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$18 a night…stylish lodging in Alicante. Weary of public transport after a day stuck in Madrid’s airport, I splurged on a taxi and went straight to El Barrio, Alicante’s old town. Like all Alicante locals I met in this off-season, my driver spoke nothing but Spanish. It was good to have to make myself understood. 

I requested the Pension Las Monges, which I’d heard was like a boutique hotel with eight lovely and individual rooms. With much confusion but more good will, the driver took me right to the place—almost, because it’s within the old pedestrian zone beneath Alicante’s shabbily magnificent Castillo de Santa Bárbara, which roosts over the seaside town. The driver gave me directions I could almost understand: through the arch, right one block, past the plaza. And there it was.
An old Underwood typewriter was on the proprietress’s desk, in a sort of living room with two old sofas and paintings on the walls and a television showing soccer. She answered my prayers—there was a room left, and it had a private bath. 3,000 pesetas a night, but I’d have to move to a room without private bath for the next night. Wonderful. 
There were two twin beds pushed together—perfect for a too-tall American—Valencia tile on the floors, a big window open to the small winding street below, a television with BBC news, a built-in music system, an original painting of the Valencian chaparral on the wall, a long writing desk, thick rugs, doors and closets of clean rustic pine, a pristine bathroom with shower, a wall of ancient white brick, a ceiling of pale plaster and pine beams. This, for $18 a night. (Tel. 34 96 521 50 46) I had been away from this sea for too long. So I immediately walked to the harbor and dunked my hand into the almost-warm water. 
Gaudy yachts and fancy new hotels were on display. People were walking everywhere, lovers hand in hand, old couples walking comical dogs, Vespa scooters whizzing by, gaggles of young girls gossiping on corners, police riding their motorcycles, what appeared to be a major urban construction project going into the night (along the city’s old Moorish wall), and the delightful sight of waiters and waitresses bringing tables and chairs into the streets for the dinner hour, which wouldn’t get started until 11 p.m. Even in a country known for nocturnal living, Alicante is a famously all-night town, with scores of bars, restaurants and discos open till the wee hours. The weather is mild in the dead of winter, although the Mediterranean is too cool for swimming until March. 
—Ken Layne, Alicante, Spain 

Title insurance in Belize. I just got back from a week in Belize, conducting my due diligence so that I can add Belize to the list of places where my company can offer title insurance. The system there seems in good shape and I am sure I will have approval soon. A project called The Plantation has been in contact with us about title insurance, and promoting sales in the US. 
—Tuey Murdock, First American Title Insurance, San Juan, Puerto Rico; tel. (787)641-6767, fax 6768

The world’s best dancing girls. Arriving at Havana airport is a surprisingly civilized experience, with friendly immigration officials, no customs, and few policemen in evidence. Not a bit like the menacing reception one encountered during the bad old Cold War days flying into Moscow, Bucharest, or Warsaw, say. 

For the visitor, at least, Cuba today lacks the atmosphere of a police state. You do not feel watched or spied upon. Few policemen patrol the streets, no one asks for “your papers,” and the big hotels are refreshingly free of the gum-shoes who patrol the hotels of Eastern Europe. But something is dreadfully wrong with the economy. The highway from the airport is excellent but there isn’t any traffic, apart from a few horsedrawn carts, bicyclists, and ancient American cars bearing names that have long since vanished in the States—Packards, Buicks and Studebakers with enormous tail fins, painted bright colors and lovingly maintained with hand-made spare parts. Somehow they still stagger along. New cars barely exist in Cuba. Havana is a living automobile museum. 

Incidentally, the Cuban tourist economy is almost completely dollarized. Hotels, restaurant meals, and anything you might want to buy—like rum or cigars—are only sold for dollars. Don’t bother buying pesos. Nobody wants them. 

