In the land of the slogan, the saints of socialism rule. An image of either Che or Fidel waits around every corner in this country. From the gigantic hoardings that read, "Keep Going 'til Victory. Forever" and feature a moody, almost pouting Che; to the posters in every single shop, restaurant or office building that celebrate the recent 50th anniversary of the Bay of Pigs. Just one in a long line of Latin American foreign policy fumbles by the US, this event saw 1200 Cuban ex-pats invading their homeland using US weapons and after training from the CIA. Half a century later, this is still seen as the herculean triumph of socialism over imperialism. Few Americans will register this fact, but every one of 11 million Cubans celebrated it just a week ago.

Sipping a capuccino this morning in the Cafe Francesa and nibbling on a spongy pain au chocolat, a dusty-looking fellow approached us with a bag slung over one shoulder. He waved a copy of the Communist Party rag at us, then, realising we weren't Spanish speakers, he reached into the recesses of the bag to produce an English language version. The unfortunately named Granma costs one peso for Cubans, but foreigners pay the equivalent of 12 pesos. In this fact alone, I detect the footprint of capitalism, which suggests that Cuba's brand of Communism is teetering on the edge of a precipice. All the same, swallowing my deep seated socialist principles, we bought a copy of the paper at the tourist price and began to read.

Under the headline: "Continue perfecting our socialism, and never allow the return of the capitalist system", the lead story began like this:

"An appeal to bring to life each and every one of the Economic and Social Policy Guidelines of the Party and the Revolution, working with intensity and changing our mentality when it impedes the development of socialist society, marked the closure of the 6th Congress of the Communist Party of Cuba."

As if bringing guidelines to life were not enough, the piece continued: "With seemingly interminable applause, those attending received our beloved Comandante en Jefe Fidel..."

At which point I tuned out. Turning to page 6, I found a report penned by Comrade Fidel himself on the substance of the debates at the congress. He writes that after the morning session, he had to take advantage of the break 'to breathe calmly and eat some energy-giving food'. In a style that I recognise from agricultural debates in my former life, Fidel admits 'I wasn't so focused on what was said', before giving an insight into why he wasn't listening: 'They discussed every word, and even the presence or absence of a comma in the paragraph under discussion'.

In a slightly misty eyed way, he adds that it is all so different from what his generation were concerned with in 1961. Combined with the pictures of a hollow-eyed, vacant-looking Fidel in some of the posters, it's hard to feel that this is still the revolution of the youth. Indeed, on the inside pages of Granma, opposite the photos of tanks, soldiers and missiles parading through Havana, there were pictures of flag waving youths wearing Lacoste t-shirts and D&G caps. Even more bizarrely, Fidel himself was pictured wearing an Adidas jogging top. I asked a waiter if he knew where Fidel lived, and he shook his head ruefully, muttering about state secrets.

Putting politics aside for a second, we've had a busy day of sightseeing. Early efforts were stymied by the fact that several imposing buildings, including the National Theatre and the Capitol bulding were closed. But we managed to get into the Museum of Fine Art, which boasts an excellent collection of colonial and revolutionary art. Unlike the Russians, who favoured paintings of noble peasants, coal miners and steelworks, Cubans seem to have been keener on the full range of 'modern' art, including abstract, cubism and impressionism. The display was truly impressive, and only slightly marred by the fact that both Alex and I have developed temporary walking disabilities from where our sandals rub.

During the afternoon, we jumped onto the second hop-on, hop-off bus tour of the Cuban leg of our trip. It failed to fully vanquish the dismal memories of the Varadero bus, by trailing through the hotel district with frequent stops; but it provided a good introduction to the city all the same. We jumped off in Revolution Square where a 109-metre high tower with the cross section of a Cuban star had been built to commemorate another of the holy socialist trinity, Jose Marti. His claim to fame seems to have been leading a suicidal cavalry charge against the Spanish in the 19th century, having first penned a treatise on social justice. There were glorious views of Havana from the top. Later, as the sun set, we finally made it to the Malecon for a stroll along the seafront in the company of hundreds of Habaneros.

We dined in typically socialist surroundings, which is to say a smallish restaurant wedged into a long, low concrete room bereft of any decoration. Rustically carved chairs were wedged against plastic tables under chilly air con. The staff lounged on the non aircon side of a glass wall, chatting and laughing. but as they stepped into the eating part of the establishment, smiles vanished and backs stiffened. Perhaps they were girding their loins to deal with us capitalist monsters, or maybe years of isolation have left them uncertain how to deal with foreigners. The food, variations on breaded pork, was excellent. On the way home we slipped into Floriditas, the prima Hemingway joint in town and the cradle of the daiquiri cocktail. It's a nice bar, but we sat awkwardly in shorts and sandals. As Alex pointed out, the daiquris were nice, but they would be hard to tell from a margarita...

Tomorrow we've booked at one of the rare privately-run establishments, originally allowed in the late 90s as part of a loosening of the rules deisgned to head off popular revolt. It's on the top floor of a grand old building that has been  divvied up into lots of small partitions for flats. It still has high ceilings with fluted columns and stucco curlicues and it's not hard to imagine people coming and going in their finery. When we were there to book today, residents were playing dominoes in an animated fashion and hanging washing from wires strung across the old ballroom. After supper, we'll pop round the corner to the Casa de la Musica for a night of salsa with the highly-rated local stars Van Van.