Day 17 San Pedro

I was able to read this aloud at a Unity Circle event in San Marcos. People related to this content and I felt I'd had made some pretty wicked word choice decisions. I can proudly share this... 

Life has been difficult since my last update. They say your demons will eventually catch up to you if you go traveling. I've been thinking back to my days in Seattle a lot lately. When I first arrived in Seattle, I recall the excitement of landing in Chinatown; walking downtown. The lights were so bright. The water was so beautiful. The air felt so fresh. 

    Before long, I was starting a business. Sauntering days turned into hard nights, working until 2 or 3AM by myself in empty co-working spaces. I felt like a mouse navigating the buildings unfinished, hidden shortcuts. That building became like my second home in the night. Between binge drinking and developing my business, I hardly had time for thought. I was on a mission. 

    It was when my mind became idle that my demons caught back up with me. For all I've been able to accomplish in my life, success, to me, has to do with a state of actively opposing the world - of fighting up against pressure - I need to walk a difficult path. Comfort is both  succor and shameful indulgence. I am happiest when I am surrounded by creation and chaos.

    That's a nice way of saying that I often feel I am falling short of my own expectations and wasting my life. Living is a feeling, and not a set of accomplishments. I dont care that I went to space. Wrote a play that caused my evil school principal to meltdown. Robbed Noam Chomsky. I dont view merits as what makes me -- me. Accomplishments are things that happened when I felt alive.

And so, now, I am here in beautiful San Pedro with expensive pain.

    San Pedro has been a microcosm of Seattle. I sought balance in my arrival but ended up riding on a swinging pendulum. Landing here was chaos. Fun and chaos. Work and chaos. Fun and Work and Chaos. Before I knew it, I'd sealed myself up in my room and was pillowing myself in with comforts; watching the Spanish telecast of NBA basketball on ESPN, re-doubling my attention into my online Pokemon community; reneging on my goals.

    I am, by my nature, a Digital Nomad. That means I am working and not on vacation. But that doesnt mean I cant learn about myself... Walking such a path requires great balance and patience. I am impatient and, as yoga has shown, very flexible but with terrible balance. I'm not working to my strengths (you know what they say about what doesnt kill you...) I could not have walked this path when I was 16, defiant and indefatigable, or 23, inspired and relentless. This requires a new level of maturity and discipline. I have those things. I know I can discover the balance. It's 100% the road less taken and the shit has bramble and growth all over the path. 

I wonder... How many layers of whatever this is does one need to pass through? I feel like giving up, and I despise myself for it. My core dynamic creates anguish. It creates other things, but it wants from me something that takes my whole being to give. The journey inside is the most intense journey one faces in life, and it's so so so easy to let up, pretend the path never existed, and that one is stuck on an island...

Working sans Base

I've been pondering what I want to do with my time here. I've decided to become more planned, to discover opportunities in my schedule, and to excite and challenge myself through conscious action. 

Something I've always been interested in is exploring. The thing with exploring is that it takes you away from your base. It's easy to learn without a base. It's hard to work without a base. 

    How can I do both? Unless work puts me in a bad mood or something, there's no reason I can't do both. Like, what's wrong with living adventurously and working? To me, I'm inventing something. Nobody's taught me how to do this and I have no wise mentor. 

    I have a setup that allows me to travel anywhere and work. I have a local cell phone that functions as a mobile hotspot; big USA phone that is basically a computer (Ultra S-21), a notebook that keeps me organized, a bluetooth keyboard, and some other items that support my operation. 

Highway to San Juan

 

 

I woke for a sunrise online Yoga session. It was not a great practice; my calm was shattered when a bird, twice, dive-bombed me. I'd practiced yoga there many times, so Im not sure what that stupid bird's issue was, but there it is. I packed a backpack and set off from my hotel on foot.

