Thorn Around the World
"Pairs in Panama, Mixed Trios in Costa Rica"
The soft tips dart machine-the only one I could find in Panama City-blinked to life. Piers, The owner of The Londoner, the British bar in the center of town, said something surprised like, "Look at that, it wasn't working last time we tried." Like magic, we had a twinkling dartboard ready to be played. Piers plugged in some coins, and Jules and I and our two friends from the hostel programmed in our team names-Thorns versus Roses-and began to play.We suited up my world-traveling interchangeable steel-soft tip barrels, and I spent the next hour teaching the game, soaking up the joy they found every time they hit a good score. I managed to show off with a few hat tricks and high tons.
"Pairs in Panama, Mixed Trios in Costa Rica"
The soft tips dart machine-the only one I could find in Panama City-blinked to life. Piers, The owner of The Londoner, the British bar in the center of town, said something surprised like, "Look at that, it wasn't working last time we tried." Like magic, we had a twinkling dartboard ready to be played. Piers plugged in some coins, and Jules and I and our two friends from the hostel programmed in our team names-Thorns versus Roses-and began to play.We suited up my world-traveling interchangeable steel-soft tip barrels, and I spent the next hour teaching the game, soaking up the joy they found every time they hit a good score. I managed to show off with a few hat tricks and high tons.
After few Balboa beers-and a complimentary entree from the adjacent Ozone Cafe and restaurant-it was time to head home. As we left with a "cheers" from Piers, I noticed that The Londoner is located on Calle Uruguay, a fitting coincidence and a bit of fate for me.
Tomorrow, Jules and I would bus into Costa Rica. But first, we took another exciting cab ride through the skyscrapers of Panama City, back to our comfy quarters at the Panama By Luis Hostel.
We spent the next morning-over plates of pancakes, bananas and coffee-planning our adventure into Costa Rica and beyond. Jules schedule was as flexible as mine, so we decided to travel together to the small surf town, and famous expat hideaway, called Dominical, on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. But first, we had a long overnight bus ride up the length of Panama, to the border with Costa Rica.
With bags packed and some supplies from the grocery store, we thanked Luis for his hospitality and headed back to the Panama City mall to the international bus station. We queued up for tickets-always an adventure especially in with Central American bus companies and their unpredictable routes and schedules. But, we figured it out and found ourselves in the waiting room, watching for our bus to pull into the gate. We met a man from Romania, who happened to be a tour guide. He gave us all kinds of advice on what to see and do over the next few weeks in Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Guatemala, Honduras and Belize."If you can make it that far," he said with a half serious smile.
The sun had set by the time we boarded, snuggling into our cramped coach seats. The west end of the Panama Canal passed by, partially lit by ships, locks, docks, and the marvelous Centennial Bridge. A long restless night of sleep passed with the occasional peek out into the dark roadside jungles.
We woke to the grind of the diesel engine slowing. A long line of cars and trucks preceded us at the border crossing. The dawn sun was just turning the clouds a light grey, and a mosquito took a rest on the outside of my steamy window. We were still a few hours from Dominical, but first we had to wade through customs, a lengthy process in Central America.
Everyone was ushered off the bus and sent into lines to have our passports checked. (I noticed that my passport getting low on boxes to stamp-a potential problem down the road.) Meanwhile, our luggage was offloaded to be searched, before we could re-board and continue. It was an interesting couple of hours, standing in lines, waiting for a dozen customs agents who casually showed up late, looking important and empowered, wielding authority with stern looks and a cursory once-over of each passenger and bag, almost annoyed to have to do it, before pointing and yelling us along.
As we waited, we watched the local scene of this dirty border town come to life with vendors and truckers milling about, stray dogs here or there, Panama on one side, Costa Rica on the other, where two oceans almost touch. By mid morning, in the growing humidity, we were on our way again, watching farms and towns scroll by between long swaths of palms and occasional glimpses of the ocean.
We met another friend along the way-a young and adventurous German woman named Thekla. After getting to know Jules and I, she decided to join us. By the time we reached the dirt pullover at the edge of Dominical, I was traveling with two wonderful and well traveled women of the world. We were a perfectly hilarious three-pack, dragging, rolling and humping our various luggage down a rutted dirt road into "town".
Dominical is a surfer sanctuary with colorful mix of gringos and lovable locals. The streets aren't paved and it's all pretty rustic-tucked under a grove of palm trees lining an epic beach. Right away, kind strangers starting pointing us in the right direction to find lodging.
A short walk and some quick inside scoop later, we found ourselves at Tortilla Flats, a fantastic little waterfront bar and motel with rooms on the cheap. Jules, Thekla and I splurged so to speak, forking over thirty dollars a night for the three bed suite above the bar, with a private balcony, bathroom, air conditioning and wireless internet. It didn't take long for us to freshen up, get comfortable clothes on, and check out the beach.
Powerful waves crashed along a long spit of rough sand and rocks, with snags of driftwood knotted up every few dunes, a massive rock outcrop was far off to the left, and to the right, an inlet to a stream was popular with village fisherman and the occasional dog-eating alligator. A few surfers were bravely riding the rough breakers, or staring out at the waves to come. We soaked up the view.
Fifteen minutes and a hundred feet later, we were back at the Tortilla Flats bar, watching the same scene through the palms. Cocktails and some ice cold Imperial lagers were soon served along with some of the best dishes on the menu starring fish and fruit of local variety. It didn't take me long to meet the hotel owner, bartenders, and a few more locals, and start asking my usual questions.
To my amazement-in this tiny surf town lost on the edge of Latin America-they said there was a bar in town with dartboards.two blocks away.
Over and double out.