Korean Tourists in the USA

I was walking into the lobby of the Best Western in no-where-ville Maryland and saw a group of 5 young Korean boys. We were having a small party in my hotel room to commemorate the ending of our archaeology project, so I was already a little tipsy. I ran back to my hotel room to my friends. “KOREANS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

We were a group of 4 girls. All of the boys on our project were sleeping and missing the party…leaving us to a total chick fest. The prospect of 5 Korean boys had brightened the night. We clasped arms, giggling like a gaggle of, well, little girls, and went to introduce ourselves to the Koreans.

They were nice, and within the hour, they were partying with us in our room. As a proud American, I wanted them to get a feel for an authentic American party. I threw on my overalls, a red bandana around my neck, and donned my cowboy hat. When they arrived I offered them beer, and the jungle juice. (The juice had turned into a sort of living creature, being moved around from room to room and it needed to be disposed of.)

The Koreans were traveling on a 10 day trip in the USA, sightseeing, and doing who knows what else. They were amiable, and Asians seem to always have a smile, especially while drinking. We drank and exchanged Korean and American cigarettes. They taught me how to say cheers in Korean and we told them to go to Atlantic City. Haha. It was a good night.

When traveling in some countries I find that it is hard to really connect with people of that culture and get a feel for the real flavor. When you’re staying in hostels you meet other people who are traveling, and usually they are not from that country. If you don’t know the native language, it is hard to communicate and be outgoing. Some cultures you can only meet people in a bar, but who wants to spend all of their time in a bar? And, bottom line, people usually are not very nice to tourists. When was the last time you went up to a tourist on the street in your city and said hello?

So, as a fellow traveler, I wanted to welcome these Koreans into my country. I figure if they have one fun night with nice Americans, they will go home and say “Americans are nice and friendly.” I want people to say that about Americans. I want people to invite me over when I am traveling. I like sharing. Come to my house.

Women with Hairy Legs

Now Ladies, I am sure many of you agree that shaving while traveling is just difficult. Though, it is hard to be a sexy woman with hairy legs. I usually have hairy legs for a female. It is just too much of a hassle if you don't have hot water and you are using communal showers in a hostal, or the bathroom is just so gross you really don't want to spend any time in there.

My legs often get a lot of funny, gross looks, but I am okay with that. Think what you want. It is part of my body. It is what it is. I do not care if guys like it or not. Usually while I am traveling I want guys to leave me alone anyway. In Asia, Indian women never really show themselves anyway. Chinese women do not have leg hair. In Europe, women with body hair is a little more common, so it is not such a big deal. Muslim women may have leg hair but we never get to see them under their robes.

(Photo of a woman with hairy legs wearing high heel shoes)

But now I am back in the good ol' USA where people have a big stigma against body hair. I guess males think females are hairless so women hide the fact that they naturally have body hair. I guess, though, since I am back I should do the same.

The armpit hair is growing back, though, and that is here to stay. Armpit hair is sexy.

Photo Blog From Antigua, Guatemala

I just uploaded a bunch of photographs from my travels in Guatemala. I will be trying to add all of my photos from Central America in the coming future. Please check them out at http://travelerphotos.blogspot.com
Here is a preview:


For more photos from Guatemala go to Lady the Tramps Photo Blog in Guatemala

Remembering Mexico from my Childhood

I remember the smell of MExico as a young teenager when my family came here on vacation about 10 years ago. I wanted to be a woman then and I bought a new skirt and high, black platform shoes which I teetered around on trying to be pretty.

I remember seeing people in the streets, chubby women in short skirts and men who hissed at me as I eased passed. That was my first look at night people and I thought they were sleazy in their polyester clothes and I don't think I really understood it all and that was the first time I thought about that. But now I think that is just the way things are down here south of the border.

The streets were crowded at night with dull naked light bulbs glowing from a million shop windows selling trinkets and fake silver jewelry that caught the sparkle. I wondered where everyone was during the day. Maybe on the moon.

Mexico Hotel Room Poem

Waking up with odd feelings pouring from my head like the falling water that has been spilling all night from the shower in the hotel room next door that the drunk forgot to turn off
Got a rattling in my brain thinking bad thoughts and hankering for forbidden fruits.
Wish I could tweet like that little bird on my windowsill and lift my tiny crooked claw feet off of this ground and maybe fly away from here, a little lighter and a little bit freer than before.
In truth I am afraid of that big blue sky and what is really out there blanketed by the abyss because maybe it will suck me up into nowhere or my dreams, whichever.
The ceiling fan goes round and round but the hot air stays in my small white hotel room.
Today I woke up with inspiration.