While here I went to the one evening event no visitor to Havana should omit—a visit to the Tropicana cabaret. This open air extravaganza has been running since the 1930s with three stages, brilliant lights, tremendous music and of course, dancing girls galore of every color who outclass anything I’ve seen at the Moulin Rouge in Paris or anywhere else in Europe. Sip rum and coke, served with cheese and ham nibbles, and surrender to this spectacular, glittering display of dance and song. 
—William Chamberlayne, Havana, Cuba

Traveler seeking traveler. American single female (61) looking for single female, or possibly male, interested in buying/renting home in warm climate abroad. Must have enough income to share expenses. Prefer neat, clean, non-smoker who likes dogs/cats.
—Dori Dee, E-mail:dorijay@usa.net

The best Kmart on Earth. With prejudices learned from bad television shows about wacky cruise ships and syrupy travel-section advertisements, I long ago swore never to set foot on a luxury liner. But I was recently offered a free four-day Caribbean cruise, so it was hard to resist. 

In St. Thomas we needed some supplies and figured there must be a Kmart (or a Wal-Mart or Target) nearby. After trying a half-dozen shops in search of cheap deck shoes, we ventured inside the big store. It is the best Kmart on Earth. We found canvas TopSider knockoffs for $5 a pair, a huge $4 straw hat, our favorite Chianti for $6 a bottle (compared to $15 at our local Safeway), a carton of Camel cigarettes cheaper than the Duty Free shops, new sunglasses, a replacement band for my old diver’s watch, and a disposable waterproof camera. Back at the ship, people mocked our Kmart plastic sacks...until they realized they had paid $40 more for an identical hat, double for the same Kodak water camera, etc. 

The real treat was talking to the store’s security lady on the way out; she made some neighborly remarks and then asked where on the island we lived. That’s the only time on the cruise this happened, and it was a kick. (Kmart is just eight blocks down Main Street, northwest of the pier and a world away from the tourist malls and fine hotels.) 
—Ken Layne, Los Angeles, California

No more tolls in Mexico. In your January 2000 issue, you mentioned the car bonds needed for entering Mexico. They were only in effect one day in December and then shut down. I spend six months of the year in Alaska and the other six months traveling to Mexico and other places further south. I don’t want to see people put off by tolls that aren’t even there—it hurts the economy here and also gives Americans some not-so-good feelings about Mexico! 
—Karen Gillis, Cordova, Alaska 

Waiting for the Bay Islands Chunnel. “The ferry is leaving soon, so you must hurry,” said the receptionist at the Hotel Colonial in La Ceiba, Honduras, as she hurried us down the steps to the street. “But is there a car ferry to Roatan?” I asked. She got a puzzled look on her face. “Of course,” she said. I was unconvinced.It was September, the beginning of the rainy season, and pouring tigers and toucans. We waded in the hip-deep water (no kidding) down the block where I had parked the car earlier. Soggy, but happy to be leaving town after being mugged the night before, we drove in circles through the flooded streets until we found our way out of what is easily the deepest hell-hole of the Caribbean. The city’s principal port, the Muelle de Cabotaje, is several kilometers east of town. Take the highway towards Trujillo. After you cross the bridge over the Rio Cangrejal, start looking for a road to the left (north). There will be a tiny sign with a picture of a boat on it (marking the port), but you’ll never see it unless you’re looking for it. And probably not the first time at that. We drove back and forth looking for the port four or five times while the ferry’s departure ticked ominously closer. Take the road till it dead-ends at the port.

We made it to the port with a few minutes to spare. We saw the boat. Small. No ramp. My stomach fell. “Renate,” I said to my Swiss companion as we approached, “that’s no car ferry.” “Ich glaub mein Schwein pfeift.” The closest translation in English is, ‘I think my pig whistles.’ My pig was whistling as well. What to do?
A dark man with a thick Sambo accent came to my window. “Get out da cah quick, mon, dat boad she goin!”
“Doesn’t look like a car ferry,” I said, dejected.Try again Friday? “No mon. She come Wednesday.”
Several days later it was Wednesday. I left La Ceiba again, this time early in the morning. Found the Muelle more easily this time. But still no car ferry. “She leff las’ night,” someone on the dock reported. “Maybe Friday.”

