Arrival to Panama City

My first time flying with Spirit Airlines brought me from Atlanta to Ft. Lauderdale, and then from Ft. Lauderdale to Panama City, Panama. Within seconds of stepping out of the airport, wading through a hoard of eager taxi drivers looking for a tourist to rip off, I was dripping with sweat as the humidity punched me in the face. Welcome to Panama. It turns out that I did allow one of these taxi drivers to rip me off, given that you can't buy a bus card at the airport. So, thirty minutes and $28 dollars later my taxi driver dropped me off at Los Mostros Hostel... but only after nearly killing us sixty times on the carretera. The hostel didn't allow the AC to be turned on until 9:00pm, and it only ran until 9:00am. Best twelve hours of my life. Alright, that's a bit dramatic, but damn it was hot. 

The next day was a quick tour through the city. We started with a walk along the cinta costera, stopped at a local fish market for ceviche and fresh coconut juice (the most wonderful elixir in what was still a humid hell), and then to the old part of town - casco antiguo. Xavier, an amiable cab driver that we lucked out with, drove us out the the Amador Causeway and showed us the Panama Canal. Ships - huge freighters - covered the horizon, anchored and waiting for paperwork to clear so they could pass through the canal, saving weeks of transit otherwise. After seeing Amador, which is gorgeous but completely touristic, we decided to lose ourselves where the locals go. I asked a panameña where the locals go for a market, and she pointed us to la Plaza de 5 de mayo. A 25-cent bus ride (with AC, praise the Lord) took us to the station. Hours later, after wandering through mazes of artisan craft booths and street peddlers selling bootleg movies and discount cologne, our hunger drove us into a hole-in-the-wall restaurant offering typical Panamanian food. For $3, my plate was piled high with rice, black beans, chicken, vegetable, and a salad of carrots and potatoes. I only finished half. The heat doesn't really make one want a hot meal. 

Back at the hostel, we made use of the pool to cool down, showered, and hung out with some of the other guests. There were two German gals who were heading to the Albrook bus terminal, same as us, and we decided we would share a cab over. Leaving at 8:30, we took a cab from Los Mostros so we could be at Albrook early for our respective midnight buses. The story gets fun here. When they were trying to check in, the two Germans, who speak no Spanish, were told by the apathetic ticket-teller that they were not allowed to pass into Costa Rica from Panama. The problem was that they were "missing" a card that should have been given to them upon departure from Ecuador. Nobody ever gave them a card. They asked me to translate, and after about 5 conversations with woman at the counter, and even going so far as to call the German embassy in Panama, there was simply no way they would be allowed to board the bus. Hoping to have better luck by leaving for Costa Rica from Davíd, they bought a ticket on our bus and rode with us through the night, six hours, to Davíd. 

Once we arrived to Davíd, our first goal was to find the Tica Bus office and attempt to straighten our Eliza and Daria's ticket issue. The first person told us that the ticket vendor was actually located in a shoe store - I know right- and that it was on the same corner as the Hotel Puerto del Sol. Easy enough. We went. No shoe store. So I waltzed into the hotel and asked where the Tica Bus office is. 

"One block down, turn right for three blocks," she said. 

"One block, right, then three?" I asked. 

Hesitation. "Hmm...four blocks."

"One then four?" I asked again.

"Sí. No, tres cuadras."

Unsure whether this woman had any clue at all, we struck out and walked, not three or four blocks, but six without seeing anything. Asking directions again, someone overheard and told us with full confidence that it was just around the corner. Success! We thought. These directions took us to a hostel being remodeled, inside which the owners told me that there did indeed used to be a Tica Bus office next door... fifteen years ago. Desperate and pissed off, and needless to say sweating, we decided to just get a taxi to the terminal and ask someone more official. As we were loading into the cab, a very homeless-looking American ex-pat walked up and, in a comforting mid-west accent, said, "Hey you're looking for the Tica Bus office right? It's at the very top of the bus terminal, you can't miss it." Great! We're heading that way anyway. None of you will be surprised to hear that there was, once again, no Tica Bus office. It was at this moment that I remembered a lesson I learned when lost in Argentina. Typically, people from Central and South America have such a strong desire to be helpful that they will literally invent directions to a place that doesn't exist, just so they don't have to send you away without an answer. 

For anyone wondering, there is not... NOT... a Tica Bus office in David. So don't even bother.