I arrived in Sucre on a cold morning with clouds of mist blowing through the streets. Exhausted. In theory, the bus cama – the overnight bus ride on a nice bus with reclining seats – is a good idea. But I’ve yet to get any decent sleep on these rides. It was a teeth-rattling ride from Cochabamba to Sucre… very hard to sleep.
There were hints of blue in the sky above as the day gained strength, however, and it wasn’t long before I began to appreciate the beauty of the city. Sucre is all about colonial architecture, and everything in the city is whitewashed. I am not one to normally gush over architectural detailing, but it was hard to ignore the care put into the appearance of these buildings. I spent a fair amount of time in Sucre geeking out on doorways and detailing. And parks… they’ve got some very nice plazas and parks in Sucre. I’ll let some pictures explain.
Not only were the buildings pretty, but every once in a while I’d get a glimpse down an alley of big mountains in the distance.
I also found two good restaurants, both with WiFi, and discovered a couple of nice views of the city obtained by a gasping climb of steep city streets. In terms of a city to spend some time in, Sucre seemed like a pretty good place and I didn’t have any complaints.
Well, almost no complaints…
For a weary, sleepless traveler, Hostal Amigo seemed like a pretty good place. A nice courtyard area. The room was simple but more than adequate. They claimed WiFi, but I never found any… but overall it seemed like a decent place.
Until about 11pm. That was when I was desperately trying to recover some sleep while there was a party going on 3 feet from my frail, anything-but-soundproof door and window. Apparently I had booked myself into the party hostel, and into the closest room to the party. Oh well, that’s what earplugs are for, I suppose. But even with earplugs in, I could hear every word of the conversations. English is, after all, the international language, so I listened to people from various European countries chatting it up, drinking, and smoking well into the morning.
And in the morning, I was definitely disappointed. The courtyard looked like the morning after at a fraternity house. Empty beer bottles and cigarette butts everywhere. The hostal staff were soon out and about collecting the trash and putting things back in order, but as a gringo, I couldn’t help but be ashamed at the lack of consideration.
After breakfast, I spent a little time writing and was treated to overhearing a conversation between an American girl and a French guy in the kitchen. She was a young party girl, who it seemed had a little bit of stripping experience. She couldn’t remember the weekend that well, but was biding her time until Thursday came around again so she could go out on the town. Before long, she was talking about how the cocaine was much better in South America and much cheaper.
I had never really considered South America and Bolivia as a party destination, but apparently some of the tourism centers around young people coming to get wasted and laid. I’d never even considered this. But this has been reinforced since… it seems there are definitely hostals (Loki, Wild Rover…) that cater to kids looking to extend their college debauchery on the cheap. I guess I wasn’t that creative at that age.
My second night was much the same (one guy was a pretty darn good guitar player), and on the next morning I trudged myself and my backpack up the long hill to the bus station, hoping for a ride to Potosi.
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