Traveling Romance in Mexico

Dear Mexico,
I am finally with you. For years I have longed for the romance of your hot days and balmy nights, your senoritas swaying in the breeze with flowers behind their ears, your caballeros wearing their fancy boots and huge sombreros, your mariachis serenading me from the streets, and your taco stands. Things go at a particular pace here. I wish I could spend more time with you, Mexico. I will be back. I am in love with you.
Un beso,
Mira

A poem for leaving Honduras

Thunder rumbling in from the horizon
It's going to be a stormy night
I'm nostalgic again
Thinking of old friendships lost in the handshakes of time
I'm homesick again
or sick with the feeling that I want a home that is constant, sometimes
Another month over, a page turning in life
and I am outta here
I'm saying goodbye again
with glassy eyes and charming, curtious words
"Will you come back again?"
I know that my maybes really are maybes and
I am leaving another pile of only acquaintances again
It's going to be a stormy night again

Budget Travel Tip: Cooking While Traveling

If I can, I usually opt to stay I hotels that offer the use of a kitchen to their guests. Cooking your own meals keeps you healthy and helps to save money. In Guatemala this has been a particularly important factor. Here food is ridiculously priced. A cheap meal here averages 20-30 Quetzales. Most meals in restaurants are way above that though, especially if you want to leave the place with a full belly. If you eat this way, before you know it you are spending $10 or more on food daily. This is well over the budget of my pocketbook as a backpacker. With hotel and all, my daily budget is usually $10. Spending money on expensive food eats up traveling funds quite quickly.

If you have access to a kitchen, or even any sort of stove and a pot, you can cook a tasty meal for cheap. In the market fruits and vegetables are cheap. Rice and beans, an absolute staple, are cheap almost everywhere in the world. Eggs usually aren’t too pricey. Meats can be more expensive, but humans only need a little bit of meat per day. This is what you need to eat to survive. This is what local people are eating. Plus, markets can be really fun and colorful experiences!



Junk food, chips, snacks, pre-packaged food, processed food etc. is expensive and usually lacks nutrition value. If you are on a small budget, don’t buy these frivolties.

Cooking my own meals, I can eat for around 5 Quetzales for each meal. This adds up to 15 for 3 meals, about $2 USD. See the money we are saving already? You can hardly find a meal for 15 Quetzales anyway in Antigua!

The second advantage is the health aspect. Montezuma’s Revenge, Dehli Belly, Jaipur worms, bizarre fevers, food-poisoning, all are not fun. One of the biggest dangers and problems with traveling is the getting sick part. Most people get sick due to some sort of bad food preparation; the meat isn’t fully cooked, the vegetables weren’t washed, there are flies landing on everything in the kitchen, you food was prepared in dirty water.

When you cook your own meals you have full control over the sanitary conditions. In many other countries, their ideas on cleanliness and health are different. A lot of people honestly just do not know that they should wash their hands. If you make your own meals you know if the cook scratched his butt and didn’t wash his hands before preparing your food. You know if your dishes were washed prior to your use. You know if your food was dropped on the grimy floor. You know if the water used to make the food was clean, or if it came from a polluted nearby sewer. Health is important. After getting really sick a couple of times, you will be begging to make your own food.

Of course one should always eat out to try the local delicacies and not be too overly anal about sanitary conditions. Yummy foreign food is all part of the traveling experience. And no kitchen, not even in the USA is completely clean. But if health has got you down, or if money is tight, consider a hotel with a kitchen. Even if it’s only for breakfast, cornflakes will cost you a lot less than eating out.

Traveling with a Significant Other

Traveling with a partner isn’t always easy. On the contrary it is hard. It exaggerates all of the little annoyances. It may be the stupidest thing, but couples will fight over it anyway if the situation is stressed.

Last night was stressed. Wade is doing god-knows-what to his website and has been working like a dog. The final week of my semester is coming up, and I am trying to finish all of my writing for school. We are both a little on edge and snappy.

In a culmination of an argument that had been building all week, Wade ran away. I had no idea where he went. This made me sad, but I did not want to sit in the room by myself and sulk. I left.

I left, just for the sake of leaving, and really had no idea what to do in the middle of the night in Antigua as a female all alone. Bars are expensive here. Restaurants are even more expensive.

After wandering around for a couple minutes, I decided I gotta get off the street, and sucked it up to pay over $2 USD for a beer. I went to the honkey bar, and watched baseball. My situation was looking a little sad still.

