Without Reservations

Union Station: photos

This is definitely one of the prettiest train stations I've seen in the United States. Readers of this blog know I'm not one of those "America rules!" type dittoheads, but I think we do train stations well in this country.

Plenty of light, nice design, and a cavernous waiting room that's in full view of the schedule.

Okay, just the once: America rules!

Union Station's waiting room

The paint and woodwork that adorns the vaulted ceilings evokes the Alhambra, at least for me.

A courtyard with a fountain in the far distance.

Some restoration is in order, but Union Station is holding up pretty well.

Inlaid floors, plenty of light, eight-pointed stars... definitely Moorish.

Back in the Homeland.

We'd passed through the US on our way to Jamaica, but the culture shock I felt after arriving at LAX was different. Although we were en route to another exotic locale -- a Holland America cruise ship docked in San Diego -- it was hard to escape the truth that our trip was all but over.

There were three glossy 8 X 10s mounted above the door to the Customs area: Bush, Cheney, and Homeland Security Director Michael Chertoff. I recognized the last guy from watching Katrina coverage. Each man had a canny, wide grin.

Looking at this triad of committed, selfless public servants, I wondered whether a well-thumbed passport would make me more likely to garner negative attention. Does a few months of foreign travel put a flag in your Permanent Record? Would there be an unmarked panel van parked down the block when we got home?

Turning to recent gaffes and gaps in national security, I decided that any nation that would put Ted Kennedy on a watch list has little time for vagabonds like myself. Through equal parts design and happenstance, we flew over a few spokes on the Axis of Evil; we rested our heads only among friends of democracy. Freedom's on the march!

I assumed an authentically bored posture while a Customs official swiped my passport and paged through to examine my visa stamps. He glanced at the totality of my luggage (one backpack, one duffel), then back at my digital record before studying my face for several moments. I maintained a neutral expression and surveyed the other travelers queued up to be processed. Since I didn't break under his squinty glare, he determined that I was no threat to his way of life and waved me through. As ever, Liz drew a chatty Customs officer, and they were both smiling by the end of the transaction.

We hadn't settled on a means of getting from LA to San Diego; Liz left voicemail for family and friends, but after we failed to hear back, we hailed a cab for Union Station. I knew I had some acclimating ahead of me while we waited at the taxi stand; though it was a sunny SoCal September afternoon, I was chilly.

Amtrak was a welcome change after riding Indian and European rails; everything was in good working order, had English instructions, and required dollars. Bonus: no touchy, burly men with truncheons to enforce seat assignments. We purchased tickets for the Pacific Surfliner and Liz caught up by phone with Suzy, her soon-to-be-wedded sister. Camera in hand, I wandered Union Station's cavernous waiting room.

The architects' Web site indicates that the building is a blend of Spanish Colonial Revival and Streamline Moderne. As a result, it resembles a train station the Moors might have designed for the Alhambra if they'd had iron horses in the 14th c. No terraced gardens, and only one one fountain, although I did spy a hot dog vendor in a courtyard.

Once aboard, I took full advantage of the expansive windows and laptop outlets, dividing my attention between the sights and efforts to filch some bandwidth from adjacent wi-fi networks. Almost every system was password-protected, but it was fascinating to see the names register on my computer before the signals flickered away. Cruising through binary clouds with names like "JeffandSusansWeb," "HappyHomeNet" and "DeezNuts," it reinforced that I was back in the land of milk, wireless routers, and honey. Try WarDriving from a Kolkata-bound train, and you will be SOL.

The coast between Los Angeles and San Diego pleases the eye, even more so if you look toward the ocean and ignore the sprawl that clings to the shore. Anaheim, for example, is an offensive blot, but it's balanced by San Juan Capistrano. At sunset, even the captain of industry across the aisle took a break from his nonstop phone conversations to watch pelicans dive for their dinner. Meh. For all I know, he was swapping out cell phone batteries.

We arrived in San Diego around 7 p.m. A Thursday, there wasn't much action outside at the cab stand. A purpose-driven young woman nabbed the last taxi, and a black man in his late fifties leaning on a Crown Vic asked if we needed a ride. I looked over his vehicle and noted that he had a hack license but no meter.

"Ah, that's all right," I said. "We'll wait for a taxi."