    I followed locals' directions to the highway to San Juan. I'd heard the highway was a dirt road and so I expected things to be dusty. I brought my mask, sunglasses, and an extra shirt I could use to wrap my face. Of course, the internet was wrong -- but this time, in my favor!!! The road had been recently paved and so it was a dust-less and very pretty walk to San Juan. All hail the internet!!!

    Near the edge of town. I bumped into a traveler and, on a whim, asked him about his accomodation. Ive been interested in downgrading my accomodation to better suit my budget. Where better to be than the outskirts of town. He explained that where he lived sucked, but there were other places nearby -- one where "people are always working upstairs." 

**a ping on my wifi-dar** 

    Where there are workers, there must be internet!!! The traveler was nice enough to walk with me to the -- encampment. It was called "Tzunun'ya" meaning nectar of the hummingbird. It sure was an interesting accomodation. There were about 10 tents and teepees out front of a large, shack-like construction that housed a bar, pool table, private room, kitchen, and, on the second floor, a collection of wooden tables from which one could work. In the back was a beautiful beach area with hammocks, shade, and lake access. Not bad... 

    Teepees were available for just $200/month. I'm thinking about it. Lord knows what I'll hear at night, living among a huddle of teepees but I'm not averse to the idea of saving some money and having all of my accommodations be shared, rather than private. Maybe for a few weeks.

 

    I moved on from Tzunun'ya and walked the road from San Pedro to San Juan. The highway was narrow. I walked along the road's outer edge, against on-coming traffic. I stepped off the road occasionally when a large truck or chickenbus would pass. On the running ridge of rocks to my left, there were occasional stone staircases which seemed to go off into the thick wilderness. My curiosity was piqued, but this was a workday... 

San Juan, el Pueblo Magico

 

    I arrived into San Juan which has a distinct air, as if it were on the top of a mountain. It's far different than San Pedro, with its urban clash of tourist lux and mayan life. San Pedro was 90% local and it pretty obvious where tourists were funneled. It's more off the grid. There are a lot of single middle age women in San Juan. There were multiple coffee and local-work collectives where prices were sky-high, and tourists were obviously sent. I saw tourists in small guide-led groups wobbling over cobblestone pathways. 

I despise being on guided tours. I do appreciate local knowledge but, for me, travel is best done according to the wild voice inside of you, and not a scripted voice from without. 

    I happened upon the city center which, just like San Marcos, is a basketball court! This court was beautiful; rimmed by hexagonal chips filled with vivid traditional Mayan colors. 

 

    I walked the few city blocks that had stores and cafes. I bought a pack of cigarettes for $2.25 and bought some fried chicken for $1.50. I sat for some coffee at a tourist-trap and bought a V-60 Pour Over for $3.25. I sat and worked for about three hours. I worked off my phone. I'm not bringing my laptop on walking adventures. There are some things I just cannot do on the phone. I'm still trying to figure out how to work off a phone vs a computer. 

    I stayed past closing at the coffee shop. The owner came out to let me know they'd been closed for 40 minutes and that I needed to leave. I left and was funneled into a tourist trap mayal local work collective where I spent money I didn't need to spend. 

    These work collectives are meant to unite women workers out from isolation and garner for them a living wage. Of course, this naturally involves a middle-man and while I can't claim corruption because I have no evidence, I didn't come to Guatemala for expensive Oatmeal Soap.

    I ended up buying a book cover thing for $12.50. I am not happy with myself but, I'm actually using it now. The book cover seems to tick every box for what I've been looking for to serve as a structure for my remote work setup. It can house and protect all of the items, like a brief case and it can roll up on itself and create a prop for me to stand my phone on...

    I stopped into an art studio. I found the artist hanging out with his father and son. His elderly father sat peacefully. His infant son stamped around in a shoddily constructed crib, and was not happy to be trapped. I love seeing children trapped like that, with the pain on their face. He was trapped, surrounded by colorful art. The juxtaposition was first-rate.

