Day 19: Casco Viejo

10.29.2012

Dad is showing the same symptoms as when we were in Hong Kong, putting blame of his mucus filled cough onto the polluted air...I start fearing that he's going to catch a cold again.

Yet we walk the streets of Casco Viejo, the older part of town still within the boundaries of the capital city. Since officially assigned the title of World Heritage site by good ol' UNESCO, Casco Viejo is going through a huge facelift. Walking through town is a time-consuming drag; roadblocks are everywhere with construction happening on every other block.

The outer walls of the town buildings must be kept intact, so the workers clean and reinforce the inner rubble which is visible from the entrances and frames that lack doors and windows. Next to every refurbished block with luxurious hotels, posh restaurants, and trendy wine bars, is a block or two of locals living in meager conditions. Making a rough assessment of the situation, so far 37% of the town is for the rich and/or tourists. Within 3-4 years the supposed overhaul will be complete, and surely it will attract more of the upper-class. What is to happen to the currently remaining 63% who won't be able to afford the inflated prices for rent...?

The service here in Panama has thus far been dry and unfriendly, (bitterness towards those that are slowly taking over their hometown?), and in the midst of getting tired of it all, I ask a parking lot gatekeeper for directions. He stops me in the middle of my question and says "buenos días," and asks me about my day. After being satisfied by my answer, he permits me to ask my question.
Crap, I'd totally forgotten my manners and had started treating everyone else like crap.
What a lesson.

A long run to the post office to give my postcards some wings, finds me back in the so-called ghetto where the police scolded us the day before. This time my only possessions are shoes, shorts, a shirt, postcards, and just enough money to buy stamps. With nothing much to lose (and nothing of interest for thieves), I run the streets and see a different and livelier side of Panama city. Since I only knew the general location of the post office, I had to ask for directions to about 10 people. Something about a lost Japanese boy, sweating hard to get a card to his girlfriend in a foreign land, greatly amused the people here and I received all the help that I could've hoped for. After 45 minutes of running and asking, I finally reach the unrecognizable office and run back to our hotel greatly satisfied with the adventure and new affection for the locals.

Dad had been resting to improve his health, so I take advantage of the nice kitchen facility by cooking soup filled with tons of vegetables. Gotta get him in good condition before the soon-to-come, long-awaited highlight of this trip, Machu Picchu.

Day 18: Miraflores Lock

10.28.2012

A day where nothing goes as planned...

Trying to avoid taxi fares, we set out to find the locals' collective bus stop by foot. If found, we'll get to one of the locks along Panama Canal for under $1US, yay for saving money!
After following directions given to us by one of the hotel receptionists for 30 minutes, then an unsure suggestion by a security guard at a park, and finally a driver who literally shoos us off his bus, we can't find the damn bus stop.

We know our current location on the map, so I improvise a new interpretation of where this phantom station is. I decide we should cut across towards this new theory point, though the streets seem narrow and tangled, "as long as we are headed west, we'll get there somehow!"
As adventurous and bold as I may have seemed, it was merely pride in my sense-of-direction and competence that would not allow us to catch a taxi at this point. The sun would soon be right above our heads, it was already warm and stuffy...

One block onward, a turn around the corner, and we suddenly enter what appears to be lower-incomed apartment complexes with unfinished brick walls, dusty/bumpy streets, garbage everywhere, and direct stares that don't smile back. Ah, this is where the books have been telling us to avoid walking through...
"HONK!" screams a white pick-up truck from behind us. I look closely and there are two men in military uniform sitting in the front, it says "Policia" on their vehicle, phew. The driver signals us to come towards him and asks "what are you doing here? Hide your camera and phone!" and after a bit of explanation and confusion on both parts (most likely due to my Spanish), he tells us to hop on into the covered bed of the truck. He drives us through the streets in the direction that we were headed towards, and I understand why the officer and the books told us to stay out of the streets.
We get through to safety, a remote, rural area with grass and an entrance to a freeway. The cop orders us to get off and keep walking straight. We do, but I am to believe now that he thought our desire was to walk the whole 8 km to the locks.
After another 45 minutes in search for any bus that would take us near the lock, Dad says "let's just get a taxi." I don't know if I dreaded or hoped for those words, but with this one phrase I fell at ease giving in and flagging down a taxi. A mere 10 minutes on the tiny vehicle and we arrive at our long anticipated destination, Miraflores Lock.

