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The Cupolog

The northwest passage : Live without dead time

Bosnia to Croatia in the morning / Croatia to Slovenia in the evening

On the road in the Balkans - © Diego Cupolo 2013

Arriving in Şişli
Istanbul, Turkey - © Diego Cupolo 2013

Arriving in Şişli

Istanbul, Turkey - © Diego Cupolo 2013

A nice article about my life and recent travels by Sandro Supplentuccio Abruzzese (in Italian):
Diego Cupolo E’ Uscito dal Gruppo

A nice article about my life and recent travels by Sandro Supplentuccio Abruzzese (in Italian):

Diego Cupolo E’ Uscito dal Gruppo

Waiting for a ride in the desert / Esperando para un paseo en el desierto

On the road, Argentina - © Diego Cupolo 2013

Soy el camino, soy la carretera
After a certain amount of time on the road, you simply become a yellow dashed line.
On the road, Argentina - © Diego Cupolo 2013

Soy el camino, soy la carretera

After a certain amount of time on the road, you simply become a yellow dashed line.

On the road, Argentina - © Diego Cupolo 2013

Mt. Fitz Roy as a beacon II
Lago del Desierto, Argentina - © Diego Cupolo 2013

Mt. Fitz Roy as a beacon II

Lago del Desierto, Argentina - © Diego Cupolo 2013

On Nomadism / Sobre el NomadismoCharles Bukowski said “Freedom is having all your belongings in one suitcase.” For nomads, both modern and ancient, the idea of carrying all your belongings is the base of a life without bases. To move constantly, to create a home anywhere, and to have everything you need on your back or on the back of your horse, camel or llama. This is self-sufficiency, independence, and yes, like Bukowski said: freedom. All of which can be obtained through a comfort, a confidence in knowing that you can adapt to a variety of conditions. In this sense, even as human civilization progresses with technological advancements, the lifestyle of the nomad has remained almost unchanged over the last few millenniums. 
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Charles Bukowski dijo “La libertad es tener todas sus pertenencias en una maleta”.Para los nómadas, ambos modernos y antiguos, la idea de llevar todas sus pertenencias es la base de una vida sin bases. Para mover constantemente, para creer una casa en cualquier lugar, y tener todo lo que necesitas en la espalda o en la espalda su caballo, camello o llama.Esta es la autosuficiencia, la independencia, y sí, como dijo Bukowski: la libertad. Todo lo cual se puede conseguir a través de una comodidad, una confianza de saber que puedes adaptarte en una variedad de condiciones. En este sentido, mientras la civilización humana continúa progresando a través de los avances tecnológicos, el estilo de vida del nómada se ha mantenido con pocos cambios durante los últimos milenios.
Cochrane, Chile - © Diego Cupolo 2013

On Nomadism / Sobre el Nomadismo

Charles Bukowski said “Freedom is having all your belongings in one suitcase.”

For nomads, both modern and ancient, the idea of carrying all your belongings is the base of a life without bases. To move constantly, to create a home anywhere, and to have everything you need on your back or on the back of your horse, camel or llama.

This is self-sufficiency, independence, and yes, like Bukowski said: freedom. All of which can be obtained through a comfort, a confidence in knowing that you can adapt to a variety of conditions. In this sense, even as human civilization progresses with technological advancements, the lifestyle of the nomad has remained almost unchanged over the last few millenniums.

—————————————————————————————————-


Charles Bukowski dijo “La libertad es tener todas sus pertenencias en una maleta”.

Para los nómadas, ambos modernos y antiguos, la idea de llevar todas sus pertenencias es la base de una vida sin bases. Para mover constantemente, para creer una casa en cualquier lugar, y tener todo lo que necesitas en la espalda o en la espalda su caballo, camello o llama.

Esta es la autosuficiencia, la independencia, y sí, como dijo Bukowski: la libertad. Todo lo cual se puede conseguir a través de una comodidad, una confianza de saber que puedes adaptarte en una variedad de condiciones. En este sentido, mientras la civilización humana continúa progresando a través de los avances tecnológicos, el estilo de vida del nómada se ha mantenido con pocos cambios durante los últimos milenios.