After several more days of trying to get my car aboard the freight ship that carried cars from La Ceiba to Roatan, I finally found a shrimp boat that would hold my car. We drove it up 2x4’s onto the deck and strapped it down with rope. It cost 1,500 lempiras to ship. When I picked up the car, parked now on the pier in Coxen Hole, Roatan, there were mysterious dents in the running boards behind the front wheel wells. I was afraid to ask about how, exactly, they missed the 2x4’s and nearly drove my car into the sea. I asked instead for a wooden mallet so I could drive away without my running boards cutting into the tires when I turned. I started hammering then drove away.

Then a few months later a wonderful thing happened. The mayor of Roatan, that crook, bought an honest-to-God car ferry, the Cortes. Service is still as irregular as ever, but at least it’s frequent. One-way across from La Ceiba to Roatan or vice versa costs 2,000 lempiras. It’s more expensive than a shrimp boat. But you can drive right onto it, so you don’t have to worry about your car plummeting overboard when it falls off the planks.

Which way to the ferry?
So how do you catch the Cortes when you’re ready to leave La Ceiba? It’s actually very easy. First of all, don’t believe what anybody at the dock says, because the truth is that no one knows when the boat will actually come in aside from the capitan and his crew. Spend every morning at the Muelle until you see the very green Cortes. Talk to the captain or his first mate. Pay them and give them your keys. Now you can either fly ($23) or take the daily passenger ferry (140 lempiras) to Roatan and wait for the Cortes to arrive at the dock of French Key, the town just east of French Harbour. Or, if you don’t mind going slowly, you can sleep in your car on the Cortes. Be sure to take food and water. Remember the Valdez. Don’t share your rum with the captain.
—David Morgan, Bay Islands, Honduras

Full Monty update. My hometown of Sheffield (home to The Full Monty) in the UK is also home to a housing boom. Prices are up 25% in some areas compared to the end of 1998. I just sold my house for twice the price I paid for it. Meanwhile, the new city council, run by the Liberal Democrats, has spent several million pounds moving the city’s fountain less than 100 meters. It is now directly outside town hall. It is a shame that the money wasn’t spent on something more useful. An American friend of mine commented that the roads in Sheffield had more potholes than the dirt tracks on his brother’s ranch in Texas. 

Finally, one of Sheffield’s most respected institutions has moved. Caesars the long-established Sauna and massage parlor (i.e. “knocking shop”) has relocated. Perhaps Sheffield metropolitan police are after a new image. It used to be less than a one-minute walk from the main police station, not to mention the new law courts.
—S. Huson, Sheffield, UK

French taxes. Why do I like France? Well, consider this: I was on the phone with my tax preparer in Paris on Friday. It was the deadline for filing my French taxes and we were rushing to get the paperwork together. "Don't worry," Madame Pasche told me, "the tax collectors went on strike yesterday." This is not as civilized as Italy or Argentina, where the tax collectors don't even show up for work...but still, a good sign. The tax collectors in France are protesting the computer processing of tax returns. 
—Bill Bonner, Paris, France

Ecuador update. I’m on my way to Ecuador to check out the coast and the area around Quito. One of my friends there (an attorney) is buying a very nice condo in a gated community, in one of Quito’s best suburbs. Condos were selling for US$114,000 a year ago. A few months ago the asking price dropped to US$100,000. The last one sold sold for US$85,000. My friend thinks he can get his for about US$60,000.

I’m going to look closely at the opportunities in the Tumbaco Valley, 10 to 20 minutes from Quito. Here you’ll find posh neighborhoods, a better climate than Quito, and a very relaxed atmosphere. A good highway connecting the valley to the city is on the drawing board. I think wealthy people in Quito will flock here soon, especially when the highway is built. Look for my complete update next month. 
—Gary Scott, Florida, USA