Casco Viejo (Old Town) Panama City

I’m dying to dive straight into the Panama Canal Museum, but if you know me, you know I can’t just skip to the end. Some stories need a little breathing room. They need to build, layer by layer, until you’re right there standing in my boots.

But first, can we just take a second to talk about the absolute magic of 2013? Specifically: Google Maps.

It still feels surreal. You can pull a slim piece of glass out of your pocket and, with GPS precision, know exactly where you are on this spinning marble. No more wrestling with giant paper maps in the wind or looking like a lost target in a neighborhood that isn't exactly "tourist-friendly." For someone like me—who prides myself on blending in and moving like a local—being able to glance at a phone instead of waving a map around is a total game-changer.

My quest for connectivity started back in the Dominican Republic. Before I’d even cleared the airport doors, I was at an Orange mobile shop, dropping three bucks on a SIM card for my trusty, unlocked Android. Within minutes, I was surfing the web while waiting for my bags.

Panama, however, was a different beast—mostly because I touched down at the ungodly hour of 3:00 AM. But after a few hours of shut-eye, I hit the pavement by 9:00 AM. Ten minutes later? I was back online.

In Panama, you don’t go to a sleek tech boutique; you go to the pharmacist. I walked up to the counter, handed over $1.50, and asked for whichever carrier had the fastest "fuego" internet. By 9:10 AM, I was armed with a digital compass and ready to tackle a city I had done zero preparation for.

With the blue dot on my screen guiding me through the humid Panama heat, I didn't have to wander aimlessly or double back on my tracks. I just walked with purpose.

And that purpose finally led me here. Okay, now... let’s talk about that Canal Museum.

Walking through the cobblestone streets of Casco Viejo toward the Plaza de la Independencia, I felt a strange, dizzying sense of déjà vu. Most people head to Panama for the engineering marvel of the locks, but for me, the real pilgrimage began at the Interoceanic Canal Museum.

It’s surreal to think about, but this moment was 35 years in the making. My mind kept drifting back to my 10-year-old self, hunched over a school desk, carefully sketching a map of Central America while President Carter signed the Panama Canal Treaty on the news. Even then, as a fourth grader, I knew this strip of land changed the world.

Standing in front of the museum’s heavy doors, the weight of that childhood dream finally hit me. The building itself is a masterpiece of history—built in the late 1800s, it has worn many hats, serving as the French Canal Company headquarters, the U.S. Isthmian Canal Commission, and even a post office before the museum reclaimed it in 1997.

Inside the Museum
The first thing you should know? Put your camera away. They have a strict no-photo policy, which, honestly, forced me to truly see the history rather than just document it. The halls are packed with an unbelievable hoard of artifacts: original documents, vintage media, and relics from the "trials and tribulations" of both the French and American eras.

Because the displays are primarily in Spanish, the English audio tour was my absolute lifeline. Without it, I’d probably still be there today, squinting at captions and trying to piece together the narrative. It’s an emotional, "full circle" experience, especially for Americans, given our deep-rooted involvement in the canal’s birth.

If you find yourself in Panama City, don't just rush to the water. Stop here first. It turns the "Big Ditch" from a piece of concrete into a living, breathing human epic.

I spent years scrolling past photos of this place, but nothing prepared me for the moment I finally stood here. My only regret? Not booking the ticket sooner.

"Heaven" at Arts Park in Hollywood, FL

 

The best travel days are the ones where you trade your itinerary for a bit of aimless wandering.

I’d spent the afternoon in Hollywood Beach, FL, tucked away in a corner of a Starbucks with a cold brew in hand. I was leaning fully into that traveler’s daydream—pretending I was a local, watching the world go by, and half-convincing myself that if I just sat there long enough, the next "adventure" would find me.

Turns out, I was right.

The moment I stepped back out into the humid Florida air, I was hit with that unmistakable, mouth-watering scent of charcoal and spice. I rounded the corner and there it was: Food Truck Heaven.

I’ve always had a soft spot for these kitchens on wheels. There’s something so infectious about the grit and entrepreneurial spirit behind them. Every truck is a passion project, and you can taste that "hustle" in every bite. It’s not just about the food (which, let’s be honest, is usually incredible); it’s about the person behind the window sharing their craft with the sidewalk.