Cochrane, Chile - © Diego Cupolo 2013

From the Notebook: Jan. 6, 2013“Two half-rotten apples make one good apple.” That’s the quote of the day.I found two rotten apples in a trash pile next to an empty grocery store and was just hungry enough to eat them. For 20 minutes, I had been knocking on the door and no one seemed to be in the place. Or anywhere else for the matter.It was foggy and drizzly in small town Puerto Guadal and I was standing there considering and re-considering the rotten apples when a middle-aged woman appeared on the street. She was round, disheveled and walked in zig-zags, but no one else was around so I approached her to ask about the store.“Disculpe, buenos días,” I said to be polite. “Do you know if the grocery store is open at this time?”She looked at me like snakes were coming out of my mouth. Her lips pressed shut and her eyes widened with confusion. She was both disturbed and hypnotized by my face and kept looking at me as she walked away without saying a word. As I write this, I still wonder what she saw during that long, strange moment. That kind of insanity is contagious. It must thrive in these small mountain towns.The woman disappeared around the corner and then I heard the sound of power tools coming from inside the grocery store. There IS someone in there! I ran to the door and knocked again, but no one came. Just the sound of a circular saw. Bbbbbeeeeooowww.I knocked again, and again, and again, until the saw stopped. There were footsteps and the door unlocked. A large man with mustache let me in. He also didn’t say anything, but I was relieved to be in the store, that is, until I saw the apples on the shelves were just as rotten as the apples in the trash outside. Round on one side, flat and brown on the other – all at a spectacular $8 US a kilo. I went for the carrots instead. They were somewhat fresh. Then I searched out my Patagonian staple food: tubed cream cheese. Always available. Always cheap (and not many food items hold either of these qualities in this region).The man with the mustache didn’t sell bread so he pointed me towards an old lady that did. She lived in a green house across the street. I went over and knocked. The lady moved slowly and breathed heavily. When I got inside I asked her how life was going.“Bad,” she said. “I’m sick all the time and it’s painful to do simple things.”I offered her some of the flax seed oil pills I had in my pack, but she didn’t understand what they were and refused. She seemed to want company so we talked for a while about the world outside her window, mostly the bad weather, and then I paid for the bread. She gave me two extra pieces since the bread was old. Lunch in hand, I walked out the door back towards the trash pile next to the grocery store and picked out the two rotten apples. If they were selling the same thing inside, how bad could they be?Not bad at all after chopping off the bad halves. “Two half-rotten apples make one good apple” I mumbled while chewing the first fresh fruit I had eaten in days. After that, I cut the hard bread in half and made cream cheese and carrot sandwiches. Under normal circumstances, I can’t imagine these tasting any good, but after walking all morning in the mountains they were absolutely delicious.As I swallowed my last bite a dark cloud covered the town and the rain started. It was heavy at first and then lightened up, but it never stopped completely and I went on my way down Route 265 towards Chile Chico in search of this micro-climate everyone talks about. A place where it doesn’t rain.I never made it. Traffic was extremely low and the people that did pass were usually driving large SUVs to their vacation homes with the sole intention of escaping the soggy outside world, not to give it a ride in the backseat. Regardless, I kept walking. Must reach the microclimate.A few hours passed and the only living creature I saw was a large hare that ran across the road. It started to rain hard again so I took shelter under a tree on the side of the road. I sat there on my bag and waited for the cars to pass. Sadly, I think three passed in about two hours. All of them refused.Just when I started getting fed up with waiting, I looked down and realized there was an animal leg sticking out of the dirt in the ditch below me. I looked closer and couldn’t tell what it was, but it had light brown fur and could have been attached to a dog or cat.I got up and started walking again. The rain never let up. I got to the point of being soaked and stayed that way. The road went up and down, and up and down, and it wasn’t easy, but there were waterfalls. Very nice waterfalls that kept me distracted and very nice vacation houses with lakefront views of the mountain ranges on the opposite shore.Then, around 7 pm, despite all my efforts to stop her, a woman with sunglasses drove by me in a Mercedes and I gave up. “Fucking rich people “ I said, realizing no one would pick me up in this area. I decided to turn around and walk back to a vacant home I spotted along the road that had a nice, dry garage with open doors where I could at least get out of the rain. I jumped the gate, checked the area around the home, made sure no one was around and was stunned by the luxury of the place. There were two houses, both beautifully decorated with woodwork, stone chimneys and large decks with porch swings. There was also a shack, the garage I saw from the road and another structure near the lake.They call it a “quincho,” a building made specifically to host big “asados” or barbeque events and parties. I tried the door and the quincho was unlocked so I went in. Instant Relief. Shelter. A dry place. An upscale dry place. There were windows with panoramic views of the turquoise Lago General Carrera. There was also a fire pit big enough to cook entire animals and, most importantly, a stack of dry firewood. I put down my bag and started a fire immediately to get warm and begin drying my wet clothes. When I had the fire burning well I got up and realized the rain had finally stopped and the clouds were clearing up, revealing snow-topped mountain peaks in every direction. I snapped many photos.I also took advantage of the break in the rain to collect driftwood and replace the firewood I was using. (I may be using your vacation home, but I’m not an asshole.) By nightfall I was back inside, comfortable next to the fire, boiling water for the morning and making oatmeal for the second time that day.Adventure means going outside your comfort zone and considering all the wet, miserable places I could’ve ended up, this quincho wasn’t bad at all. I’m now writing in front of the fire before going to sleep. The wind and the waves on the shore make sounds that can be similar to voices or the closing of car doors, but I think I’m just paranoid that the homeowners will show up in the night and find me here.It’s been a long day of mild hallucinations. This is what happens when you walk too much and eat too little. Wonder how army people do it. Do they even know what they’re shooting at in these conditions? Half-starved, fully-armed.Maybe it was that women by the grocery store. A contagious demon was in there. Maybe she wasn’t even real. Two half-rotten apples make one good apple. What the hell am I writing. Okay, time for bed. I’m tired of hearing voices now.
Puerto Guadal, Chile - © Diego Cupolo 2013