"Where do you want to go?"

Liz gave him the name of our hotel, but I was in full-on skeptic mode. We'd dealt with cab drivers on three continents, and I was still on my guard.

"Okay. I can take you there for ten."

I hadn't been to San Diego for 7 years, but I had a sense of how close we were to downtown. His quote seemed speculative.

"That's all right. We'll just wait for a cab with a meter."

He started to speak, but was interrupted by a slamming car door. The woman who'd nabbed the last cab was standing on the sidewalk looking fit to spit. Her driver was striding away with something under his arm.

"Miss? Can I help you, Miss?" asked our erstwhile driver.

She balled up her hands and looked away, scanning for another cab.

"Miss? You need a ride?" he asked again.

"I'm fine!" she fairly shouted.

He clucked and shook his head. "Okay, then." He sucked at something in his teeth and dropped his voice a bit. "Don't know why you're yelling at me, but that's your problem." He turned his attention back to us.

"Her driver went to go pray. Huh. So, how much you want to pay?"

I sighed. "Just the going rate from here to the hotel."

"Come on, I'll take you," he said, popping the trunk.

"How much?" asked Liz.

"Nine bucks," he said, looking south at a cluster of high-rises.

"How about seven?" I countered.

He shrugged ostentatiously. I briefly admired the way he was able to appear utterly indifferent, as if by flicking a switch.

After we checked into our room, I was washing my hands when I realized that the water was potable, right out of the tap. I splashed my face and took a few sips, just because I could.

Liz went upstairs to join her family while I called American Airlines to ask about our luggage. By this point in the game, I'd memorized the toll-free number, our tracking code, and the procedural queries that would best elicit info from the customer service agent. No change in status, but it was an excellent opportunity to practice good diction.

Riding up in the elevator, I realized that any opportunities to rough it were in the past. From now on, there'd be no need to save tiny soaps and shampoos, hoard toilet paper, or play hard-to-get with cab drivers. From this point on, things were likely to be familiar and comfortable. Predictable and safe.

Any adventure to be had would have to be sought out and fought for.

The flip side: I let myself believe that there was nothing in the offing that I couldn't handle.

Travel Non Sequitur.

I was listening to my iPod a moment ago when it hit me --

-- the whole time we were there, I never once listened to "Sketches of Spain."

Roatan is just all right with me.

The downside: we had to pass through San Pedro Sula again to get to Roatan.

The upside: we made it to Roatan.

We had just two-and-a-half days on the island before returning to Tegucigalpa to fly back to the US for the Fabulous Wedding Cruise^TM. We touched down on Roatan in the early afternoon, energy sapped after waking early and enduring the usual traveler's ennui.

Liz did virtually all of our Honduras planning, so I took responsibility of finding a hotel. The hunt paid off, as I used the time to give myself the lay of the land. On the whole, I'd done well with lodging picks, but I was a tad worried about losing my touch after being so out of it earlier in Honduras.

Worried for no good reason, it seemed. La Pura Vida Resort was clean, comfortable, and not too dear. The only sour note was the construction noise emanating from the end of of the stairs. Given our proximity to the water, it was almost a fair exchange. "The Good Life," indeed.

After we checked in, Liz rested her eyes briefly. I settled in beside her after making assurances that I'd wake her up in puh-lenty of time to squeeze in some snorkeling that afternoon.

The cackle of roosting birds roused me at dusk, and I cursed myself thoroughly. Liz kept a civil tongue, but I knew she was disappointed in her SO/alarm clock.

The next day, we split up to explore the water. She wanted to stick close to the hotel, so I ceded her Half Moon Bay, the nearest cove. La Pura Vida has a fully stocked dive shop, so I rented a snorkel mask and size 12 flippers before asking for directions.

"Where to?" asked the guy. He was in his thirties, and his accent indicated he was raised speaking the Queen's English.

"I dunno. A good spot. Someplace not too crowded."

He gave me a lopsided grin. "You're out of season, son -- no place is too crowded!" Liverpool, as it turned out.

I had the option of taking a water taxi to West Bay or hoofing it, he indicated. I decided to take some exercise. The directions weren't terribly complex -- "keep walking 'til you run out of beach."

