October 28, 2023, El Salvador.  After a night of little sleep, I decided to check out the possibility of staying in the dorm at Papaya Lodge. A friendly guy at Canuck’s had told me not to stay there as a laptop had been stolen in the dorm earlier that week, as well as some of his things.  The guys at Canuck told me later that he lied to get pity and money. I had fallen prey to his ruse, and was $20 shorter. Ah well. I’d rather trust and get burned than distrust. I had woken early enough that Canuck’s might be able to find someone else to stay that night. I asked and then headed to Papaya to inquire. They had one dorm bed left. I was excited and paid to stay through October 31.  

On the walk there I had lost my sunhat, a survival item in this weather. Following a hunch, I asked a random proprietor if he’d seen it, and sure enough he had picked it up. I packed my things and headed back to the lodge, leaving my pack in storage as the bed was not available yet. Things were looking up.  I had walked around El Tunco the night before and had discovered some lovely parts of the village. I especially liked a tree-lined alley bordered by tasteful gardens and boutique hotels that led to the sea. I decided to investigate more this morning. 

The first thing I did was look for the best latte in town. Within a minute’s walk was the Point Break Cafe, where I had a lovely latte and a pastry. They make their own bagels and crepes, as well as avocado toast and the like. The excellent latte lifted my spirits. One of my favorite parts of the day when traveling is a latte and pastry.  Sometimes I even read the digital version of the New Yorker.  From there I walked out along an alley to the sea. There I came upon a statue of Katherine Diaz, a 22-year-old local and Olympic surfing hopeful who was struck by lightning and killed while training for an Olympic qualifying competition in March 2020.  According to her peers, she embodied the joy and energy special to the surf community and was their global ambassador. She excelled at the international competition level, representing her country with pride at both the ISA World Surfing Games and ISA World Junior Surfing Championship. A Paddle Out ceremony was held in her honor a few days later. 

I was struck by the tragedy for being snuffed out so young and full of promise, yet the beauty of dying doing something one loved in the place they felt most at home. A few minutes later, I noticed a mural of a beautiful young woman and discovered they were images of Katherine training for surf in the pool. Her spirit imbued the place, and I felt the loss for those who knew her as well as the country in international competition.  I walked along the boardwalk, taking in the part of town on the sea, and was struck by how it looked more like a movie set. Much of the town looks like it had been put up hastily, probably in the few years since the imprisoning of suspected gang members that had opened the country up to foreign tourism. 

I wanted to explore the mysterious river valley on foot, and started for the main road, which was narrow and dangerous for pedestrian travel. At the first possible moment, I turned off, heading inland toward what I thought was the river valley. It turned out that I turned prematurely, and ended up instead in the small town of San Alfonso, whose streets were more like a rutted dirt track. I walked for some time, feeling a little uncomfortable on the narrow roads as everyone seemed to be a local, while I, quite obviously, was not. As I continued, I noticed a few hanging bridges. Curious, I took one, and ended up on a kind of cul de sac where 2 women were busy making tortillas from scratch in a palm-roofed stall. They were joined by an older woman, a man, and a few kids. I found out that many households in rural parts of El Salvador eek out an existence selling homemade tortillas. Given that they only get about 2 cents per tortilla, there is a lot of eeking to do.  

We had a nice chat, and they welcomed me to sit with them under the palm roof, as it had started to rain. One woman complained of shoulder and upper arm pain, and I promised to return the next day with arnica cream, which I was sure would help her. I felt so at home with this extended family. We talked for about an hour, by which point, I didn’t want to leave. But dusk was setting in, and they suggested I head back before dark. So reluctantly I did, with the promise that I’d return tomorrow with the arnica. On the way back, I spied a woman roasting cacao beans in her outdoor kitchen and stopped to chat. Her name was Lilian, and she told me her mother had seen me pass her mother’s home earlier that day. I felt very conspicuous, imagining that there was a phone network of townsfolk commenting on the appearance of a strange gringa. I hoped I hadn’t made anyone feel uncomfortable by my presence. Lilian was very friendly, and told me that she learned to roast cacao beans from her mother. She had helped sell the paste of roasted beans and raw sugar cane to tourists in El Tunco. They would walk down with a basket of individually wrapped rich, gooey delights.