From the Notebook: Jan. 6, 2013

“Two half-rotten apples make one good apple.” That’s the quote of the day.

I found two rotten apples in a trash pile next to an empty grocery store and was just hungry enough to eat them. For 20 minutes, I had been knocking on the door and no one seemed to be in the place. Or anywhere else for the matter.

It was foggy and drizzly in small town Puerto Guadal and I was standing there considering and re-considering the rotten apples when a middle-aged woman appeared on the street. She was round, disheveled and walked in zig-zags, but no one else was around so I approached her to ask about the store.

“Disculpe, buenos días,” I said to be polite. “Do you know if the grocery store is open at this time?”

She looked at me like snakes were coming out of my mouth. Her lips pressed shut and her eyes widened with confusion. She was both disturbed and hypnotized by my face and kept looking at me as she walked away without saying a word. As I write this, I still wonder what she saw during that long, strange moment. That kind of insanity is contagious. It must thrive in these small mountain towns.

The woman disappeared around the corner and then I heard the sound of power tools coming from inside the grocery store. There IS someone in there! I ran to the door and knocked again, but no one came. Just the sound of a circular saw. Bbbbbeeeeooowww.

I knocked again, and again, and again, until the saw stopped. There were footsteps and the door unlocked. A large man with mustache let me in. He also didn’t say anything, but I was relieved to be in the store, that is, until I saw the apples on the shelves were just as rotten as the apples in the trash outside. Round on one side, flat and brown on the other – all at a spectacular $8 US a kilo.

I went for the carrots instead. They were somewhat fresh. Then I searched out my Patagonian staple food: tubed cream cheese. Always available. Always cheap (and not many food items hold either of these qualities in this region).

The man with the mustache didn’t sell bread so he pointed me towards an old lady that did. She lived in a green house across the street. I went over and knocked. The lady moved slowly and breathed heavily. When I got inside I asked her how life was going.

“Bad,” she said. “I’m sick all the time and it’s painful to do simple things.”

I offered her some of the flax seed oil pills I had in my pack, but she didn’t understand what they were and refused. She seemed to want company so we talked for a while about the world outside her window, mostly the bad weather, and then I paid for the bread. She gave me two extra pieces since the bread was old.

Lunch in hand, I walked out the door back towards the trash pile next to the grocery store and picked out the two rotten apples. If they were selling the same thing inside, how bad could they be?

Not bad at all after chopping off the bad halves. “Two half-rotten apples make one good apple” I mumbled while chewing the first fresh fruit I had eaten in days. After that, I cut the hard bread in half and made cream cheese and carrot sandwiches. Under normal circumstances, I can’t imagine these tasting any good, but after walking all morning in the mountains they were absolutely delicious.

As I swallowed my last bite a dark cloud covered the town and the rain started. It was heavy at first and then lightened up, but it never stopped completely and I went on my way down Route 265 towards Chile Chico in search of this micro-climate everyone talks about. A place where it doesn’t rain.

I never made it. Traffic was extremely low and the people that did pass were usually driving large SUVs to their vacation homes with the sole intention of escaping the soggy outside world, not to give it a ride in the backseat. Regardless, I kept walking. Must reach the microclimate.