The locks at Panama Canal is a must see.
Right upon arrival, we witness a gigantic tanker that paid US$200,000 to pass through the canal. The timing is so superb, I have to thank my dumb pride for costing us so much time in the morning to get here.

To see the biggest construction in the history of mankind, and to think that the dimensions of most ships in the world are designed to fit through the Panama Canal; both are quite a boggle of the mind.
The museum here is quite enjoyable too, since I usually dislike them.
(For those that aren't familiar with locks and how the Canal works, google it!)

We learned our lesson, and taxi it back to our hotel in the Casco Viejo region of Panama City. Unfortunately we take a suggestion from our guidebook and eat at a diner which requires a walk in the ghetto. The food and service terrible, the way back was a bit creepy in the dark.

We find sanctuary in the closeby market owned by a Chinese family. Somehow, the same skin-tone makes me feel at home, and my fear of Panama City is diminished knowing that fellows of Asian descent are able to establish shop here.

A few beers and I am out.

Day 17: to Panama

10.27.2012

Costa Rica for only a night. We know there's much to see here, but our wallets (or just mine?) won't allow the tourist-inflated prices of this country. Maybe later, when I become a millionaire.

At the TICA Bus station in San Jose, we encounter a thoughtful baggage keeper who reminds me of a friend in Maui. They look like twins and have the same sort of softness radiating through their pores. After checking-in, I step outside of the station building to grab us some lunch. Baggage guy notices me, and gives me directions to the nearest fast food. Tells me to say "hi," to the lady working there and to mention his name, Juan.
The lady working the pick-up counter is bored in her stall, is reading the news, and pays no particular interest towards my arrival.
But after hearing "Juan," her eyes twinkle, and chats with me about her family that lives in Norwalk, CA. I ask her what Juan likes to drink, and she tells me to get him a Coke. I deliver it on the way back and he thanks me with the sweetest smile.
hm, I wonder what's up between the two...
friends? a mutual crush? lovers?

Other than the Panamanian border being a stupid hassle to get through, the day is spent on the bus, next to my Dad who's learned how to sleep his way through the rides. I unfortunately have not yet mastered the skill, so am left reading, writing, reading, and blankly looking out at the silhouetted mountains against the starlit sky.

Day 16: to Liberia (Costa Rica)

10.26.2012

As we wait for the bus at a picnic table in the sleepy town of Altagracia (Ometepe Island), a tour guide that we saw on the streets early in the morning, decides to sit next to us. It seems like he hasn't shaved in 3 days, his eyes are a bit bloodshot, his clothes dirtied, and has a look of insolence in his eyes.

He asks for some of our breakfast, so I give him half of my doughnut.
He then asks for money, and I refuse.
He starts talking and is negative; complaining about how the tourists don't pay for his worth, how his company treats him like crap, and how he hasn't eaten in days. He speaks English fairly well, but every 1/3 of his sentences are swear-words and it's quite hard for me to accept the tone of his speech.
Hearing him out, reminded me of the kids that were roaming the streets in Granada...

While laughter and squeals could be heard from behind elementary school walls, of kids dressed in spotless uniform, the less fortunate were on the streets trying to make a living in soiled, over sized rags.
There was a kid that asked for money while we were eating at the park. I regretfully refused. Asking turned into begging, and the begging eventually turned into demands. Finally he gave up, shot a look of immense scorn, and parted me with racist slang.
There was another kid who came into the park riding on the back of a carriage. When the horse parked, the kid got off and started helping the business owner set up shop. I got caught staring in awe at his speedy work-style, and our eyes met. I smiled (to hide my embarrassment), he smiled back and shyly went back to his work.