In a world of over-regulation, these mobile kitchens are a breath of fresh, delicious air. Finding this little oasis wasn't on my map, but it was exactly where I was meant to be.

 

Decisions, decisions, decisions !!

I can only be in one location and be forced to make this choice. Yes.. you guessed it.

The Everglades.

I know you want me (Calle Ocho)...

Little Havana

Whether you know it from the pulsing bass of a Pitbull track or the clink of dominoes on a humid afternoon, Calle Ocho is the kind of place that sticks to your ribs. I first mentioned this legendary stretch of Miami in a previous post, but looking back, I realized I’ve been walking these sidewalks for over 25 years.

My introduction to Little Havana wasn't through a guidebook; it was through the eyes of my Puerto Rican shipmates in the late 80s. We pulled into Fort Lauderdale for a quick liberty call, and my friends—driven by a homing beacon for anything that felt like the Caribbean—dragged me straight to the heart of the neighborhood.

Stepping off that bus was a total system shock. It was a kaleidoscope of sound and color I hadn't known existed in the States. As luck would have it, we had stumbled right into a massive street festival. Imagine the scent of roasting pork cutting through the salt air, the frantic rhythm of salsa spilling out of every doorway, and a sea of people that seemed to move as one. We spent that day doing exactly what sailors do: getting lost in the energy of it all.

Returning decades later, the neighborhood has shifted. It’s no longer the exclusive enclave of Cuban exiles; today, you’ll hear accents from every corner of Central America. But some things are stubborn enough to stay the same. At Domino Park (officially Máximo Gómez Park), you’ll still find the "old guard"—retired Cuban Americans leaning over tables with the same intensity as a high-stakes poker game, the click-clack of dominoes providing the neighborhood’s heartbeat.

Maybe Calle Ocho has changed, or maybe I’m just the one who’s "matured" over the last quarter-century. But one truth remains: there is no better way to wake up your soul than with a thimble-sized cup of Café Cubano from a walk-up window here. It’s thick, sweet, and carries enough caffeine to power a village—much like the street itself.

Until the next time.. A dios Calle Ocho!

Hasta la proxima vez SDQ....

So, how do you actually say goodbye to a city like Santo Domingo after ten days of chasing shadows and memories? I came back here looking for a "tipping point"—searching for a sign of which way the scales had tipped since I last walked these streets.

The truth? I still don’t have a clue.

Santo Domingo is a beautiful, confusing contradiction. It has changed, of course—some of it polished and new, some of it wearing the heavy toll of time. But maybe expecting a clear verdict from a city that has been reinventing itself for over 500 years was my own mistake. You don’t "solve" a place like this; you just experience it.

And yet, despite the uncertainty and the "not-so-great" bits that come with any real evolution, the pull is still there. I’m leaving with more questions than I started with, but also with a certainty I didn't expect: I will be back.

But for now, I’ll let the images do the rest of the talking. Here is one last look at the heart of the DR...

Columbus Alcazar

Monasterio de San Francisco

Hechos A Mano

For years, I’ve had a complicated relationship with cigars. My first and only attempt at smoking a "stogie" was a disaster—a dizzying, nauseating mess that left me swearing I’d never touch one again. And yet, every time I walked past that little shop in Santo Domingo, it called to me. There is an undeniable, sophisticated allure to the ritual that I couldn't quite shake.

Through a small window, I’d watch the same man rolling leaf after leaf by hand. He moved with such rhythmic instinct, never looking at his fingers, that I often wondered if he was blind. It wasn't just labor; it was a performance of muscle memory 500 years in the making.

When I found out my friends back home had started a Sunday cigar tradition, I finally had my "excuse" to step inside. I expected to feel out of place, but instead, I found Samuel. In a world where tourist pitches can feel scripted, Samuel was a breath of fresh air—direct, honest, and incredibly patient with my mountain of questions.

He pulled back the curtain on the craft, explaining that Caoba doesn’t just buy and resell; they are part of the earth. Everything is grown on their own plantations north of Santiago. He even walked me through the "Platinum" process, where the tobacco is aged and soaked in Cognac (a far cry from the harsh experience of my past!).