Fortunately, two angels walked in the door to scoop up my spirits. Well, not exactly angels, but they are such wonderful people that you might as well call them that.

They are two Vietnamese kids that immigrated to Germany with their family. Their family had been traveling on chicken buses through Central America for a few months. They were staying in the same hotel as us for a while, and their parents gave us lots of fruits and vegetables. They are really genuine, friendly, good-hearted people.

(Wade and I)

Anyway, they saw I was alone, gave me a huge hug and smile, and sat on either side of me. They were really great for conversation and jokes, and had me laughing in seconds. The night was brightening.

These kids were full of wisdom, and just knowledge on how to be a really good person, or at least be happy living life. A few days before, I had admired how well they got along for siblings and how much they seemed to dig being around each other. It had so struck me, that I even made a phone call to my own brother (this is an occasion so rare I had to dig through my bag to find where I might have his number written).

Tonight, these kids had more inspirational words for me. Talking about relationships, they told me an antidotal story of a fight they had had earlier. The girl had said to her brother, “I really love you, but I just don’t like you right now.”

These words rang out true. You may love someone unconditionally, but it doesn’t mean you like them all the time. Sometimes it is frustrating that you love someone so much. Sometimes it hurts. These kids are wise. I hope I see them again one day.

They escorted me home, to make sure I arrived safely, and walked off into the night with some more big smiles and heart-felt goodbyes.

I returned to my room to find Wade sleeping. He was extremely happy to see me. Our fighting was over, and we like each other again. My father says, “If you are hitting it too hard, sometimes you just need to lay off for a while.”

Women's Arm Pit Hair While Traveling

April 12, 2008

I shaved my armpits finally. My armpit hair has grown wild for about 3 years now, and I had come to terms and accepted the bushes under my arms. I actually kind of liked it. If you can live with a hairy body, it makes life a lot easier on the road. No long showers, no embarrassing stubble, no need to worry. Less time in the bathroom, and more time for being out in the world.

I sometimes get some funny looks, but I think hairy armpits are a means to keep away unwanted male attention. No one is going to hit on my hairy legs. It helps to weed out incompatible people. If someone won’t talk to me because I have hairy legs, I probably wouldn’t want to talk to them anyway.

Yet, sometimes when you’re traveling, weird things happen to your body. You pick up things from god knows where, and parts of your skin start falling off, or strange animals live in your belly button, or fungus eats your flesh. Last summer I started to notice some sort of distorted growth in my armpit hair. It looked like it was coated in a blondish color, but the hair itself was mushroomed, instead of a sleek piece. This is gross, and I really don’t know how to explain it. At any rate it was not normal, and I did not like it.

I really didn’t know what was causing this phenomenon, so I didn’t worry too much. Today I worried. It has been there for almost a year now. I want it gone. I am afraid it may be a fungus, or hair cancer (can you get that?), or even something more weird that I can’t pronounce that has some proper medical name.

Today I had to say goodbye to the armpit hair. I couldn’t handle it anymore. After 3 years of going au natural I had almost forgotten how horrible it is to shave though. Running a sharp piece of metal across my skin to cut off hair is not my idea of a fun activity. It is especially awful when your armpit hair is thick and long. It took me a good 10 minute to de-grizzle myself.

Hopefully now the fungus or the whatever-you-call-it-with-the-long-technical-medical-term-name will go away. I do not want to make this shaving thing a regular activity. It is too gruesome.

Yet, now, I am having horrible nightmares about shaving every night. I dreamt that a politician saw my bushy leg hair as I was riding a mechanical bull. He then decided that it was gross and publicly said this at one of his speeches. This then set off a wave of my protests, speaking out about how leg hair is natural and the man is a chauvinist pig. I didn’t know hair was so meaningful for me. Scary.

Tourist Police in Guatemala

Dangers in Guatemala
Everything seems to be dangerous for tourists in Guatemala. Everyone has some sort of travel warning; don’t ride local buses, don’t climb the mountains without a machete, don’t walk down that street after dark, don’t eat any of that food. How could it possibly be that dangerous? Why aren’t the police doing anything? I would think the government would be pushing hard to thwart crime and promote the tourism industry, making it safe.

In San Pedro it is recommended not to climb the volcanoes or any of the surrounding mountains without a large group of people, a guide, and a machete, lest you will be robbed. Yet, half-way up the volcano hikers must pay 100 quetzales, about $13 USD to the park police. Why? People are still getting robbed even though they are paying the park police a ridiculous fee to protect the tourists. A few weeks ago a group of 27 tourists were robbed going up the volcano. There has to be a conspiracy. Maybe the cops are getting paid off. These cops need to stop being so corrupt and actually do something more than sit on their fat bottoms collecting tourist money.