    Most of the studio held generic art I see in every stand and studio, but there was one psychedelic piece that caught my eye. I recognized it was different and that, next to it, were used paint brushes. I figured this was the artist's own work. It was clear he was the most talented artist in the room. He confirmed that assumption. In a corner, he had about five of his own works. He painted magical forest-scapes; one depicted two of the Quetzal, the national bird of Gautemala, from which the local currency's name is derived. The painting had beautiful greens of the canopy forest and blues in the forest floor, obfuscated by a layer of mist. The artist, himself, had been inspired to create the image after visiting such a vista, himself. He showed me one of his favorite works, The Spirit of the Ocean. It did have some Lisa Frank vibes with dolphins floating around but I didn't mention it. I loved his work but I'm not exactly in the market for $200-$500 pieces of art and I dont have the balls to haggle with an artist. I know those people suffer for their work.

    I walked back and received a text back from a girl Id met online. We'd met up a few times and become friends. We drunkenly made plans to start an Improv group but, after she didnt respond over the weekend, I figured I'd been ghosted for who knows why. She texted me confirming practice in just an hour. I walked back to San Pedro on the highway, stopped at the city square, and saw a funeral procession while sitting outside a tattoo parlor playing the album Savage Mode by 21 Savage. 

 

 

Day 10 San Pedro

 I usually just post my travel content but this trip my travel writing seems to have blended with my diary writing. I haven't been journaling enough. Journaling while you travel is like writing down the details of a dream. A dream is ephemeral and turns to sand when you wake. No matter how you cup your hands or hold on to it, the details blow away and are largely lost to the waking mind's recall. Only by writing those details down can you measure them. Travel is the same way. There's so much going on and it's so easy to go with the flow. Travel is laced with discomfort but also pleasure. By these two drivers, the mind is drawn away from introspection.

   

 These last days have been a whirl. I'm definitely taking a break from drinking. I drank Thursday night and Saturday night. The bars here are filled with kids and alcoholics getting fucked up. It's fun, but there's a place for that -- and it's not in my life every day.

    I met a man on the street whose vibe I really like. He seems to be a really kind, intelligent bum. Marshall is originally from Iowa but has been living around the world for a long time. Last night I asked him if he ever misses the life he moved away from: the one in Iowa with friends and family. He says no, and that Iowa just is not home to him.

    Marshall makes his living by selling Chai Tea and Mojitos while he sits on the side of the road near the touristy downtown. He lights a few candles and basically just is super kind, and so people hang out with him and drink his Chai Tea and Mojitos. Often musicians will sit and play music. I've heard some extremely talented guitarists sitting at Marshall's roadside establishment. Ill post a picture of Marshall if he gives me permission.

Price Shopping and Gouging

Money has been difficult here. There are plenty of opportunities to over-spend. Prices are pretty much different everywhere you go and I lack knowledge and time-spent to know where to spend my money. The result has been I've gotten taken advantage of -- not hugely -- a few times. 

    For example, I had been purchasing 8 gallon bottles of water from one corner store for 20 Quetzales (About $2.50). I tried a different corner store today and purchased 20 Gallons for 10 Quetzales! Jesus. She gave me the price and I was floored and purchased immediately.

    I'm a big fan of shopping in the local markets. I love the energy and deals. I can't wait to visit tomorrow. 

    Exchanging $$$ has been very hard here on lake Atitlan, especially when I'm not in the major lakeside city-town, Panajachel. Ive had to transact with local tour companies who will change your money but at an inferior rate.

• Agency #1: "you have small bills ($20s). We can only offer you 6.5 Quetzales per dollar.
• Agency #2:  "you have small bills ($20s). We can offer you 7 Quetzales per dollar.
• Bank Across the Lake: We can offer you 7.56 Quetzales per dollar.

    Further, I've been unable to withdraw any money because no ATMs seem to offer cash withdrawls on credit cards and my dumbass forgot to bring debit cards. 

