Text and photos by Tor Eigeland

Following in the footsteps of Churchill, Hemingway and Nat King Cole I stayed at the old classical and very elegant Hotel Nacional, all paid for by a French magazine..

The day after Fidel Castro's arrival the place was full of bearded revolutionaries wandering around the lobby, no doubt marvelling at what luxury they were seeing. Most of them were real peasant types, armed to the teeth with all kinds of heavy weaponry. Some told me they were actually from the Sierra Maestra where Fidel made is headquarters during his struggle.

They were amiable enough and at one point when I was going up in the elevator two young bearded types stopped me and politely asked if I could take them up to the top floor so they could see the view.

A little surprised, I said yes, of course, con mucho gusto, with much pleasure.

We stepped into the elevator, just the two of them, big guns slung over their shoulders, and myself.

I pressed the button to the top floor and before the elevator started moving one of them suddenly took my hand and then the other one grabbed my other hand as one of them muttered: "We have never been in an elevator before!"

Momentarily they were like two little children…

So there I was holding hands with two brave warriors, an incident I have never forgotten. After I had shown them the view I took them down again in the elevator and this time they didn't feel the need to hold hands. Then, no doubt, they returned to their Revolución!

What else? Havana was full of street corner coffee-stands serving the most delicious elixir of tiny cups of expresso. Price? Three US cents a cup. I drank lots of that.

The Cubans were simpatico, women smiley, food great and the famous rum unbeatable.

To all appearances the atmosphere in the city was delirious, foreigners including the Gringos, joined in the happy crowds.

My personal bright feelings were severely darkened one day when one of Castro's lieutenants pulled me aside at a gathering and said: "Would you like to come with me and attend some executions in the soccer stadium at Camaguey?" Camaguey being another Cuban city.

Considerably shaken, I made a polite reply when what I really wanted to say was: "What the hell is going on here?" Needless to say I didn't go. I was never that tough a reporter.

Another incident, funny at the time but an indication of what was about to happen, also took place in the Hotel Nacional. From my hotel room I had exchanged a series of phone calls in Norwegian with Sigurd Hennum, an old friend and editor at AFTENPOSTEN, a major Norwegian newspaper.

While making some notes in my room the phone rang again. It was a call in Spanish asking me politely to come down to the reception desk for a moment.

Without any sinister thoughts, I marched up to the reception desk and was greeted by a well-dressed Cuban who politely but firmly said: "We have a little problem with your phone calls, señor. Could you please speak in English or Spanish and not that strange foreign language so we can understand what you are saying?"

Needless to say, Castro's secret police was already operational.

Regardless of these signals that I certainly failed to interpret properly at the time, those were still happy and memorable days. And may Cuba soon see happy and memorable days again.