Coming back to our picnic table in Ometepe...
The guide sitting in front of us, with his anger gleaming at the world, I imagine to have been like the prior of the two kids.
Unfortunate circumstances and upbringings probably have a huge impact on how people come to be (more so and in varied ways that I can ever imagine), but still, I am partial to the hard-working. A bit unfair, since we all have been given life and are responsible to survive. But, free money is free money, and no matter how well or badly used, it´s not going to be the same as something well deserved.
I can feel sympathetic towards this guide in front of me, but I can not come to like him...nor the kid that swore at me two days earlier.
I already look up to the kid who jumped off the carriage to quickly assist his boss. At still a young age, he already knows what work is about...and can do so with a smile.


Bus, ferry, taxi, bus, bus;
takes us out of the island, all the way across the border into Costa Rica. We decide to stay in a city called Liberia. There's really nothing for us to see here, and realize that everything in Costa Rica is expensive; people are driving shiny Japanese cars, markets are stocked with wine that I could never afford, and gyms are packed with people exercising themselves while being entranced by the shared TV screen above.
What a difference one line (border) can make.

Day 15: to Ometepe Island

10.25.2012

2pm, we depart on a small and colorful ferry to Ometepe, supposedly the biggest island in a freshwater lake.

There's a lady who is escorting her daughter all throughout the facilities of the ferry. Whenever the lady sees something of interest, she gasps with excitement, faces her daughter, and explains in detail what she sees or hears through hand-felt sign language.
Her daughter is blind and deaf.

All throughout the trip, I'm reminded of how fortunate we are to be able to take a leisurely trip across continents.
Today I am reminded that there's more than money and time to feel blessed about.

Day 14: Day in Granada

10.24.2012

Granada is one of them colonial towns where the Parque Central serves the city center.
We buy cheap coffee from a street vendor (it's always instant coffee), find a bench under a tree, and just sit for a lazy 15 minutes. The sun, bad coffee and perfect recreational setting forcefully makes us decide (without any words) that we will stay another night here, in Granada.

A stroll down to the lake, 25 cents to walk out onto the pier, another dollar to exercise along the beachside park, a few cents to climb up the cathedral bell tower, and a wander into the dirty locals' market. There's no need for expensive, guided excursions anymore; we've learned how to entertain our eyes and cameras just roaming the city by foot.

While taking a break at our hotel I find the owners, Luis and Francis, eating dinner at the shared dining space.
Looks yummy, "what is it that you're eating?"
Francis responds, "Try some! Bring your dad out, you two can have a taste."
And so we are served a heaping portion of stewed chicken with vegetables, rice, and fried plantains.
It was by far the most homely, heartwarming, and healthy dinner we had on this trip...for free.

At night Luis, Dad, and I watch the first game of the World Series.
I sit next to Luis, and throughout the game he keeps mumbling to me in swift Spanish under his breath.
I finally realize what Japanese nationals mean when they say someone's English is easy/hard to understand. Luis' Spanish is impossible for me to comprehend.
I figured though that there are 3 ways to respond to Luis' quick murmurs.
1. NOD - when he makes a statement about a player.
2. YES/NO (usually YES) - when he asks a question about baseball in the US.
3. KEEP QUIET - when he talks to himself.
By the end of the game, I could guess correctly from the 3 types of comebacks, and swear I actually started to understand what he was trying to say. Who knows if we'd really communicated, it was a pleasant time spent sitting next to Luis.

78 years old, 36 children living all throughout the Americas, uncountable number of grandchildren (he really didn't know), and a hospitable wife that cooks lovely meals. Luis and Francis, I'd like to come back and stay here again.

Day 13: to Granada, Nicaragua

10.23.2012

A worrisome travel day for us.

-2 hours on Bus: Comayagua - Tegucigalpa
-Taxi(?) to TICA Bus
-6 hours on TICA Bus: Tegucigalpa - border - Managua
-Taxi(?) to microbus station
-1 hour on microbus: Managua - Granada

With travel times and transfers added up, we are to depart at 7am and arrive at Granada by 6:30pm.
Dad is quite scared since his books tell him that the two capitals we will be making transfers at, have dangerous areas with increased theft and violence.
We remind ourselves that nothing can be accomplished if we keep worrying, and prepare ourselves for worst-case scenarios. Yet, the goal to be in Granada by nightfall is quite an ambition with too many uncertainties.

Here I shall list the day's transportation tasks along with its corresponding uncertainties.