Young People

    I went out and partied on my first Thursday in San Pedro. I went to a quite crazy establishment called Mr. Mullet's Party Hostel (I think). That night I met a bartender with whom I felt a fast connection. She was tall with blond hair, blue eyes, and a strong jaw; quintessentially German. I met Louise that night and we chatted for a bit before going our separate ways. 

    Three days later, on Saturday at a different bar, Louise joined my table with a group of friends; apparently a friend-of-a friend - sort of thing. 

    I had been at the bar meeting with a friend, Kayla. The energy between Kayla was purely platonic, but it was kind of crazy. Definitely a kindred spirit. Our conversation quickly evolved into mock yelling and lots of wild gesticulation. It was fun to hang out with Kayla. She was a UFC superfan, and it was kind of awesome to meet a girl who just knew way more about combat sports than I did. 

    I'm not sure if I want to broach this subject, but YOLO I reckon. I am attracting people who are classically in personality disorder relationships. Meaning, I have met ppl w personality disorders as well as care-taking types, freshly out of relationships with one. I have quite an eye for these people, and I have been one of them.

    Kayla was such a person. I'd also met another guy who'd exited such a relationship as well as somebody with a disorder.  

    Anyway, Kayla and I basically spent the whole evening arguing - loudly - with animation. There is no doubt in my mind that Louise picked up on my presence at the other side of the table.  

    On Louise's side of the table, she was cloistered by attractive men: all in their early 20's, wearing fashionable, airy clothing; apparently some sort of friend group. Her demeanor changed. The easy smile she'd worn had turned into a tight-lipped german grimace. The same one appeared on each of her friends' faces. Their group was all sorts of restrained and, as an old man, I recognize the power of group conformity as well as what it's like to not be comfortable acting according to what's in your heart. Louise and her squad was all sorts of restrained.

    Kayla and I spent the night yelling at eachother and eventually the night went on, UFC ended, and we departed from the bar. On the way out, I said goodbye to the other half of our table -- Louise and her merry men. I said goodbye to Louise, specifically, and I looked to see if there was any recognition on her face. There was not.

    Louise is a sign of the dichotomous nature of this city: foolish 20-somethings who dont know themselves and the floating single people with whomst I vibe: Marshall and Kayla.

Summer Camp Musings

Why isnt this the path I expected? Really, I thought I'd be in San Marcos. This place where I am is familiar enough that I feel comfortable on the path. I am more comfortable than Theo is comfortable with. I did not come on this trip to float away. I came on this trip to learn trust...

How is that going? Problems are emergent. That's nothing new. My hotel seems to have overcharged me. There's a street urchin whos taken a liking to me and I sense his intentions are less than genuine; rather, I don't trust his judgement, whatsoever. He's a bit of an idiot. Nice, but I am not comfortable with a fumbler in my inner circle. I will let the hotel matter go. What they did is low-down but there's little that can be done at this time. I need to be careful and mindful. I cant do that if Im out getting schwasted.

Im not rushing this process. The synchronicities indicate I'm in the right place. It's not what I thought I'd get, but one of my favorite sayings is that no plan survives first contact. 

 

BONUS STORY: Day 2 - San Pedro - Tis I, Whose Heart is a Basketball Court and Who Hath Verily Dunked on These Hoes

 
I didn't understand the cultural difference between San Pedro and San Marcos through internet research, but I get it now. San Marcos did the one thing that could dissuade me from staying in San Pedro for months on end. It had a basketball court right smack dab in the middle of the town. The heart of San Marcos is a basketball court.

San Pedro has the parties, the view, the room, the kitchen, the hot water, the wifi, the location, the markets, the locals, the terrace... it's the shit... What it lacks, however, is a bussin' basketball court -- which San Marcos has at its center.

San Marcos: A spiritual body and its heart is a basketball court. Thats how I'm tryna be.