A few hours passed and the only living creature I saw was a large hare that ran across the road. It started to rain hard again so I took shelter under a tree on the side of the road. I sat there on my bag and waited for the cars to pass. Sadly, I think three passed in about two hours. All of them refused.

Just when I started getting fed up with waiting, I looked down and realized there was an animal leg sticking out of the dirt in the ditch below me. I looked closer and couldn’t tell what it was, but it had light brown fur and could have been attached to a dog or cat.

I got up and started walking again. The rain never let up. I got to the point of being soaked and stayed that way. The road went up and down, and up and down, and it wasn’t easy, but there were waterfalls. Very nice waterfalls that kept me distracted and very nice vacation houses with lakefront views of the mountain ranges on the opposite shore.

Then, around 7 pm, despite all my efforts to stop her, a woman with sunglasses drove by me in a Mercedes and I gave up. “Fucking rich people “ I said, realizing no one would pick me up in this area. I decided to turn around and walk back to a vacant home I spotted along the road that had a nice, dry garage with open doors where I could at least get out of the rain.

I jumped the gate, checked the area around the home, made sure no one was around and was stunned by the luxury of the place. There were two houses, both beautifully decorated with woodwork, stone chimneys and large decks with porch swings. There was also a shack, the garage I saw from the road and another structure near the lake.

They call it a “quincho,” a building made specifically to host big “asados” or barbeque events and parties. I tried the door and the quincho was unlocked so I went in. Instant Relief. Shelter. A dry place. An upscale dry place. There were windows with panoramic views of the turquoise Lago General Carrera. There was also a fire pit big enough to cook entire animals and, most importantly, a stack of dry firewood.

I put down my bag and started a fire immediately to get warm and begin drying my wet clothes. When I had the fire burning well I got up and realized the rain had finally stopped and the clouds were clearing up, revealing snow-topped mountain peaks in every direction. I snapped many photos.

I also took advantage of the break in the rain to collect driftwood and replace the firewood I was using. (I may be using your vacation home, but I’m not an asshole.) By nightfall I was back inside, comfortable next to the fire, boiling water for the morning and making oatmeal for the second time that day.

Adventure means going outside your comfort zone and considering all the wet, miserable places I could’ve ended up, this quincho wasn’t bad at all.

I’m now writing in front of the fire before going to sleep. The wind and the waves on the shore make sounds that can be similar to voices or the closing of car doors, but I think I’m just paranoid that the homeowners will show up in the night and find me here.

It’s been a long day of mild hallucinations. This is what happens when you walk too much and eat too little. Wonder how army people do it. Do they even know what they’re shooting at in these conditions? Half-starved, fully-armed.

Maybe it was that women by the grocery store. A contagious demon was in there. Maybe she wasn’t even real. Two half-rotten apples make one good apple. What the hell am I writing. Okay, time for bed. I’m tired of hearing voices now.

Puerto Guadal, Chile - © Diego Cupolo 2013

Adios Mafalda, Adios Buenos Aires
San Telmo, Buenos Aires - © Diego Cupolo 2012

Adios Mafalda, Adios Buenos Aires

San Telmo, Buenos Aires - © Diego Cupolo 2012

Looking Back
I couldn’t have asked for a better travel companion.
I couldn’t have found a better love.
You will be missed.

Looking Back

I couldn’t have asked for a better travel companion.

I couldn’t have found a better love.

You will be missed.