I bought some of her roasted beans and she said she would make more for me tomorrow. I suggested that she try using less sugar for diabetics and those who might prefer darker chocolate. She said she would experiment. Her husband, Don Jose, came out of the house and joined in our conversation. He wanted to show me their well maintained chickens, who had a proper coop and did not subsist on garbage like those running wild through the village. Apparently many of the town chickens eat human feces, which more often than not in running through the dirt streets. When Don Jose first moved back to San Alfonso from Los Angeles, California several years ago, he was vigilant about cleaning up the garbage that people throw everywhere. After a few months, he gave up, despondent that people were unwilling to change their ways. He built the fancy coop for his chickens, since he didn’t want them eating garbage in the streets. He proudly gave me a handful of eggs, which I carefully placed in my shoulder bag. They told me to run along before it got completely dark. Lilian recommended that I try the pupusas from Dońa Aminta’s restaurant in El Tunco. When I returned, I took her suggestion and ordered one cheese and the other chicken. They were delicious. And not surprisingly, her hot chocolate was made by none other than Lilian. As I ate, I received an invitation to join Lilian and Don Jose for a trip to downtown San Salvador the next morning. I was excited and said yes.

Finished, I headed back to Papaya Lodge, where I made friends with a nice German woman. She had come to learn to surf, and I was glad to meet a mature traveler who spoke Spanish, appreciated learning about local culture, and didn’t party. Our beds were next to one anther, and there were 10 beds in the room. Thankfully, most were single beds, rather than bunk beds. I was tired of having to climb up and down rickety ladders at night to pee. I discovered that the one down side of the lodging was a disco located across a narrow street. As it was a Saturday night, it was particularly loud, and the bass didn’t subside until 5am.   

October 29. I woke early as I was planning to meet Lilian and Jose for a trip to San Salvador. Lilian had told me they would pick me up at 7:30am. I had pleaded for a little more time, and we settled on 8am. But I didn’t see them at the appointed hour, and started walking toward their house in San Alfonso. I worried that I would miss them, and sent them my whereabouts on WhatsApp. Thanks the gods, I spied them in what looked like a tuk tuk, winding through the narrow dirt track. I got in the back with Lilian’s mother, and we slowly made our way to the big city. I was worried that someone might hit us, but traffic was calm as it was a Sunday, and I reveled in the fresh air and beautiful scenery.  On the way, we stopped at an impressive multi-span bridge which overlooked a valley near Curva del Papaturro.  Lilian’s mom was frightened of heights and was afraid to walk along the walkway. While I understood, as my mom was deathly afraid of heights, I reveled in the view.  We were to meet a friend of Lilian’s at Metrocentro, one of the great malls in the capital city. I hadn’t realized we going to a mall, as I had misunderstood as downtown.  

We parked at the mall, and I decided to walk around on my own for a while. Despite not being much of a mall goer, I enjoyed watching families on their Sunday stroll. When we reunited, Jose treated us to a traditional Salvadoran meal. It was the first I’d had since I’d arrived, as I’d otherwise only eaten comida rapida. When we were done, we continued to walk around. I find malls tedious, and don’t understand their attractiveness. But I’m sure I would if I lived elsewhere in the world. We had separated again, and I decided I needed to find them just as I got close to them. They were at an ice cream store when I sent a message to Lilian. I wonder whether we are able to sense one another’s presence at times like that. We continued to walk for another 20 minutes or so, until Lilian’s friend bid us goodbye.  She and her son had a long bus ride home. I was very familiar with the viscitudes of public transit. As Jose was the driver, he decided to head toward the true downtown so I could see a bit of historic San Salvador. That’s what I’d hoped for. 

Unfortunately, they decided that parking was impossible, so my visit was limited to what I could see through the window. They told me that until a few years ago, the streets around the Metropolitan Cathedral of San Salvador and the national government buildings were too dangerous for pedestrians not affiliated with gangs. I longed to get out at Plaza Gerardo Barrios, a lovely square surrounded by stately buildings near the main market.  The glimpses I got wet my curiosity to see the city someday in greater detail. After winding our way out of the maze, Jose asked if I wanted to see the fanciest mall. I was game, so we stopped at Lifestyle Center La Gran Via. Not a mall.  A lifestyle center. All the posh international stores like Zara and Cinemark were represented.  It was an interesting design, with plenty of outdoor space in between the giant indoor malls. I found a fancy cafe, Ben’s Coffee (as well as Juan Valdez Cafe, which I’d first encountered in Colombia, their place of origin). I ordered a piece of cheesecake to go, and ran back to find Lilian and Jose, as I didn’t want them to have to wait for me. We headed back toward San Alfonso, and they dropped me off at the entrance of El Tunco. I walked around town for a while, then had a cheese pupusa at Dońa Aminta before heading to bed. Luckily the disco was only a dull roar. It was a Sunday after all.