1. Can we depart Comayagua on time?
We're told by the not so thoughtful bus company dude that the buses for Tegus (Tetugucigalpa) departs at 5, 6, 6:30, and 7am, while the hotel owner says every hour starting at 6am...
2. Will it actually take only 2 hours to get to Tegus, since collective buses never arrive on time?
3. In Tegus, we'll be dropped off at a "shabby part of the city," with no address to be found.
Will we be safe? Tegus is said to have crimes around bus stops
4. From there, will we be able to make it to the TICA Bus terminal?
We have no clue where we're being dropped off, again not on the maps.
5. Will TICA Bus have tickets left for Managua?
6. Is border crossing going to be hassle-free?
7. Managua's TICA Bus terminal is notorious for being the center of crime and drug deals.
Will we get out of there without being harmed?
8. Will we arrive in Managua and somehow get to the microbus terminal in time for its last departure to Granada at 8pm?
9. Will we arrive at Granada in time to find good/cheap hotel options?

Conclusion: at 9pm, 2.5 hours after our hopeful calculations, we check-in at a cute hotel operated by an old, lovely couple.

Two lucky things happened.
The TICA Bus was packed with students taking a field trip, and we purchase 2 out of the last 3 tickets left.
Secondly, we meet Alvaro on the TICA Bus. He is a boss at a company that deals with security guards, and knowing the dangers at Managua, offers us a ride to the microbus station. His lovely wife picks us all up, he takes the wheel and drives us directly to the station.

Dad wants noodles, again, so we treat ourselves to the only Chinese food in the area.

Day 12: Lessons from a bus that doesn't stop for bathrooms

10.22.2012

Luckily, the pouring rain stops for a moment to help us decide on taking the early bus into Comayagua.

7am departure on a local collective bus that has no bathrooms. Frequent stops are made to pick people up from the streets, but once on the bus, you are to stay put until the final destination.

30 minutes into the supposed 2-hour ride, I feel my bladder wanting to release. I look at my watch, 1.5 hours left. Maybe I can hold it...
At first it's discomfort, then a dull pain, stinging pain, and then follows the horrible fear of what is to happen if I just pee in my pants...by now, the vehicle is packed.

At 8:05, I ask the toll-collector if I can run out during the next pick-up to take care of my urgent situation. He says. "it's only 20 more minutes, hold it," honestly, I don't know if I can. What seemed like an eternal 18 minutes pass and still no sign of a city. Right as I was about to possibly let myself go into my handy towel (surely it won't absorb all of what is there), and with a local lady and her baby sitting next to me, the bus stops to pick up 5-6 people. I see tall grass and bushes. "Just go!" without permission I squeeze myself through the front, run out to the grass and release for a whole 48 seconds with my back to the bus.
I come back and receive cheers from the 3 Australians sitting in the front. With a huge smile on my face, I sit back down to enjoy just being in a normal state. OH, how great it feels when you aren't in pain nor have any immediate worries.
Good thing I went then, for the bus didn't arrive until 2 hours later.
20 minutes?! Liar.

How is it so, that I can endure hunger for a long time, even if it gets painful, but cannot hold pee for that long? It's a curious question for me since we need food to live, but we shouldn't have to die for stretching our bladder for 3 hours. Food intake also cannot be controlled at times, while you "can" pee whenever you want to (if you don't mind embarrassment). So why is it that the need for release is more painful than the need for food intake?

In my happy happy state, after my long long pee-pee, I concluded that there's a lesson to be learned here.
Longing for something is an easier thing to do compared to letting something go.
Lessen your needs and control your desires Yuta, and maybe life will become easier for you.

Comayagua was a weird place. Nothing there to do with barely any restaurants open for dinner. We eat at an overly priced, excessively decorated restaurant that serves coffee with a thin plastic mixing spoon.
We get a good laugh.

Day 11: Copan Ruinas

10.11.2012

Copan Ruinas is subtly pretty. There's no "wow" moment here no matter where you go.
Yet, it was my favorite ruin.

After the first hour of roaming, Dad goes into the tunnels that I didn't pay entrance fees for (didn't think it'd be worth it), so I decide to head straight back to the entrance and write in my journal.