Once my mask and flippers were stowed in a mesh bag, I slung it over a shoulder, applied sunscreen, and set out for West Bay, allegedly 20 minutes away. The road along the beach vanished, leaving me to walk along a narrow band of white sand. Not to be outdone, the beach did a disappearing act of its own. I praised my Keen sandals to the heavens while straggling through rocky shallows and dense mangrove outcroppings.

I'd perspired away most of the water I'd sucked down before leaving the hotel, so I probably wasn't at the top of my game when I stopped to ask directions of a tall, dark stranger on dry land.

"Pardon," I started, wiping sweat out of my eyes. "Donde esta, umm --"

"S' OK mon, English. English is fine." He stopped loading a pickup bed with beach detritus.

"Oh. Well, thanks. Do you know how much farther to West Bay?"

"Not far, mon." He turned into the sun and extended his arm. "About fifteen minute, you get dere."

It felt more like thirty, but it was hot and I was tired. The beach faded in and out several times more. I passed new homes under construction and decrepit shacks that looked a week away from self-implosion. Every other property bore a "FOR SALE" sign. Several parcels had been cleared for future development, cement and rebar stacked in neat piles.

The road was a distant memory, but the beach returned to stay. I climbed up to a boardwalk and passed two open resorts, nearly walking smack into a sign for Foster's West Bay Resort before I was properly oriented. Adults in Speedos and thongs laid out on towels and chairs, but few seemed interested in submerging themselves. Based on the conversations I scanned, most of the bronzed, oily congregation was Italian, with a few Spanish speakers thrown in.

I strode past the sun worshippers to a dock at the end of the beach, donned my snorkeling gear and waded into the water. I was chest-deep when I realized that I'd never snorkeled solo before. The Buddy System is a protocol for which I have the greatest respect, but I was filled with anticipation.

Accepting that facial hair prevents a tight mask seal, I ducked my head under water. The coral reef that formed shifting shapes beneath the waves was brought into sharp relief. Instinctively, I stretched out to float for fear of trampling the spiny animals. This coral doesn't seem to be brimming with vitality, I thought -- just before glimpsing some dead specimens laying stiff like bones in the sand,

The fish were ubiquitous, beautiful, and occasionally, comic. One small beige vertebrate swam in a fixed spot -- two inches away from the bridge of my nose -- for several minutes.

At first, I flattered myself, thinking that he'd mistaken me for a sleek predator of the sea, perhaps zee elusive Bearded Shark. I'd track left or right, and the fish would turn on a dime to maintain a course relative to mine. I was one cheery song away from being the star of my own Disney feature. After a while, the shtick got old and I gently swatted at the stowaway. He chose to ignore me.

Eventually, I was left alone, but only after I'd given myself a foot cramp trying to outrun the little bugger. Perhaps he had an interview for a pilot fish gig elsewhere. I turned the tables and stalked a bulky, speckled creature shaped like a steam iron that swam with surprising grace and speed. We played hide-and-seek, whipping around jagged corners and gaps in the reef until I followed its flashing tail around a boulder.

In an instant, the water went from turquoise to navy, and the sea floor fell away into darkness. I'd swum off a cliff, and was hanging in space like some aquatic Wile E. Coyote. A stream of fearful thoughts briefly crossed my mind before I remembered that I'm a buoyant mammal. The worst that could happen is that I'd fall... up.

I was in the water for at least two-and-a-half hours, finally coming in when I noticed two fishermen cleaning their day's catch on the dock where I'd left my gear. Dodging the entrails they were flinging into the water, I glided over for a time check.

"Quarter to three, mon," said one angler, blood dribbling down his forearm as he checked his Seiko.

Thanking him, I rushed out of the water. I'd promised Liz that I'd meet her at 3:30, and wasn't sure how long it would take to get back.

I backtracked to one of the West Bay resorts I'd passed and bought two bottles of water before finding the sloop for a water taxi. Twenty minutes later, I was the lone passenger in a whaleboat heading east at about 8 knots. The pilot charged me $2 US for the ride and dropped me off down the street from our hotel.

A Bay Islander nearing middle age was behind the counter in the dive shop. I pictured the Liverpool guy out SCUBA diving and catching a lobster with his bare hands. "Toss 'em in dere," he said, gesturing at a gurgling tank that held seawater and dive equipment. The sign-in sheet indicated that Liz had come and gone a few minutes before me.