October 30. I had my morning latte and decided to explore the area outside of town. I’d been told about the small town of Tamanique, 15 km inland, that was a popular local tourist destination due in part to a nearby waterfall. On the way, I stopped at a roadside taqueria for a quick bite where a woman was tending a hot smoky wood fire while her husband played pinball. Again, I wondered what the world would be like without women’s often unpaid labor. After a respite, I began hiking up the steep road. It was a 4 hour walk, and I didn’t have enough time to walk there and back. As I progressed, I was struck by the natural beauty of the area, mostly absent in the touristy town. The views of the jungle-studded river valley and roadside gardens filled my vision. I appreciated the diversity of foliage and tried to identify plants I’d never seen before. Without a cell signal it was difficult. Eventually I tired and stuck out my thumb. A kind couple stopped and gave me a ride all the way to Tamanique. It was about 3:30, and I inquired about the waterfall hike. I was told it was 2 hours round trip, and the last bus left at 5pm. I wouldn’t make it back in time and didn’t relish walking 4 hours home in the dark. 

So instead, I walked around the town, taking in the neat streets and home fronts. This was a tourist town, but not one that had been erected in a matter of years like much of El Tunco.  Tamanique was clearly an established town, and I guessed its main tourist pool had been city folk from nearby San Salvador. One older man was hauling boards in a large barn, and he stopped and talked with me for a few minutes. I had asked what was up the road out of town, and whether he recommended the walk. I had seen a group of men eating at a restaurant, probably someone’s living room, on the main square. When I inquired about getting a meal, they said they were all out. Strange. I stayed close to the square once 4:30 hit, as I was told that the buses were not exactly timely and might leave early. Luckily I made the last bus and enjoyed the ride down the hill, admiring the lovely river valley to the north.  

October 31. My flight was at 5am the next morning. I had made arrangements with Luis, the owner of Canuck’s Guest House to give me a ride around 7pm because I didn’t think I could get up at 2am nor get a ride. To boot, there was a hurricane sitting off the coast, and El Tunco was already getting lashed by strong winds and rain. I had heard the cyclone warning that morning.  I packed my things and left them at Papaya Lodge. I had remembered my promise to help the tortilla maker suffering from arthritic pain. After walking around town and enjoying the morning, I headed to her tortilla stand in San Alfonso. The woman’s husband and the kids called out excitedly as they saw me approaching.  They were on their way out, and bid me a warm farewell. His mother in law invited me to sit with her. We talked and joked for some time, something that I’d gotten used to in this place where things didn’t happen fast. The woman in need of arnica had left for the day. She lived in a village to the north and had already left to work at her other job. I left her the tube of cream. I hoped it would last her a while. 

I was anxious about my flight. I’d been gone since July 21, and was ready to be home. I’d hoped to make it to Guatemala and even further to Chiapas and Oaxaca, but I’d run out of time. I had ended up staying in Panama for over 7 weeks during this stay, and 5 weeks the previous visit in March and April. Three months in a country in which I originally hadn’t planned to visit at all. My cousin Sean had convinced me it was worth a visit, telling me about his family’s trip to Panama City and the wonders of the canal.  That turned out not to be the main reason I had stayed so long. Mostly it was due to the kindness of a man in Boquete, who had allowed me to stay with him. I ended up at his place for about a month over the course of my two visits. 

I headed back to Papaya Lodge, where I waited for Luis. While waiting I met a female biologist working on a climate change-related project. We spoke for a while, and I hoped to stay in touch and learn more about her work. Luis was punctual and we headed to the airport, 44 km south along the coast. It took about 45 minutes. We had a nice chat, though I was nervous as the storm appeared to be growing stronger. I was worried that planes would be grounded and I’d be stuck in a hurricane. When we arrived, I hauled all my bags to the check in area.  Unfortunately, they wouldn’t let me check in until 2 hours before the flight. So I walked around looking for a lounge where I could wait. The only indoor place was a very loud food court. It was small and echoed, and I didn’t think they’d let me crash out on a bench in the wee hours. So I headed outside, escorted by two woman volunteering with the Miss Universe pageant to take place in January. They helped me find a relatively quiet, safe place to sit. The rain was coming down in buckets, and it was hard to find a dry place to sit, as all the benches were outside, albeit under a roof.  I set 2 alarms, one for 2:45am, and one for 3am. I also asked the food vendor if she’d be here at 3. She said she would be and would wake me if I were still asleep. I wonder whether she thought I meant 3pm. 

