At least until I fly to Trujillo on the Caribbean coast, where I spend a couple of days on my own. Trujillo's greatest charm is that it requires nothing of its visitors. And most of them are only too glad to submit. Late mornings I cruise the dusty streets looking for coconut bread vendors, or lie on the ramparts of Fortaleza Santa Barbara with a book. By noon, when the sun's heat is too insistent to ignore, I duck into the kiosco in the town square for a few games of chess with the locals.
Afternoons are for excursions.
One day I walk to the Rivera del Pedregal Museum, on the western edge of town. Their music, called punta , is a polyrhythmic percussion-fest that requires dancers to move their hips at the velocity of a blender. Pete's, one of the town's three restaurants, is to the Honduran coast what the Rainbow Room is to New York. The few tourists who find their way to Santa Fe all wind up at Pete's. His food justifies his reputation.