On the way back, I catch a glimpse of a set of ruins not too tall nor really spectacular. No one seems to be interested in them, understandable, but I decide to give it a shot and jump into the desolate zone.
While approaching the first structure, I'm suddenly mesmerized by the balance of nature and artificial piles of brick. On top of the highest platform there, I look down at the scene, take a deep breath in, and sigh with big relief.
For the next 30 minutes, I hop around like a kid, stop to look at flowers, question oddly positioned stones, jump onto new heights, look for new angles/approaches to the scenery, and lose track of time...
I like this place, and for the short moment, I forget about the world and lose myself within the bricks, flowers, and trees.
All is brought back to reality when two stupid tourists enter my kingdom. I become self conscious, gather myself, act like I'm just hopping around to take pictures and nonchalantly leave my sacred space.

I realize here that alone time is important. Unknowingly, trying to be considerate of each other, Dad and I had been speeding-up/slowing-down our paces. Sharing experiences is always wonderful, but at times it's important to go at your own pace and absorb the things in ways that only you can.
Or was it Copan Ruinas itself that made me lose myself? It probably was a combination of both my free time and the beautiful ruins.
Whatever the case, for the first time in my life, I truly enjoyed just looking at old stuff.

Dad and I agreed that from here on, we'd try to find a good balance of time together and alone.

Day 10: to Copan Ruinas (Honduras)

10.20.2012

Simply put, on our way to the local bus stop, we were tricked into paying a taxi driver in the early early morning. I try my hardest, speed up my thinking to avoid all negative outcomes, rightfully accuse the driver of his lies, but end up paying him after his persistent sob-story. He smiles hugely and vigorously shakes both our hands as he leaves.
He had won.

Here starts the long journey to the border and beyond, to Copan Ruins. The locals' bus makes frequent stops to load/unload people and baggage; vendors come in to sell food and drinks; salesmen make speeches to advertise beauty products, magazines, and lollipops (lollipops need a speech?); it gets windy; it rains and droplets fall through the wide open emergency-door on the roof; it's quite entertaining.

But even with all the "entertainment," somehow I hit the blues. The beautiful scenery and Guatemalans hard at work don't serve as inspiration to pick me up.
"I want to go home."

Something changes though once we transfer onto a microbus at Chiquimula, to make the last stretch to the border. The air cools, the greens are calming, and the mountains grand and peaceful. My heart relaxes, I can feel energy flowing through my body, and I realize that I have a smile on my face. 9 hours in the dark. I come back to remind myself why I'm doing this, and start making further plans for the future.
Throughout the microbus ride, a lady in her later 30's, keeps on blurting out words of advice. "pay now," "no, not here," "show your ticket to him," "almost there," "get off here." So subtle, her kindness. And although I don't consider her attractive really, she is beautiful. I thank her as we get off and she shyly responds, "de nada."

Concerned still about our rate of spending, we eat on the streets in Copan. Chuleta - huge slice of grilled pork cuz Dad is craving meat. $3.25 for a dinner plate of that with an additional bbq'd beef on a stick.

One beer, a few pages in my book, and I knock out.

Day 9: Tikal and Miguel

10.19.2012

Tikal ruins are super duper tall.
The view from Templo IV is quite a sight, with the tallest temples sticking their their heads out amongst the gigantic tropical trees. All you can see from there are lush greens, tips of temple tops, and the horizon. What a view.
Magnificent place really, but I cannot help but think of how amazing nature is, over any artificial creation. The ruins had to be dug up from under the soil, leaves, and trees that covered the structures. Some are still kept without being touched, and all that's visible are unnatural looking hills covered by awkwardly grown trees, sprouting diagonally towards the sky. Ah, the life force!

We meet Junko Tokushima, a sweet lady from Osaka, traveling solo. My father sits with her throughout the 2-hour bus ride back to Flores. I'm happy he is able to communicate with someone other than me. We both find relief from Junko's sudden appearance.

