There is certainly something comforting about going on holiday with an unusually accident-prone friend. Far from delighting in the endless misfortunes they experience, you merely find yourself relishing the good fortune of escaping the same fate.
But it is unwise to be complacent. My usual travel companion, Fred, who will later in the holiday find himself waiting at the closed gate of the Church of St Elvira in a sleepy town on the Peninsula de Hicacos in the hope of finding a much-needed Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting, is enormously accident prone. 'An accident waiting to happen,' as he says of himself.
When Fred and I were invited to spend 10 days in Cuba with family and friends, it never crossed my mind it would be anything less than perfect - for me at least. Cuba, in the crystal-clear waters of the Caribbean, is one holiday destination we had always had great hopes of reaching.
Having flown from Beijing to Paris, then from Paris to Cuba, we finally clear customs amid a tense atmosphere at Havana's Aeropuerto International Jose Marti, named after a pre-eminent martyr of Cuba's long fight for independence. And then it's time to rendezvous with family and friends at the Hotel Nacional De Cuba in Havana.
On the ride from the airport, Havana woos us. We peer out into the dark in silent excitement, the windows of the car wound down, the sweet smells and rhythmic sounds of Cuba drifting in. We hear music and the distant beat of drums. We see the familiar classic American cars, low to the ground, kicking up dust. In the dimly lit interior of a battered 1952 olive-green Chevrolet we see six people squashed onto the back seat. The car motors slowly past us as if in a scene from a film.
Arriving at the hotel, we dump our bags and go in search of food. In the foyer, there are rows of black-and-white postcards of Che Guevara, poster boy of Cuba's 1959 revolution, and wall-mounted photographs of Fidel Castro.