Visiting a town named after me was an exciting prospect. David is the third largest city in Panama, but disappointingly, resembles nothing more than a slightly larger Braidwood, hell-hole of my childhood. Apparently, over one hundred thousand people live in David, but I’ve got no idea where they all live, or what they might do, or why they are there.
We stayed in a hostel coloured entirely purple, run by an authoritarian American with a deep love of rules. The walls were plastered with signs describing the proper procedures for living at the Casa Morada (Purple House), even decreeing the correct method for making the coffee from the urn weaker (add water). We went bowling one night, but the alley was a super-modern, highly polished and computerised affair with none of the charm or unpredictability of Twin Lanes in La Paz. I may just be bitter because I lost so convincingly.
Even the horrendously overweight dog had been purple-ised, and seemed suitably depressed about it
Shiny
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