I found her at the end of the hotel pier with her feet up, peeling the label from a bottle of Salva Vida. She seemed relaxed, and I must have given off a similar vibe -- it was the first time I remember either of us smiling that day.

Roatan: quick glimpse

We had less than three days on Roatan, so the time budget didn't include much time for photography. Still, I snapped a few photos while we waited for a cab to the airport, so feast -- well, snack your eyes on these:

A beach cat chows on a guest's lobster tail in the dining room at La Pura Vida Resort

So that's where bananas come from!

I met a very attractive young woman at the end of this dock after a fantastic afternoon spent snorkeling.




Kids on Roatan spend part of each day in the water.

Copán Ruinas: photos

We got an early start, arriving at the park around 6:30 or so.

As we were leaving a few hours later, several school buses with junior high school-aged kids rolled up.

Except for a couple of Germans and a group of Japanese being led by an Honduran guide speaking English, we had the place pretty much to ourselves.

These macaws roost at the park entrance, heckling all those who pass.

The first in a series of statues of Mayan kings.

Back in the day, this grassy field was covered completely in stucco, and every surface was stained ochre red.

A big old lizard.

The 1 Lempiras note is engraved with a depiction of the Copan Ruinas ball court (left) and hieroglyphic steps (right) in its heyday.

Currency and history

Impressive replica of a carved stone head. Our guide repeatedly referred to a "secret German process" for making these duplicates, but refused to be pinned down on the details.

Our guide points out fine detail in a piece at the foot of the hieroglyphic stairway, which is still being decoded.

More than 2000 glyphs comprise this stairway to heaven. The stones in the steps are out of order, and some are missing -- but efforts to interpret the symbols are ongoing.

Eagle's head on the ball court -- the game's rules have been lost to history, but either the winners or the victors could be called upon for a human sacrifice at game's end, apparently.

Using a mower is a lot easier than cutting grass with a machete, as do most Hondurans.

Hardcore fans of the ballgame would be sacrified on this altar. The hole in the top is where one would rest one's head, and the groove that sluices down and around ... well, you get the idea.

This king's statue is also a box of Honduran coffee we bought at the airport. Excellent brew, your majesty!

This pyramid was adjacent to the ball court. I believe it was ascended by kings during public gatherings.

A terra cotta model of the Copán Ruinas complex. Reminded me vaguely of the Map Room in the city of Tanis.

Ritmo rediscovered: Copán Ruinas (entry #100)

Still feeling disaffected when we entered the bus station in Tegucigalpa. In fact, I'd already left Honduras, climbed up into my head, and pulled the ladder up after me so no one could follow.

Liz determined that buses were our best transpo mode; her research brought us to the bustling Hedman Alas terminal in a light industrial neighborhood. Some enterprising soul had salvaged several rows of seats from an old movie palace, so we settled in to wait for our late afternoon ride to San Pedro Sula, allegedly 3.5 hours away.

Buses are my least favorite way to get from A to B, but I'd learned to deal with many of my least favorite things by this point in the trip. I'm not whiny by nature, though I do reserve the right to express disappointment from time to time. Can you match the nation to the appropriate culturally insensitive statement?

"Dammit! What does a person have to do to get a freaking cup of coffee in this country?"
Vietnam

"Huh. Well, good luck with the endemic corruption."
Cambodia

"You fought a revolution for this? OK, whatever."
India

It took an hour just to muddle through Tegucigalpa's evening rush hour and get out of the city. Honduran buses give you a big bang for your Lempira, however: TG to SPS cost only $15 per, one-way. As promised, the buses were luxury coaches of recent vintage. Only two drawbacks; (1) noisy, stupid Hollywood product blared on a color TV mounted to the ceiling (2) AC set low enough to keep meat from spoiling.

My iPod served me well, blocking engine noise, snoring and conversation so I was free to ruminate on the end of our trip and the return home. By the time we arrived in San Pedro Sula, I had an aching right knee, searing lower back pain and a sense of impending disappointment. SPS didn't let me down -- we couldn't find a hotel room when we arrived. Apparently, there were three conventions in town.