I walked out of that shop not just with a purchase, but with a genuine education. Watching a cigar being hecho a mano (made by hand) is a lesson in patience. I may have entered as a skeptic, but I left with a deep respect for a tradition that defines the spirit of this island.

(Yes, that's him.)

The Cathedral of America

(official name: Metropolitan Cathedral Basilica of St. Mary of the America's First Ecarnación)

Nothing more needs to be said.  But, it's the oldest cathedral in the Americas.  Consecrated by Pope Julius II in 1504 and head Archdiocese of Santo Domingo.  The construction began in 1512 and was finished in 1541.

And here's the front of the Cathedral..

 

I’ll be honest: churches are easy to photograph, but they can be a bit… well, boring. Unless you’re looking through a Catholic lens, one ornate altar starts to look a lot like the next. Every time I step inside, I can’t help but hear Bill Maher’s voice from Religulous echoing in the back of my mind.

But then I remember where I’m standing.

Whether you’re religious or not, there is something undeniably "damn impressive" about a wall that has stood for five centuries. This is the first church in the Americas. It’s the literal ground zero for an entire hemisphere’s history, and you can feel that weight in the cool, silent air of the stone.

For me, the cathedral serves as the ultimate backdrop for my favorite morning ritual. It looms over Columbus Park, providing the perfect view while I wake up my senses with a couple of cups of Café Americano. There’s just something cool about sipping coffee while staring at 500 years of history before the rest of the city fully stirs.

On that note, the caffeine is calling.

Hasta la próxima vez...

Hawaii FIVE-O ?

My day-long mission to track down the new Metro Line #2 took me all over the map, but it wasn't all back alleys and "worst of the worst" neighborhoods. Every now and then, the urban grit gave way to something grander.

Case in point: The National Palace.

I’ve driven or walked past the seat of the Executive Branch dozens of times, but I’ve always been in too much of a hurry to actually stop. This time, I finally paused to catch it on camera. It’s an imposing piece of architecture, but the history beneath the foundation is what really sticks with me.

There’s a bit of irony in these walls: the Palace actually stands on the grounds of the old Presidential Mansion—a building constructed by the U.S. Military during the 1916–1924 occupation (not to be confused with our later "visit" in the mid-sixties). Standing there, you realize that in Santo Domingo, even the most polished government buildings are built on layers of complicated, messy history.

It was a brief moment of symmetry in a day spent chasing the future of the city's transit, but a necessary stop. Now, back to the hunt for that Metro line...

I didn’t set out to write a thesis on Neoclassical architecture today, but in Santo Domingo, sometimes you just have to roll with where the streets lead you. If the National Palace is the city’s architectural heavyweight, the Palace of Fine Arts is a close second. It’s an objectively gorgeous building, but it carries that same complicated shadow: it’s another relic built under the brutal dictatorship of Rafael Trujillo.

It’s a strange contrast to live with. I’m currently staying just two blocks from the Museum of the Dominican Resistance, and while I’m not heading back inside on this trip, the memories of my last visit are still vivid. "Informative" doesn't quite cover it; "horrifically shocking" is closer to the truth. If you ever find yourself in this city, you have to go. It’s the only way to understand the scars beneath the beautiful facades. (Check them out here: museodelaresistencia.org)

I could go on all day, but it’s hard to compete with the extremes of the best architecture and the worst of history. So, I’ll leave it there for now.

Hasta mañana...

P.S. On a much lighter (and life-saving) note: the stray dog factor here is basically zero. After literally fearing for my life while being chased by a pack of wild dogs in Colombia, believe me—this is the kind of travel intel that actually matters!

Circa 1492, Christopher Columbus and his 3rd landfall

You know the classic tune—1492, three wooden ships chasing the horizon, and a sudden bump into a "New World." I haven’t stepped foot on the first two landing spots yet, but I’ve officially checked off the third. In fact, this isn't even our first date; I was last here two short years ago.

So, why the encore in the Dominican Republic? Truthfully, my last visit left me with a nagging itch. The capital felt like it was teetering on a high-wire, leaning precariously between "rising star" and "falling back." I just had to know which way it tipped. Curiosity, as they say, is a powerful travel agent.