As promised the day before, now accompanied by Junko, we meet Miguel at the closest dock to take a 30 minute boat ride and watch the sun setting from within the lake.
The photos will explain how beautiful this ride was, but more beautiful was Miguel's aura. So tender, so smiley, all the while holding his sick 5 year-old son with the utmost care. His eyes, looking at his poor kid, were so dear.
I almost teared up saying "bye," as he left us at a dock closer to where all the restaurants were. How is it that I, who's so used to saying "hi, bye, see you again," can be so sad about parting with a 30-minute encounter?

How many people like Miguel are out there in this world? Not that I really need to know numbers nor to actually meet them all, but I feel like I'm a better person after encountering Miguel. There are great, diligent, smiley people hard at work in this world; living and taking good care of their children.

I miss Miguel.
I want to see him again.
Maybe next time, I will know what being a father is like.

Day 8: to Flores

10.18.2012

6am pick-up for our long road to Flores, Guatemala. Under the darkened blue sky, waiting for the sun to show itself from behind the jungle, the sleepy town starts its wake too. The young receptionist is there again lying on the couch across the desk. He wakes to take our keys and smiles his calm smile, "hasta luego".

The ticketing system for cheap border-crossing-transportation is the same here as that of SE Asia; the destination and paid amount handwritten on a 5x8 inch paper receipt, with the company letterhead and serial number in print.

A large white van takes us to the border of Mexico-Guatemala, where awaits a huge river about 100 meters wide. We stroll across the river on a lanky motored boat that carries about a dozen people.
A small, rusty bus takes us for an hour or so through thin and bumpy roads as we pass by local villages comprised of wooden huts with thatched roofing.
Then we're transferred onto another white van that takes us to the immigrations office and beyond, to our destination Flores. A 9.5-hour ordeal on 1 receipt using 4 vehicles, for the flat rate of $30 per person. We show the receipt at every transferring of vehicles, but there's no showing of ID's. I don't know how they do it exactly, but all the parties involved must get paid somehow...I want to know so badly how the communication/transactions take place (some of it is international!).

30 minutes prior to our long-awaited arrival to Flores, a short man in his mid thirties gets picked up off the street and hops on our van with just a small backpack. He perches himself right behind the passenger side, faces us and asks us all "duu youuu a-speeeek ingliiish?" We all nod and he goes about carefully explaining the details of Flores and how to get to its main attraction, Tikal. Although his English is quite annoying, overly enunciating all his "rrrrrr"s, it's really helpful information to a foreigner. He ends his long and thoughtful monologue, we're pleased with the info, and then his real job starts.
"Who has their hotel booked? Anyone need an ATM? Who needs a ticket for a bus to Tikal? Where are you planning to go next?"
Makes sense, he's from a travel agency. Smart way to rake in the customers during slow season.
Not only is he smart, he is aggressive. As the bus makes a stop at the ATM, he comes around to all of us asking about our plans. It's our turn now, and without agreement he starts writing out receipts for our bus to Tikal the next day. We keep looking back at our travel books asking him questions, trying to avoid decision-making until we actually get to Flores, but no use. In no time, we find in our hands: bus tickets to Tikal, a 2-night stay at a hotel, and bus tickets to our next city. As I finished counting the leftover money, he was already taking more away from the next set of stupid tourists. I felt like we were bulldozed over by a man who knew from the start, that we would fall victim to his years of experience dealing with many types of tourists.

With that said, Flores is one of those places that people dream about. Surrounded by fresh water, it's buildings are all set in colorful pastel, roads made of cobblestone, there's a hill in the center that houses the central park and cathedral, wooden docks with small boats all around, the water warm enough to casually dive in (day and night), lakeside restaurants and bars galore. All within a small island that can be walked full-circle in 15 minutes. My honeymoon is pretty much set :)
I just need to find a wife.

At night there are high school teens and couples hanging out on the docks, spending a lazy and dreamy time looking out towards the lake and the starlit sky. I wondered for the first time how life would have been being brought up in such a romantic place. Would I have traded my teenage years in California for all this? Sports? Taiko? Proms? Friends? Girls?
If I were to be able to give an answer, it'd only be because I had already experienced being a teen. I decided to keep building upon my imagination.

Sadly, I lose my sturdy Leatherman flashlight that I received as a birthday present from my Dad close to 7 years ago. I walk around he whole island looking for it with my flashlight App but alas, it is gone...sorry Dad, and thank you for the 7 years, Flashlight.