The disobliging front desk staff at the Best Western informed us that their rack rate was twice the Orbitz price -- and that they also needed several hours to process online reservations. We hiked several blocks to the Holiday Inn, but they had no vacancies. We worked their hotel operator's last nerve, querying at least 10 hotels from our guidebook before finding a rundown joint a mile past anything of interest.

Once inside our frowsy room, I drew the blinds closed; one of the louvers clattered to the linoleum. Liz laughed, I sighed. We left to find dinner, ending up at a sports bar whose patrons were deeply invested in Lunes Noche Fútbol, Cowboys vs. Redskins.

The next day, we caught an afternoon bus to Copán Ruinas, about three hours away. The bus was barely half-full, so I moved across the aisle to give Liz some room. I'd hoped to relax, but the bus kept an uneven pace along the (mostly) paved highway. Each time we slowed down, I'd peek through the curtains.

I was sometimes rewarded with a glimpse of valleys thick with green treetops and clouds spilling down foothills. But more than once, the view consisted of the underside of an overturned bus or truck -- the result of an anxious driver speeding through a turn on slick, narrow roads. Considering the lack of guardrails and a surfeit of potholes, I'm surprised and thankful that the ride wasn't gorier.

The depot at Copán Ruinas was a hacienda-style building situated at a quiet crossroads. We crossed the street to Hotel Casamarias, a collection of bungalows set in a clearing. As we were visiting out of season, we had to drop our bags at the main office and prowl the compound to find an innkeeper. A construction worker led us to a bungalow fronted by mahogany carvings and a giant cage with a noisy macaw out front.

Hotel Casamarias was surprisingly comfortable, offering air con and color TV -- but not hot water. Too fatigued to search out dinner, we ingested sodas and snacks from the bus station before turning in early enough to tour the ruins next morning before the heat set in.

Around 6 a.m. the next day, we returned to the depot to hail a cab for the ruins. Much to my amusement, most taxis in Copán are three-wheeled jobs with an open cab and a four-stroke engine. The last time I'd traveled in a tuk-tuk, we were in Cambodia.

A man in his mid-thirties buttonholed us near the entrance. I remember him as "Julio," as that was the name embroidered on his shirt, but Liz disputes this account. In any event, he used his able English to offer us his guide services. Harking back to India, I was still suspicious of any and all prospective tour guides, which may have prompted Julio (who ya gonna trust, me or her?) to show us his laminated tour guide permit, and even a yellowed clipping of him working an archeological dig at age 17.

He led us into the complex and gave us a very scholarly tour that was light on personality, and heavy on anthropology. Aside from Chandru, the man who brought Hampi to life for me, Julio was the most knowledgeable guide we dealt with on our trip. For four hours, he led us through a vast array of ruins, pointing out objects of interest with a 4-foot stick tipped by a gaudy orange feather from one of the parrots that haunts the park's entrance.

He'd spent half his life digging, walking and categorizing everything we passed -- plants, structures and loose piles of rubble each had their own dataset attached to them, and Julio was determined to make sure we left with more knowledge than we had when we arrived. At times, he was positively schoolmarmish:

Julio: "And this carving, we saw earlier at the last temple. Do you remember the name of the king associated with this symbol?"

Liz: "Um, would that be 'Smoke Shell'?"

Julio cocks his head to one side and raises his left eyebrow ever so slightly.

Liz: "No, wait. Smoke Jaguar?"

Julio smiles. "Very good!"

After a short while, I stopped playing the dutiful student and let the weight of memorization and repetition fall on Liz's shoulders. I gamely followed Julio's subtle prompts for picture-taking, watched my battery level and tried to be in the moment. As time passed, it became difficult to harbor quotidian thoughts of home while clambering up stairs built thousands of years ago for Mesoamerican royalty.

By tour's end, I was no longer in my head, cleaning litter boxes and schlepping loads to the laundromat. I was sweating under the Central American sun, picturing the ball court swarming with spectators and players, Mayan athletes doing their best to keep the ball off the ground and in play. Each match ended in a sacrifice, Julio said; supposedly, it was an honor to be selected for the blood ritual.

"Hey, I'm in Honduras," I thought to myself as we sat on a shaded bench, drinking tepid bottled water.