It was cold and windy. I didn’t think I’d sleep, but I guess with all the nights of disco music blaring and dorm mates getting in late, I was exhausted. Needless to say, I awoke to a less than dark sky.  I wondered whether there was some sort of astral event that was lighting up the night sky.  Then I saw my phone. 5am.  Shit.  I grabbed my many bags and my 43 pound pack and raced to the check in counter. There was a family of 4 ahead of me. They had also missed the plane. Damn. The attendant said we would have to wait till tomorrow for the next flight out. The only other plane today was overbooked. And if there was a waiting list, they were sure to be ahead of me. After an interminable wait, I pleaded with the agent to get someone else on the desk. It was strange that only one person was working for all of American Airlines. Another 10 minutes passed. Finally, a guy came out and asked what he could do. I explained that despite all the safeguards, I had slept through the flight. It turned out that the Attention Aware feature on my iPhone was on, causing the alarm to be silent when close.  I had reset my phone settings recently and that must have been set by default. 

He clearly felt some compassion for me, and understood my predicament, unlike the well-healed family of 4 who were clearly from money and had driven their fancy car from the comfort of their home. I had spent the night trying to sleep outside the airport in a storm. He was helping a junior person who seemed uncertain of how to proceed. I watched as he skillfully directed the employee, putting me on the standby list for the overbooked plane taking off later today. It seemed an extremely complex process, and I wondered whether it would work. With fingers and toes crossed, and anything else I could find, I slung my pack on the scale and got my baggage tags. Next I walked through security, which didn’t take long.  The amenities inside the terminal were worlds better than those outside, where there had only been one bathroom and no place to rest.  If I didn’t make the plane, I could spend the night in relative comfort. I took a seat by the gate and waited. They told me I’d be alerted 10 minutes after final boarding, and true to form, they did. I had given up being attached to the outcome, and was doing my best to stay flexible. I would arrive home eventually, whether today or tomorrow. I might as well relax. And just as I released control over the situation, they called my name and told me I was the last person to board. Huzzah. 

The flight was uneventful. I had a comfortable emergency exit seat, and was able to sleep most of the flight to Atlanta. Getting through security at the Atlanta airport was mind-boggling.  I was pretty certain I wouldn’t make the connection.  A series of miracles had to occur.  With some persistence on my part, they did. First, there were so many people with US passports trying to get through customs that we were stopped by security police as we walked toward border control. It was impossible to see over them, so no one knew what was going on. Finally, they let us continue, only to find that the queue went out the room and snaked up and down the corridor about 1/4 mile.  No kidding. I decided to be bold and got lucky on timing.  I saw a young woman employee and told her I had a connecting flight which I would miss if I didn’t get through. It was true, but also true for about half the people in line. I lucked out because she had 2 other people with her who had just asked the same, and she ushered us past the snaky queue to the entrance of the customs hall.  Even though the line was still long, the end was in sight, and in about 15 minutes I made it through. I happened to get into a line with a black woman who understood the urgency of the situation and was literally waving people through.  I don’t think she even looked at my passport, let alone stamped it. 

I ran on to face the next hurdle. I had to go through TSA bag inspection and there were about 50 people in front of me.  Undaunted, I asked each one if they minded my going in front of them, as I had to board in 10 minutes. By the luck of the gods, they all said yes, and I ran to the front. The TSA agent made a snarky comment, and I laughed. I couldn’t believe my luck. I ran to the gate, used the bathroom and filled my water bottles, and had a few minutes to buy a sandwich at a nearby food court. Then the flight attendants said final board, and I passed through the gate to wait in line. It felt surreal. I didn’t believe I was actually aboard until we left the runway. I got lucky and snagged an empty row, the only one o the plane.  One of the advantages of being last to board. You can scope out open seats and are often not questioned about whether the seat was assigned.  I had 3 seats to myself, and sat in the middle seat so no one would be tempted. Once we were in the air, I lay down and took some zz’s.  It was the best sleep I’ve ever had in the air.