I hopped into a few games on the court. My opponents were from Germany, Colombia, France, Chicago, Cali, and NYC.

Initially, I scored all of our points. As Bobby Yancey once said it, I have a "sort of decent mid range jump shot" and I've worked with. I made a few layups and some rangy mid range jump shots before fatigue hobbled me. Our team struggled to score buckets afterwards. We reached a score of 7-11 and then 10-14 (game point 15). I took over as Point Guard out of desperation, and Rich, who had been playing PG, caught fire at SG. Rich (from Cali) drilled three consecutive 3-pt shots to win us the game. Rich plays in clogs and I like him.

March of the Chicken Busses ~ Day Two ~ San Pedro

I am sitting here at the dock, feet from Lake Atitlan. Finally.

I woke at about 5:30AM to catch a bus rumored to run at 5, 6, 7, and 9AM. Others suggested it didn't run at all. Most of the good, always-reliable people of the internet agreed that the one-way Chicken Bus ran from Antigua to Panajachel at 7AM.

Of course, it didn't.

Soon after waking, there came a knock at the door... I had been staying in a small complex of about 8 apartments, separated from a bar by a crumbling plaster wall... I ignored it as a I normally do, but the knock came again - louder and more insistent KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. It was far too early for visitors and too late for drunkards. I descended a steep stair-case to and through our interior courtyard's door. On the other side of the door was a professionally dressed local man with an idling van behind him. The man was there to pick up a guest at my hotel for transport to Panajachel.

The driver indicated he was willing to wait and I shouted up into the rooms that someone's transport had arrived. Hearing no answer, I returned to packing. Naturally, I realized I could just take the free private shuttle if this person was going to miss their shuttle.

If you've known me for a long time, you know I had an identity theft period on Facebook wherein I'd change my name and picture on FB to represent other people. Those days are long behind me -- but not so long lost that I couldn't be Alfredo from New York.

 

 

I finished packing and I hadn't seen the envelope containing all my money. A voice in me said to go on - if the money was gone, it was gone. I knew I shouldn't bother, but I gave in to the self-destructive human drive to re-pack. Of course it was in my hidden pocket. The delay ran too long and Alfredo and Alfredo (me) missed the shuttle.

A couple of pasta heads. In retrospect, I am glad I didn't respond to that early morning, knock knock knock at my door. You could even go so far as to call me ... lucky

 

I left the hotel on-foot at 615AM. I walked through the sleepy ancient town square, not yet buzzing with droves of tourists, past the local mercado, and onto unfinished dirt roads, lined with stacked cinderblock walls. Eventually, I arrived into an ad-hoc sort of bus depot.

This was the shipyard for Guatemala's legendary Chicken Busses. These busses are the Central American equivalent of a metro bus system; each bus is more of an indepentent craft, running it's line. It's less scheduled and more 'everybody knows Han Solo's Millenium Falcon departs Mos Espa at 11AM each Tuesday.' And they're just about as janky as the Millenium Falcon. These busses obviously hark from American operation 1985 - 2010. Some of the yellow busses still bear blacked out lettering on the side indicating which school district they once served. Now they served different masters; ones who've changed them. The busses are chromed TF out. Huge speakers are installed. Christmas lights run the inside and outside. Some sport hot paint jobs. It's all very Pimp My Ride and, across the lot, some busses lied in tatters, half-(re?)constructed. Others rumbled w Frankenstein-ien life.

The busses were picking up operation for the day.

I approached the nearest bus and I asked in my best, clearest spanish where I could find transport to the city of Panajachel. The man nodded to me and opened the emergency exit of the nearest Chicken Bus, motioning me inside. What luck! I didn't even have to look for the bus!

This was my first, and not last, experience with drivers who will just respond in the affirmative to anything you ask them.

Is this a bus?
Si

Is this a chicken bus?
Si

Is this a chicken?
Si  

 

 

**The Adelante Problem**

I don't know why these bus drivers are so keen to entrap tourists into the Chicken Bus spider's web.