(Photo of cops on the street in Antigua, Guatemala)

In Antigua the police infrastructure seems a little better, if not good, respectively. There are cops stationed all around every tourist attraction throughout the city. At night there are a couple of cops standing on each corner of the most tourist trafficked street in the downtown area. After dark there are more cops on the street than civilians.

Tonight I was actually a little comforted by this. Wade and I were coming home a little before 10:00 PM. As we were walking I saw a shady looking guy shadowing us and warned Wade. Sure enough he came over to us and kept trying to put his arm around Wade calling him amigo. If a stranger ever tries to put their arm around you on the street they are probably trying to rob you. Wade is smart. Wade wouldn’t let the guy get within 3 feet of him.

I told the guy in Spanish to go away. I did not want to get robbed tonight. He then started mumbling about how we have no respect. Excuse me mister, but just because I do not let you rob me you say I do not have any respect? Look who is talking! Nice try buddy!

Wade and I never stopped walking and we were nearing a group of cops. The guy took off. Cops are scary. The guy knows he is shady and he knows the cops know it too.

Sometimes cops work, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they are good, often they are bad.

Santiago Atitlan, Guatemala

Santiago Atitlan is amazing. Stepping off the boat, I felt as if I was entering Guatemala for the first time. An indigenous school girl hoisted me and my heavy backpack off the rocking boat and onto the slick dock. This area is over 50% indigenous, and is still thriving with culture. All of the women here wear their traditional trajes, woven skirts with thick woven or beaded belts and poncho like blouse embroidered with flowers and birds. Many of the men even wear the traje here, which I haven’t seen in Antigua. The men’s traje is a little more simple, with stripped, pajama like shorts and a sash.

(A photo of an indigenous boat man in Lago Atitlan)

Getting off the boat there are the typical runners and taxi drivers. One indigenous man wearing purple shorts seems to be the head honcho of them all. He asked us if we wanted everything in the books; cheap hostel, restaurants, crafts, good prices, marijuana, everything. Wade and I ran away.

The main street is riddled with tourist shops selling beautiful, hand-made indigenous arts and crafts. It is eye candy. Bright colors, exotic shapes, woven clothing, leather hats, stone sculptures, oil paintings of the volcanoes and the lake, and shiny beaded jewelry. It all sits next to the street tempting tourists with the enticing brilliance and low prices. The women sit in their stalls with gold teethed grins, embroidering p’ots, and beckoning the passer-buyer.

Even my ears were overloaded by the town. Here they do not speak Spanish as their first language. The first language is a Mayan dialect. It has thick, harsh sounds, like snarls and spitting strung together in a clacking rhythm. I was amazed even that many people do not even speak Spanish. A few attempts at conversation with the indigenous women and I learned that, because they did not have formal education, only spoke their native tongue. I love hearing new languages.

(A photo of an indigenous Mayan women selling jewelry and beaded necklaces in Santiago, Guatemala)

People in this village are extremely friendly. Every little old lady and wrinkled old man is brimming with toothless smiles. The women are a bit too shy to say, “Buenos Dias,” but they always offer a timid smile. The shyness only makes them seem more appealing and affable. Maybe they don’t speak because they are always carrying huge baskets or bags on top of their heads. Maybe speaking will make them fall off. I really do not know how they can balance such huge loads on their heads in the first place. It has so affected their walk that they glide so smoothly along the pavement that you hardly even see them lift their feet.

I like this pueblo, and I am glad to finally be finding the richness of Guatemala.

(Photo of the street and indigenous women in Santiago Atitlan, Guatemala)

Tourist Shuttle from Antigua to Panajachel

Our shuttle arrives 15 minutes late. The driver tells us to hurry up. He should have been the one hurrying. I have been waiting for him for 45 minutes. The shuttle is already packed like sardines with white English speaking people. For some reason they all get out of the van. The driver is telling them to hurry up and get back into the shuttle. They do no understand and were standing in the street blocking traffic. Horns were honking. The man in the front opened the door precariously short of being hit by a huge semi-truck. What is wrong with these people?

Finally I get in, still not understanding what the fuss was all about even though we all speak the same language. Wade is already pissed. He has to sit in a jump seat. He is surrounded by moron whities. Is this really the luxury that we paid for? We are both smooshed, and feeling like it may have been the same situation even if we had taken the chicken bus instead. Between paying 30 Quetzales for the shuttle bus and 25 quetzales for the chicken bus, I don´t know if I got such a good deal.