Hitchhiking to Buenos Aires
On the road, Argentina - © Diego Cupolo 2012

Hitchhiking to Buenos Aires

On the road, Argentina - © Diego Cupolo 2012

Monthly Report: Across the Borderdiego,the nearest city is San Marcos Sierras, the north part of the mountains in the middle of the province cordoba.the tent is a little further away from the river since it has gotten lower since its dry season.pero el resto sigue igual (habia empezado en ingles porque estaba leyendo tu mail en ingles, pero me acorde y ahora es mas facil, ja!)yo creo que te puedo conseguir trabajo. pero hay que ver.me gustaria tambien estar en buenos aires cuando vayan para disfrutar con ustedes, pero no creo que sea posible. in fact, es imposible porque voy a estar trabajando aca en la construccion de la casa de piedra por como 2 meses mas.pero bueno, tienen lugar para quedarse en la ciudad? podria hablar con algun amigo para que tengan un lugar. y despues para que les expliquen un poco por donde no les comviene ir, por donde esta copado y todo eso.y bueno, con respecto a mas adelante, SI, estoy re adentro de esta movida para ir al sur. si o si. pense que se habia pinchado ese plan, pèro me alegra mucho ver que sigue en pie. entonces hacemos eso. laburamos por aca unos meses hasta el calor y ahi nos vamos para el sur. genial!!bueno, me tengo que ir.abrazo!
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Colifato,Nine months have passed and we’re back in modern, cafe-latte, western civilization. People look in the mirror before they go out. Bathrooms are stocked with toilet paper and soap, faucets have hot water, and kitchens have refrigerators that are plugged in. We can drink tap water again. It feels strange and uncomfortably comfortable. Funny how much life can change when you cross an imaginary line in the desert.We’re now in Chile. Our fist venture into the neighborhood food store was a slap in the face. For the first time since we left New York, Alice and I have access to the best, largest, freshest fruits and vegetables while people 50 kilometers away, across the border in Bolivia, go on picking through leftovers, rotting cabbage heads, and whatever else we didn’t feel like consuming last week.It’s hard. A “Reverse Culture Shock.” It feels like we’re in Europe except everyone’s nice to us. It catches me by surprise every time because few people were nice to us in Bolivia. In general, Bolivians have a very closed culture. They trust few people and I think it’s understandable after 500 years of foreign pillage.For this reason, and many others, Bolivia was the first failure of the voyage. Ania and I never really got into the culture. We never understood the Bolivian mentality. We just followed the gringo trail, saw pretty landscapes, took pictures and moved on. We completely separated from Bolivian communities and the locals seem to prefer it that way. It was an extremely hollow experience made worse by the fact that most people “see” the world in this way.I’m still digesting it. Is it better to share and globalize a culture or to stay apart and protect a way of life? It’s a lot to think about and we’re traveling fast now. So fast I barely have time to write these thoughts anymore. I can’t afford to. Modern civilization has modern costs and we are spending most of our time hitchhiking to save money. I don’t when, but we’ll be in Argentina soon. Maybe we’ll be standing in front of your tent in less time than either of us expects. When we finally arrive we’ll talk about the heading south. Tierra del Fuego was always part of the plan and it remains that way. Adelante,Diego
Chañaral, Chile  - © Diego Cupolo 2012

Monthly Report: Across the Border

diego,

the nearest city is San Marcos Sierras, the north part of the mountains in the middle of the province cordoba.
the tent is a little further away from the river since it has gotten lower since its dry season.
pero el resto sigue igual (habia empezado en ingles porque estaba leyendo tu mail en ingles, pero me acorde y ahora es mas facil, ja!)
yo creo que te puedo conseguir trabajo. pero hay que ver.
me gustaria tambien estar en buenos aires cuando vayan para disfrutar con ustedes, pero no creo que sea posible. in fact, es imposible porque voy a estar trabajando aca en la construccion de la casa de piedra por como 2 meses mas.
pero bueno, tienen lugar para quedarse en la ciudad? podria hablar con algun amigo para que tengan un lugar. y despues para que les expliquen un poco por donde no les comviene ir, por donde esta copado y todo eso.

y bueno, con respecto a mas adelante, SI, estoy re adentro de esta movida para ir al sur. si o si. pense que se habia pinchado ese plan, pèro me alegra mucho ver que sigue en pie. entonces hacemos eso. laburamos por aca unos meses hasta el calor y ahi nos vamos para el sur. genial!!
bueno, me tengo que ir.
abrazo!

———————————————————————————————————


Colifato,

Nine months have passed and we’re back in modern, cafe-latte, western civilization. People look in the mirror before they go out. Bathrooms are stocked with toilet paper and soap, faucets have hot water, and kitchens have refrigerators that are plugged in. We can drink tap water again. It feels strange and uncomfortably comfortable.

Funny how much life can change when you cross an imaginary line in the desert.

We’re now in Chile. Our fist venture into the neighborhood food store was a slap in the face. For the first time since we left New York, Alice and I have access to the best, largest, freshest fruits and vegetables while people 50 kilometers away, across the border in Bolivia, go on picking through leftovers, rotting cabbage heads, and whatever else we didn’t feel like consuming last week.

It’s hard. A “Reverse Culture Shock.” It feels like we’re in Europe except everyone’s nice to us. It catches me by surprise every time because few people were nice to us in Bolivia. In general, Bolivians have a very closed culture. They trust few people and I think it’s understandable after 500 years of foreign pillage.

