San Jose, Costa Rica

About the charmless capital of Costa Rica, the less said the better. But that's not much fun. Though San Jose sits in a lush little valley, it is loud, ramshackle, filled with barred windows, corrugated tin roofs, broken sidewalks, huge storm drains, and people standing in doorways looking at you like they would like nothing better than to see you fried in lard, and they wouldn't even like that very much.

Our stay was a brief layover, made somewhat interesting by the fact that our good hotel was in a bad place. We know it was a bad place because it was filled with tire repair shops and patrolled by San Jose's finest streetwalkers. Well, maybe they weren't the finest. They all looked as if they had been stamped out of the same mold at the local hooker factory: giant fake boobs stuffed into leather bras one size too small. They stared at every passerby as if they were utterly bored and murderously inclined. They seemed underemployed too. (Surprise.)

But our hotel, the Britannia, was a lovely old thing, all courtyards, lush plants, and crown moldings. We arrived late and after a quick dinner of crackers and cheese, and a few swigs from our flask, we settled in for a long summer's nap.