(Photo of a Chicken Bus in Guatemala painted with flames)

We started off and the honkies started talking. There was a Canadian couple. The woman was pregnant. There was a family from Hawaii and some foreign lady who spoke excellent English, probably a Russian. These were all people who traveled but they were not travelers. They had adventured all over the world but somehow not gained any common sense from their trips.

The Canadian man was so nerdy and such a pushover milktoast that I have no idea how he ever left Canada in the first place. His girlfriend was a little better, but had very strange thoughts about her end-all and be-all “back-packers” trip through Asia. I give her points though for being so adventurous while pregnant, but I think it is stupid to go on an “oh so strenuous” vacation while pregnant.

The family were upper-middle class pseudo-intellectual liberals. Their daughter was going through a stage and decided to spend a year off in between highschool and college traveling through Central America. This was a smart move. She needed to escape from her parents.
They were trying to be open and worldly. They were the kind of people that go “Oh wow” to the dumbest possible things. They are the kind of people who spend too much money and raise prices so it is hard for a tramp to travel. This ride was hardly bearable. The babblers were loud. The babble was bad.

The scenery on the other hand was beautiful. Winding through steep mountains, scary roads and slash and burn farms. Coming upon Panajachel there is a spectacular view of the sparkling blue lake and the gigantic volcanoes.

A Long Stay in Antigua

I have been in Antigua, Guatemala for about 10 days now. This is a long stay. I do not even know how I have spent these last days. Antigua is a beautiful little colonial town, but it feels stale. There are so many tourists that I see more white people daily than Guatemaltecos. The tourists have over saturated the town with money as well, so everything is way overpriced. There are swanky craft shops, expensive European style bars, and every comfort one would find in the modern world. I cannot afford to eat in this town as a result, and I definitely cannot afford to party either. One beer costs more than lunch and drinking would leave me in the poor house.

(Venders in Antigua and a woman carrying baskets on their heads)

I found a hotel that includes breakfast and wi-fi internet for around $7 a night/person. Hotel Shalom. If you can bear Israelis it ain’t a bad place. Breakfast is filling and the internet is fast. The employees are friendly and the place is clean.
It was a nice place to sit for a while. I think I had my head stuck in my computer the whole time researching and writing for my portfolio though.

(Photo of indigenous women selling fruit in the streets on Antigua)

This town is rather boring to do anything else. It is too expensive to buy fun and it is too gentrified to experience anything. It is a tourist bubble. I am ready to leave, heading for Lake Atitlan.

U.S. Dollar Exchange Rates

The US dollar isn’t looking so good. You can really see how the value of the dollar is dropping when you’re not in the USA. The US dollar use to be the currency that ran the world. This seems to be changing fast. The Euro is taking over. When I was in France last December, American dollars were completely useless. No banks would exchange them or even take travelers cheques in dollars. Even if I could have changed Dollars for Euros, I still wouldn’t have been able to buy anything because of the outrageous price of everything in Europe.

Now I am noticing a change in Central America. Things used to be priced according to the dollar in touristy places. For instance, a beer in Costa Rica use to cost 500 Colones, and 500 Colones is equal to $1 USD. Now prices match Euros. A beer in Costa Rica now costs about 750 colones, which is equal to 1 Euro. This is about $1.50 USD. In Guatemala the Euro is about 10 Quetzales and all the prices are in increments of 10 Quetzales. They are not in increments of 7, which is the exchange rate of the dollar.

A reason for this change is probably due to the fluctuating value of the dollar. It is no longer a stable currency. The war debt from Iraq has seen to that.

I went to the bank last Monday to exchange money. 1 US dollar was worth 7.34 Quetzales. This week I went and the exchange rate had dropped .03 Quetzales. The dollar was now worth 7.31 Q. Changing $100 I lost 50 cents. That isn’t that much, but to have such a decrease in 1 week is worrisome. The Lonely Planet 2007 Guidebook values the dollar at 7.6 Quetzales. That means since publishing, the dollar has gone down in value almost .3 Quetzales. This is about 30 Quetzales when changing $100 US dollars. 30 Quetzales is about $4 USD. This is a lot for a year.

The future is looking bleak for the US dollar. George Bush Jr. had better get out of the president’s chair so someone can save our economy from crashing. If not, this little hobo will have to start earning cash elsewhere in a more stable currency.