After three days on the ground, I’m still squinting at the answer. Perhaps I was hunting for a cinematic, night-and-day transformation—the kind of lightning-fast evolution I saw in Vietnam back in the early 90s. Yesterday, I spent my afternoon playing a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek with the brand-new Metro Line #2. I wandered through some of Santo Domingo’s roughest barrios where the air feels heavy and the stares feel long. I made it out with my skin intact and a story to tell, which is a victory in itself. Maybe the "tipping point" is more of a slow drift, and I should stop looking for a neon sign and just call it a win. I’m fairly certain I wouldn't have survived that particular "walking tour" two years ago.

Oh, and for the record? The Metro Line #2 is still a ghost to me. I never did find it.

Key West. Key West.. Oh... Key West

For 25 years, the Southernmost Point buoy was my "someday." Every time I saw that iconic striped landmark in a photo or a film, I’d promise myself: I’m going to stand there one day.

That day finally came, and it left me with one massive regret: What on earth took me so long?

Stepping into Key West isn't just a drive down the coast; it’s a total departure from the American mainland. With its meticulously preserved architecture, historic churches, and a soul that feels more like the Virgin Islands than Florida, this city is a masterclass in Caribbean charm. It’s vibrant, it’s wealthy in culture, and it’s utterly gorgeous.

If Key West is on your radar, don't let decades slip by like I did. Drop everything and book the trip!

Of all the stops on my Florida itinerary, I knew this one was non-negotiable—and wow, am I glad I made it! 🌴 The Truman Little White House is truly the crown jewel of Key West. I was completely caught off guard by how powerful this place feels; it’s one of those rare spots that hits you with a 'good' kind of heavy.

The preservation is flawless, and the staff? Absolute pros who bring every detail to life. It’s mind-blowing to stand where Thomas Edison once lived, where President Truman ran the country for 175 days, and where JFK retreated after the Cuban Missile Crisis. This isn’t just a house; it’s where history actually happened. Key West, you were everything I imagined and so much more. Now, time to catch that legendary sunset!

Art Deco.. South Beach (Miami) and the likes...

If you’re looking to plug back into the world and recharge your batteries, I truly don’t think there is a better place in the lower 48 than this. South Beach isn't just a destination; it’s an absolute powerhouse of a place. I’ve been here before—okay, many times before—but I can never get enough of the SoBe energy.

There is something about this city that speaks directly to my soul. It’s the rhythmic heartbeat of the people, the explosion of flavors in the food, the neon-soaked Art Deco curves, and that salt-heavy ocean air that hits you the second you step outside. It is, quite simply, perfection.

If you want to understand the bones of this place, do yourself a favor: take the Art Deco walking tour by the Miami Design Preservation League. Their welcome center is a masterclass in how this dream of a city was actually built.

But right now? I’ve got a different mission. I’m heading to Calle 8—the legendary Little Havana. My system is screaming for a café con leche. And I don’t mean the watered-down stuff; I mean the real deal.

It’s funny—the 77th Legislative Session feels like a blurry, distant memory now. The stress has been bleached out by the sun. I’m officially recharged, restless, and ready to move.

Next stop? Santo Domingo on Thursday. Yes, it’s SDQ again. I just can't stay away.

(Thanks Tom for keeping me honest.)

Neil Sedaka - One way ticket (to the blues) - 1959

The Ticket to Nowhere (And Everywhere)

I have to tell you, the timing of this song appearing was almost eerie. It felt like a sign, or a movie soundtrack kicking in just as the main character makes a life-altering choice.

On Friday, June 7th, I’m boarding a plane to Miami. But here’s the kicker: it’s a one-way ticket.

No itinerary. No hotel bookings. No return date. I have absolutely no clue where I will end up, and for the first time in a long time, I am 100% okay with that. There is a terrifying, beautiful freedom in having no agenda. I’m just going to land and see which way the air is blowing.

That said, I do have one burning quest in the back of my mind. I’ve wanted to see the Panama Canal for as long as I can remember—the sheer engineering madness of it, the scale, the history. I’m going to try and chase that dream down to Panama City and finally see it with my own eyes.

The batteries are charged, the bag is packed, and the plan is... well, there is no plan. Stay tuned, because this is about to get very real.