. I’m not even sure there was a manager. Chain of command seems a foreign concept in Cuba.

But Jorge now seemed genuinely interested in getting my rolling duffel bag back from the Germans. When he came back from making his call, he was positively ecstatic. “Good news!” he proclaimed. “Your bag is still on the bus!”

I wasn’t quite sure how this was good news.

“Are they bringing it back?”

Well, yes and no. First, Jorge explained, they had to take the Germans to the airport. Then they had to wait for another tour group that was due within the hour. After that, this group would have to be taken to their hotels. The whole process could take awhile. 

“But today some time we will definitely get your luggage,” Jorge said. “So while you are waiting, perhaps you would like to enjoy a mojito in the bar and watch a beisbol game.”

Which is what I did. And, an hour or so later, my rolling duffel bag did, in fact, return to the Saratoga. Just as Jorge promised. I called Hardy, who was already on Unplugged with the rest of his guests, and told him I was on my way. “Save me a cocktail,” I told him.

 

 

 

And half an hour later, as I took off my shoes and boarded Unplugged, there was a crew member, Shaisee, holding a tray with not one but three cocktails—Scotch rocks, gin and tonic, and a glass of Montrachet.

“I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer,” she said.

Not to disappoint her, I took all three. God bless Jorge. And god bless Shaisee.