Women Travel The World

What are other women across the world up to? Rosemary Neave is building a community of women travelers who love to write about their journeys. She hosts a page with fantastic links for women travelers, and a network for us bold women writers.
Check her out!
Women Travel The World
www.womentravelblog.com

Girls Underwear and Shady Hotels in Panama City

Embarrassing Unmentionables

Latin Americans, because of certain Catholic cultural values, are forced to make love in coveted, mysterious ways. They cannot bring their lovers home to show off to their families, so the common custom is to rent a room in a “love” motel. These unsavory places are also the frequent haunts of prostitutes looking for customers. These hotels are present all over the Latin world. They offer rates by the hour, and usually have the cheapest price in town. Sad to say, I have often stayed in these hotels out of sheer economics. Often there is no other affordable option for the traveler in more expensive cities.

Such a place is Panama City. Because of the vast historical heritage, the quaint restored colonial avenues of Casco Viejo, the lore of the largest canal in the world, and the rich culture of the land, Panama City has a large tourism infrastructure. There are hundreds of beautiful sky high resort type hotels in swanky, clean parts of the city. These huge white monstrosities, however, are far out of y price range. The youth hostels ran an average price of $10 per night. I thought this was also expensive for a bed without a lock open to robbery, sleeping in a room full of dirty, smelly hippie kids and sticky, fungus-floored communal bathrooms. Like the other tourist hotels, the hostels were on the outskirts of the center city, in nice quiet residential and business districts that utterly stank of America money. These places provided the comfort of ambiguity as to any indication of the region of the world, void of all cultural or uncomfortable aspects of the country. These blank places seem to comfort the rich tourist while on vacation. Yet then again what person with money to spend would want to stay in the loud, exhaust-filled, wild center of Panama City when they could sleep in silence?

I and my purse, however, were in for the center city. A few stops in seedy hotels, and I finally found a private room with a bathroom in a quaint hotel for a fraction of the price of a hostel dorm bed.

From my window I looked down upon the main drag where I had a clear view of all the action of the city; the wildly painted pimped buses, the street vendors selling cigarettes and gum from huge baskets and the Cuna women walking passed in their beaded and stitched garbs. The surging multitude was like watching a parade, complete with the honking of cars and blaring reggaeton, Latin and Caribbean rhythms. It was located amongst a wide range of local restaurants and bars, within a minute’s walk of the busy street markets on one side and a tranquil, lazy park on the other. This was far more exciting than being stuck up in the dead banking district.

It was, although, of the unsavory category of a love motel. The sidewalk in front was heavily shaded by thick bushes to obscure the view of entry through the front door. The paper thin walls in the interior did nothing to hide the nature of the hotel either.

Entering the afternoon of my check-in, I heard panting through the hallways. Stopping to wait for the elevator, I determined that the sounds were coming from the adjacent room from a couple obviously in the act of after lunch coitus. After hearing all too much of the shrill pleasure moaning and the bed-posts thumping against the walls, I scampered away up the stairs, too discomfited to wait longer for the elevator while forced to eavesdrop on the mating pair.

That night, unlike the activities of the other guests, I washed my clothes. I hung them over the windowsill in hope that they would dry in the cool night breeze before morning.

During the night I was roused by a strong wind blowing in my 4^th story window, banging the shutters against the brick exterior. Half asleep, and forgetting about my wet clothes, I shut the windows, bolting them against the harsh wind. The next morning I awoke to a wind-blown room with every item that could catch the wind strewn about the floor. My two clean shirts were tightly locked in the window, but shockingly my underwear was gone. The torrential gusts the night before must have blown them away.

They were not in the room, nor in my pile of luggage. I flung open the shutters and searched the street. I saw nothing. I dressed and went out to search the street. I ran, a little ashamed, around the surrounding blocks, but found not even the slightest sign of my panties. Gone. Disappeared. They were nowhere to be found. I let go of the notion of ever discovering them again and bid farewell.

The worst part is this underwear was not just any normal, ordinary pair. They were the well-hidden, unappealing period panties. Even uglier than the average granny panty, these are the ones only used when there is absolutely no likelihood whatsoever of being seen. They are a most clandestine secret of women, never to be revealed to the eyes of men. (For the reader’s sake I dare not go into further gruesome description as to the appearance of the well-worn garment.) My unmentionable secret had flown like a kite out of the window and was now on the loose in Panama City, exposed to the world.

My dirty secret was out there, but it did not match the dirty secrets of the other hotel guests. Because of the risqué location they had probably been identified and wrongly accused as those of a woman of the night. My mind ran through possible scenarios of what may have happened to my underwear. Had they been taken by someone? Were they now covering someone else’s nether regions? Was there a panty-sniffer on the loose? Would this panty-snatcher search me out? What kind of sick person would touch someone else’s period panties anyway? Would I ever find out the answers to this strange mystery?