I'm finna Karen: This whole situation transpired because a bus driver gave me bad information at Antigua. I once got off at a wrong stop in Japan. I consequently ran out of money, and almost had to sleep outside. That was my fault becuase I didn't speak Japanese. These Guatemalan Chicken Bus drivers dont give a shit. You could ask them how their mom grew herself a cow's ass and they would tell you "adelante" - keep moving. 

... Adeeeelannteeeeeeee?

 

 

 

And thus was set into motion my Chicken Bus Extravaganza...

 

My destiny was sealed upon alighting the resting, early morning Chicken Bus. I was the first rider (what luck - a private ride to Panajachel!). The driver cranked the Chicken Bus to life and red christmas lights popped on all around me as the speakers woke up, blaring Funky Town. 

 

 

  

We stopped off a few times and more people got on the bus. I asked a fellow passenger how long it would take to arrive into Panajachel. The passenger confusedly advised me that the bus did not go to Panajachel, it went to Los Cruces ("The Crossing")

 

  

It was that I had the That's So Raven vision back to when I'd researched the trip from Antigua to Lake Atitlan. You could take a $100 cab, a $30 private "alfredo" shuttle, the $10 direct bus or the not-recommended $2.00 'local bus' trip.
 

I laughed and mentally steeled myself for chaotic bullshit. 

The chicken busses are managed by a sort of Conductor, except he's a mangy 15 year old, hanging out of the bus door, talking shit, and stuffing his pockets with wads of cash. He's sometimes slightly more useful than the driver. 

It's been a long time since I've been on a school bus as full as that one. It filled all the way up, and I was certainly the only foreigner. I stuck out like a white thumb. A woman, mostly just happy to see such a fool as myself, introduced herself and pushed in to sit next to me. Evelia Lucinda was dressed in colorful Mayan garb and could, as I would soon find out, talk a house into falling over.

Evelia's vocal box must have run off solar energy or raw entropy, because she didn't as much as breathe for 45 minutes... I get it now... I'm Shrek and she's Donkey. Hahaha.

Evelia was telling me about everything, from the danger of being a gringo in Los Cruces to how proud she was of her grand-daughter, who works with two of her nieces at an Antigua restaurant... I needed to return to Antigua and find her grand-daughter, Sylvia, and ask about the Guatemalan cooking book grandma, Evelia, had contributed to 40 years ago. I got car sick and Evelia either did not understand me or did not care, as the stories continued to the rhytym of the Chicken Bus lurching.

Las Cruces felt like the wild west. It was a New York city block sold second-hand to Guatemala. There was a pervading sense of disarray as throngs pushed against eachother on narrow sidewalks.

 
Busses flew through a crossing with no traffic light. Vendors shook bells and hollered out about their tostadas and smoothies for sale. Evelia tided us through the madness to another block, where I boarded the first bus to pull up. I looked over my shoulder to see Evelia waving goodbye, yelling out "I am not going there! Have fun in Pana!"

I sat down and asked a slight, older Mayan woman if this bus was going to Panajachel. She said "sort of. It's going to El Encuentro (The Finding); Great. I recognized this name from my research. I had performed only enough research to know I was not doing this trip (lol), but I recognized that name.

I want to take a break to say that the only thing keeping these transit centers operating is oral legacy. By that, I refer to that issue antiquated, dying cultures from my college textbooks have: where they have nothing written down, and so their existence is carried forward in spoken stories, transferred from person to person. There are no printed schedules, transit information centers, or online apps. There isnt even a bus stop! People just know which busses do and dont go where - most of the time. It's amazing to an American who even uses an app to schedule his shits. I was in Los Cruces and El Encuentro for about 60 seconds - total. A sunned-drenched, dusty whirlwind.

