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