I somehow forgot about the uncomforting experience, and moved on for the period panty is an utmost forgettable piece of one’s wardrobe. It is not an article of clothing that women often fret over in daily life. It is only donned once a month and with more contempt than delight. While traveling, a female does not often contemplate such matters with too much worry for the majority of weeks.

Thirty days later I was reminded of the incident, to my dissatisfaction and discomfort. In my absent-mindedness I have not gotten around to purchasing another adequate undergarment for the occasion. There are now four countries between me and my lost panties. I am left with frilly, stringy, lacy pieces that hardly cover anything worth mentioning. In my forgetfulness I have reduced myself to wearing my bathing suit, the only adequate piece of cloth to cover myself. This will have to do until a lingerie store in rural Honduras can be found.

Travel Tip for Women: Don't Wear Short Skirts

While traveling a woman needs to be aware of the way she is dressed. Appropriateness of clothing varies from country to country, but by following a few restrictions she is less likely to get unwanted attention.

The fact of the matter is that the majority of the world thinks white western women are sex objects. They think we want sex all the time, we are easy to get into bed, and we have loose morals. The media all over the world portrays us in this manner, so of course every horny boy worldwide is going to target us pale skinned beauties.

The problem is, much of the time traveling girls do not really do much to sway this stereotype. I have seen girls in halter tops in Hindu India, girls with short skirts in Muslim Morocco, and girls in booty shorts in Catholic Central America. These sexy clothes may not be the best wear if in countries with stricter moral codes.

(This naked girl in Costa Rica attracts a lot of attention)

At home in America these clothes are normal, and no one even thinks twice about wearing them. Abroad, it is a little different. Yes many countries have a hot climate, but that doesn’t mean you should flounce about naked.

In India I knew an American girl who always wore skirts, but did not know how to keep her legs closed. I would glance over and always see her panties sticking out, no matter how long the skirt was. We would be in the company of all types of Indian men, but she just couldn’t keep her legs closed. She wondered why she was grabbed by Indian men so often. Plain and simply, she was showing them her vagina half the time. Indian men really do believe that western women just want to have sex all the time and will have sex with whoever asks them. The best thing to do is to dress like an Indian woman, or at least cover all of your body parts, including stomach, shoulders, and legs. It is common decency.

In Costa Rica a fellow female student was having a lot of trouble because of unwanted attention from the local boys. Cat-calling, whistling, and hooting is normal here. Every boy you walk passed on the street will make some sort of noise at you. As she was explaining to me her difficulties while sitting on the couch I looked down to see a very distracting sight. She was wearing shorts so short that I could see her vagina. She wore shorts everyday. Everyday her shorts were too short. Everyday boys were hitting on her. There was an obvious correlation between her rear hanging out and the boys’ comments. This is common sense. Cover your vagina.

(Photo of a woman wearing a head scarf in India. She is safe from harrassment)

The best thing however is not to engage boys when they start yelling. The girl with the short shorts decided one day to yell back at the boys who hit on her with her vagina hanging out. The boys of course got angry. The boys yelled back, calling her a slut, and followed her down the street in their car, threatening her. They thought she wanted the attention. Prostitutes wear sexy clothes to get attention. Girls dress up to get attention. Do not yell back at the boys. This is stupid. Do not wear revealing clothes if you do not want attention. This is stupid.

Obviously, in our Politically correct American suburban world we have forgotten about the implication of clothes. If you were revealing clothes you are trying to attract males. If you are wearing revealing clothes you want the attention of males. Remember this. It is important. Don’t be stupid. If you are getting too much attention, put more clothes on.

Panama Viejo, Panama City

Pirates Sack Old Panama

Long ago when Central America was still called the New World, and pirates still sailed the Caribbean waters, Panama City was built over the sparkling blue waters on the tiny isthmus. Henry Morgan and his crew sacked the city in 1671, razing it to ruins. These fearsome fiends searching for riches and control over sea-power cannonballed and ransacked the tiny colony of the Spanish.

Today evidence of this blunder still stands, with broken foundations poking out of the poor section of the new Panama City. UNESCO has made the ruins of Panama Viejo a national heritage site, forever preserving the site and the history of marauding pirates.

Wade and I took a local bus, and the driver dropped us across the street from the site. Not seeing an entrance, Wade showed up the low fence. In pirate nature he abandoned his wench, bounding over the fence and trespassing into the ruins. I cried out after him, but he was hidden amongst the dilapidated houses.