The Bus to El Encuentro was a bat out of hell. It clearly had the most powerful motor. Speakers blaired Guatemala's traditional music as the Chicken Bus plummeted down winding mountain highways. The driver often took up both lanes and took turns like slalom skiiers. 

 The chicken busses are managed by a sort of Conductor, except he's a mangy 15 year old, hanging out of the bus door, talking shit, and stuffing his pockets with wads of cash. He's sometimes slightly more useful than the driver.

 
I saw roadkill that looked like an empty coat and pool of blood. That's not how roadkill appears in the USA. I later learned this is becuse there's not a practice of removing roadkill from roads. Drivers just keep pulverizing the carcas until it's nothing... Oooookay.

I enjoyed the ride on that chromed out, 8000 pound missle from Culpepper County Schools. It was actually quite exhilirating. The driver was extremely skilled and in control. 10/10. Probably would not do again.

We arrived into El Embarcadero. This place was very busy with road-side stores and little mini-marts called tiendas. It was lively. Whereas Las Cruces felt like an unsafe city block, El Embarcadero felt like a busy mountain outpost.

At this point in the trip, I'd adapted and started talking to literally everyone, trying to get my information. A mayan woman helped me find my way to the next bus. Again, I prayed it was for Panajachel, but it was not. It was for Soloa, which is very close to Panajachel.

**The Adelante Problem**

I don't know why these bus drivers are so keen to entrap tourists into the Chicken Bus spider's web.

I'm finna Karen: This whole situation transpired because a bus driver gave me bad information at Antigua. I once got off at a wrong stop in Japan. I consequently ran out of money, and almost had to sleep outside. That was my fault because I didn't speak Japanese. These Guatemalan Chicken Bus drivers dont give a chicken shit. You could ask them how their mom grew herself a cow's ass and they would tell you "adelante" - keep moving.

... Adeeeelannteeeeeeee?

 

 

The Arrival

I arrived into Panajachel quite exhausted. I walked 30 minutes down to the dock and needed to wait another 30 before a boat was leaving.  I sat down for a cheap breakfast and bought a water.

The small motor boat filled with about 12 passangers and set off onto placcid Lake Atitlan. The water taxis run the perimiter of the lake, picking up and dropping passengers off each of the local villages. You listen out for your stop and ask people if you're confused.

We arrived to my village, the "Party" village, San Pedro. stacked my backpacks, one to the front and one to the back, and hiked about 20 confused minutes to my hotel, Shanti Shanti, which is run by the lovely young, Angelica, who appears to be in her early 30's and runs the place with the occasional help of younger employees and her adorable 6-year old daughter.

PICTURE OF ME

The town of San Pedro strikes me as a bohemian slew of drinking and cultural establshments. There are people living here, relocated from Europe, Japan, and Middle East. It seems like, over the years, those who have fallen in love with San Pedro have set up establishments (mostly food) to share their cultural offerings.

The reputation I had heard regarding San Pedro was that it was the center for party-life. As of today, I haven't seen that. I havent gone out to the drinking center of town but I certianly dont see the unbalanced life I expected in the town. Its way more of a paradise than a party town. As in, there's no bunch slumped over, raving mad, half-naked people, stumbling around, looking for their lost bag of ketamine from last night. (update: I did go to a party where people were super fucked up and naked except for boxes over their P & V - so I was wrong) There are children playing in the streets and sunrise yoga sessions. The town starts to buzz around 7AM (update: people start shooting fireworks off at 5AM on an almost daily basis). I expected this place to be the University of Maryland with more access to drugs, but what I've found is far more mature and spiritual. I was worried I'd revert into a more base, lawless thing. Those concerns have been allayed, and I look forward to the next month that I have booked here.

My apartment is fantastic. I've been advised that I'm overpaying, but it's not a big deal. (update: I am definitely overpaying and Angelica pulled some shady shit, taking the reservation off booking.com, upgrading me, offering a 'discount' on the secretly-elevated rate.)