Campeche is a port city with colonial architecture and stone walls around the old city that helped to protect it from pirate attacks in the 16^th and 17^th century.  I’d never been there before, but thought it might be a good place to break up the journey to Palenque, which was the next set of ruins that I planned on visiting. 

On the way to the bus station, I stopped for tacos at a stand in San Juan Park.  Stuffed with my laptop and many books that were crucial to my trip, my backpack weighed about forty pounds, heavier than my suitcase.  My elbow and wrist hurt less than the day before.  The flare-ups were rising and falling like an active volcano.  When and where would they strike next?

My seat was number 24 in the back of the bus.  A muscular bald guy was sitting in the seat in front of me, the tip of his head resting on the back of the seat like a shiny egg.  Once the bus got moving it started bobbing around in a way that almost hypnotized me.

It was two and a half hours to Campeche.  Once there, I bought a ticket to Palenque leaving at eleven the next morning.  All I had were written directions for the hotel, and it ended up being a long walk, over two miles.  Everyone was wearing COVID masks.  They were taking the pandemic as serious as if a high priest had decreed it from the top of a pyramid.  I took Central Avenue until I reached the wall of the historic center. 

There, I entered through a gate and walked along a high, narrow sidewalk past colored houses.  When I emerged at the end of that street, I asked a policeman how to get to 16^th de Septiembre and found I was only a block from my hotel.  The Hotel Baluartes was five stories and light blue, right across from the sea.  When I checked in, I noticed the swimming pool.  The room was clean and overlooking the ocean, with two double beds and a white tiled floor.

After putting my things away, I drew a rune stone, which was Othila, the stone of authority or tradition, and thought I’d take it down to the pool to take a picture of it.  The pool area was now being occupied by three women tourists.  One of them was baring her pointed tits, glaring around, daring anyone to try to check her out, so I just turned around and headed for the street. 

There was a mural of a Native woman with a painted face, next to a jaguar with blue feathers behind its ears.  Coming around the corner, there was a pirate with his hands on his hips.  There in a shop window, another with a sword across his knee.  Upstairs, one more pirate, with a hook for a hand and a monkey on his shoulder.  The city was full of pirates.

I passed through the Gate to the Sea, and entered into the old town area.  The colonial buildings were soft colors, yellow, green, blue, pink, with iron balconies and white trim.  There were a handful of outdoor cafes.  There on a bench was another gentleman pirate, contemplating retirement, with one boot resting on his knee.  At the end of the street was another, guarding a wooden chest.  It was too hot to be walking around.  I wanted to go back and swim in the pool and then walk around again in the late afternoon.

When I got back, the frowning exhibitionist and her friends had left the pool.  I went up and changed into my trunks, then went down and took some pictures of Othila beside the pool, with red ants climbing all over it.  Then I eased my way down to the bottom of the pool and swam underwater to the other side.  The light of the sun splashed all around me.  I could’ve been swimming through the middle of a dream.