Before I had a chance to follow, a guard was heading my way. He eyed me and returned to his post in front of a gate. I walked towards the opening intending to slip through. The guard barred my way.

“Where are you going?”
“To the ruins.”
“To do what?”
“To look of them, of course.”
“Why are you coming through this gate?”
“I don’t see another gate.”
“But you have to enter through the main entrance.”
“Why can’t I enter through this gate?”
“You aren’t allowed.”
“But why not? I want to.”
“But people enter through the other gate. Cars come in this gate.”
“But I am at this gate too. Can’t I enter here?”

This went on until I finally gave up, and he pointed me in the direction of the main entrance. In the scorching Panamanian sun it felt like miles. When I arrived, I quickly walked through a gate trying to scout passed the ticket booth.

“Señora! Miss! Señorita! Miss! Pardon! Excuse me!” annoyingly called the man in the booth. I pretended not to hear him until he began to rise from his seat to stalk me. Damn.

I sauntered over, head down, trying to put on a mean face. Sure enough I would have to pay to enter the site legally. I scanned the board of prices cringing at the US dollar signs. Luckily there was a student discount. I gruffly told the man my scholarly position and my fare was lowered to $2.

I finally gained entrance, extremely pissed about the whole fiasco. I searched for Wade simply to let out some anger and call him a butt for leaving me. We hiked around the unimpressive ruins, only stopping to read the signs about the pirates. There was not much to take pictures of except for a few fallen down, lichen-encrusted stone walls that once belonged to the wealthy of the city.

The main structure was a tower which was once a church steeple. At the base of the building a group of people with official looking badges surrounded us asking to see out tickets. I showed mine, as Wade searched for a non-existent ticket and stammered that he must have lost it. A lady called someone on a walkie-talkie, presumably the ticket vendor, asking if Wade had paid. The vendor had not seen a man with a beard and a red and black checkered shirt (as Wade was being described). I translated the conversation to Wade, anticipating trouble from the nearby armed guards.

Wade fled the scene without another word. I nonchalantly mounted the winding steps of the ancient temple, pretending not to know the man with the beard. I climbed the 5 flights of the bell tower alone. At the top, I looked out on the unappealing landscape and did not see Wade anywhere.

When I climbed down, I still did not see Wade. I circled the entire site and he was nowhere to be found. Damn kid had disappeared again.

For more Photos from my trip to Panama visit: Wanderjahr Jill´s Travel Photo Blog

Turrialba, Costa Rica

El 28 de enero

Hoy yo descubrí la belleza y la hospitalidad de Costa Rica de Nuevo. El Wade (mi novio quien está conmigo) no le gustó Costa Rica cuando estuvo aquí la última vez. El solamente visitó San José y Cartago y tuvo una experiencia mala.Ahora yo quiero mostrarle el otro lado de Costa Rica, como la gente amigable, la cultura divertida, la naturaleza bella, y todo lo que yo he conocido de este país.

Ayer salimos de Heredia y fuimos a Turriabla. Yo no conocía Turriabla, pero El Wade quería ir a las montañas y nuestro libro de guía se dice que allá las hay. Cuando llegamos, no vimos montañas ni senderos ni parques ni nada. Eso no estaba por las nubes tampoco. Yo le pregunté a la dueña del hotel y ella me miró como una loquita.

“Pues… se puede caminar hasta Santa Rosa, pero es muy lejos, como cuatro kilometros.”

Entonces Wade y yo salimos caminando por la calle a Santa Rosa y en pocos minutos empezó a llover. Nosotros regresamos al hotel después de mojarnos mucho. Estabamos tristes y desalentados.

Pero, por la mañana hoy no amanecimos con ganas de un buen viajecito. Salimos caminando otra vez. De Nuevo no vimos senderos por las montañas ni parques ni nada. Hasta casi una hora después , vi un campesino con una pala. Yo le pregunté si el conocía este lugar. Con una sonrisa muy grande el me dijo, “sí” y me llevó a su quinta. Lo seguí por cafetales y fincas y corrientes. Hablamos del ambiente y su vida y mi vida. El señor era muy amigable y nos mostró muchos senderos en las fincas privadas por las montañas. Vimos aves y mariposas e insectos. Wade y yo aprendimos como cultivar café, bananas y caña de azúcar.

Lo sentí muyrefrescante porque la gente de otros países no es tan hospitalaria y amigable. Los ticos del campo siempre rien y tienen tiempo para ser amigos.

(Yo con plantas de cafe, a photo of me with coffee plants)