Day 7: Misol-Ha and Agua Azul

10.17.2012

I love water. Much more exciting to see moving water and what the rivers and waterfalls have created over thousands of years, as compared to no longer useful manmade ruins (other than for tourism). They're alive, forever changing, natural, flowy, and plain beautiful.

The many waterfalls and stair-like levels of blue potholes at Agua Azul made me want to come back again; swimming, climbing, exploring, exhausting myself until nightfall. Everyday I'd come back to my dwelling, have a beer, pass out, and repeat the whole process for a week.
There, for the few hours at Agua Azul, I returned to being a 7 year-old.

Getting there and back, we were on the same micro-bus as the family that sat in the very front of our Oaxaca-Palenque bus from 2 days ago. Holding a calm and charming little 9 month-old, the couple was friendly and taught us many things about Mexico and their home, Oaxaca. I'm starting to like packaged tours. You're stuck together for hours, but that forced time allows some memorable friendships to form.

I also realized that a baby, has SUPER magical powers. In a group setting, it acts as an international hub of positive energy. Through it, no matter how old or young, whatever language they may speak, people funnel in and share smiles and kindness. Babies may just be the best ice-breaker in the world...along with cute dogs.

Day 6: Palenque

10.16.2012

8am we arrive via overnight bus to the town of Palenque. Check in at a cheap yet tidy hotel with a young, handsome receptionist who has a very laid back aura about him.

The Palenque ruins are different compared to those seen before, mainly because of its tropical weather. There's something really jungly about the setting, and it makes the approach to the ruins that much more exciting.
A river (or a few rivers) run through the whole of the park, and I realize that I enjoy bodies of water more than any other geographic or artificial creation. The path down to the museum along the flowing river pleased me more than anything here.

Back into town, Dad wants coffee, but not just normal coffee, he wants "GOOD coffee in a cool place." So we ask around and find a place that makes espressos and spend what seems like a bit of a fortune for good coffee and A/C.

For dinner, tired of tortillas, Dad wants pasta. So by default we choose a touristy restaurant that offers spaghetti and hamburgers for 2.5 times the price of local food. Dad learns his lesson to not order pasta around here, the noodles are overcooked and he leaves the place dissatisfied with both the taste and damage done to our wallets.

Back in our humid room with laundry hanging on every protruding object from the wall, I calculate our spendings up until now. About 33% more than what we had hoped for.
We look back at the days and realize that what we think we NEED are actually just WANTS. We're being luxurious beyond necessary. We decide on a coffee a day for Dad, a beer a day for me, and to try and hold back on any cravings for particular food; especially if they're expensive.

I take a quick walk to refresh myself from all that math, and see the receptionist again, sitting on his comfy couch, blankly looking out into the street with a grin. He seems so satisfied with life just sitting there...
He notices me, smiles, bids me buenas noches, and goes back to being entertained by the street, its passerby's, lights, and noise...

Buenas noches :)

Day 5: bubai Oaxaca

10.15.2012

A lazy day with our only task to get on the overnight bus by 5 pm.

We eat soup for breakfast, as Dad had been craving it ever since he got a glimpse of people devouring it the morning before. I let him decide on the counter of choice and we're served beef-intestine soup...along with liver, and chewy, colorful pieces of I don't know what. Was alright at first, but after a huge bowl of mushy, chewy, slimy stuff, I started feeling a bit sick. I think Dad was expecting chicken soup...I promised myself that I'll make sure and help by always asking what he wants :P

We take a cafe recommendation offered to us by a friend on FB (how useful it is while traveling!), and end up on the other side of town which we hadn't stepped foot in. It was way more colorful than "our side" and seems to have hip stores and eateries. What a waste! All this time we'd just been roaming around our hotel vicinity without knowing what more Oaxaca had to offer...Nah, I like our surrounding neighborhood; there's no end if we start being greedy about our experiences.

For the next few hours we walk north, up the hill to see the town from above. We pass by an elementary school with kids running around in uniform, printers, local groceries, and get a glimpse of Oaxaca not really meant for tourists. I find this to be the funnest time here.

Would Definitely like to come here again :)