For this reason, and many others, Bolivia was the first failure of the voyage. Ania and I never really got into the culture. We never understood the Bolivian mentality. We just followed the gringo trail, saw pretty landscapes, took pictures and moved on. We completely separated from Bolivian communities and the locals seem to prefer it that way. It was an extremely hollow experience made worse by the fact that most people “see” the world in this way.

I’m still digesting it. Is it better to share and globalize a culture or to stay apart and protect a way of life? It’s a lot to think about and we’re traveling fast now. So fast I barely have time to write these thoughts anymore. I can’t afford to.

Modern civilization has modern costs and we are spending most of our time hitchhiking to save money. I don’t when, but we’ll be in Argentina soon. Maybe we’ll be standing in front of your tent in less time than either of us expects.

When we finally arrive we’ll talk about the heading south. Tierra del Fuego was always part of the plan and it remains that way.

Adelante,
Diego

Chañaral, Chile - © Diego Cupolo 2012

On the road again
Well, I wake up in the morning There’s frogs inside my socks Your mama, she’s a-hidin’ Inside the icebox Your daddy walks in wearin’ A Napoleon Bonarparte mask Then you ask why I don’t live here Honey, do you have to ask ?
Cartagena, Colombia - © Diego Cupolo 2012

On the road again

Well, I wake up in the morning
There’s frogs inside my socks
Your mama, she’s a-hidin’
Inside the icebox
Your daddy walks in wearin’
A Napoleon Bonarparte mask
Then you ask why I don’t live here
Honey, do you have to ask ?

Cartagena, Colombia - © Diego Cupolo 2012

Leaving Hostal Miami
The cargo boat was loaded and ready to go. After a week of delays we were finally-maybe-probably bound for Colombia.
Captain Fierra didn’t make definitive statements.
"I don’t work like that," he told me.
We said our goodbyes to everyone in Hostal Miami - the dirty, dysfunctional, completely marvelous, four-story palace that became our home over the last month. We would no longer share a corridor with sword jugglers and fire dancers …
… and the drunks on the first floor would no longer wake us up when they yelled at their 15-minute hookers.
"You stole my cell phone, you whore, give me back my cell phone!"
"I ain’t giving you shit till you admit you took my wallet!"
It was a place to be missed, but Hostal Miami wasn’t always so … entertaining.
A fat Colombian robbed Ania’s wallet and left without paying his $600 room bill. He had been living there for months. It was unexpected, to say the least. He was always nice to us, sharing his food and talking about renovations he was doing on the Russian ambassador’s house.
After leaving, he continued his robbing spree. He tried to steal $3,500 in cash from his boss, got caught, and is currently sitting in jail with Ania’s debit card and the $15 from her wallet.
Was really worth it, Ricardo?
Either way, Hostal Miami remains a good memory in our minds. It was the place we learned to work the streets.
Money: the main limit to our travels, was no longer an issue. We now knew we could survive without it and moved forward.
To Colombia.
Hostal Miami - Panama City, Panama - © Diego Cupolo 2011

Leaving Hostal Miami

The cargo boat was loaded and ready to go. After a week of delays we were finally-maybe-probably bound for Colombia.

Captain Fierra didn’t make definitive statements.

"I don’t work like that," he told me.

We said our goodbyes to everyone in Hostal Miami - the dirty, dysfunctional, completely marvelous, four-story palace that became our home over the last month. We would no longer share a corridor with sword jugglers and fire dancers …

… and the drunks on the first floor would no longer wake us up when they yelled at their 15-minute hookers.

"You stole my cell phone, you whore, give me back my cell phone!"

"I ain’t giving you shit till you admit you took my wallet!"

It was a place to be missed, but Hostal Miami wasn’t always so … entertaining.

A fat Colombian robbed Ania’s wallet and left without paying his $600 room bill. He had been living there for months. It was unexpected, to say the least. He was always nice to us, sharing his food and talking about renovations he was doing on the Russian ambassador’s house.

After leaving, he continued his robbing spree. He tried to steal $3,500 in cash from his boss, got caught, and is currently sitting in jail with Ania’s debit card and the $15 from her wallet.

Was really worth it, Ricardo?

Either way, Hostal Miami remains a good memory in our minds. It was the place we learned to work the streets.

Money: the main limit to our travels, was no longer an issue. We now knew we could survive without it and moved forward.

To Colombia.

Hostal Miami - Panama City, Panama - © Diego Cupolo 2011

Floor Space
Hostal Miami, Panama City - © Diego Cupolo 2011

Floor Space

Hostal Miami, Panama City - © Diego Cupolo 2011