Panama City boasts an abundance of rooftops, reflections, angles and curves. The sheer scale of the buildings in the “Dubai of the Americas”, many over 60 stories high, make for dazzling, if dizzying, panoramic views. The skyscrapers of downtown confuse the mind with their deep plunging verticals and mirrored windows, revealing 360 degrees of vertiginous skyline, sprawling city grid and the undulating Gulf of Panama coastline. The more human-scaled buildings in the old town, Casco Viejo, provide equally compelling views over the Spanish colonial-era network of red tile roofs, melding together the old with the new.

Where better to find a great rooftop bar?

Panama City emerged as an international centre for business and trade after the completion of the Panama Canal in 1914. Today it’s the wealthiest city in Latin America. With continued foreign investment and the recent canal expansion, the city is poised to continue its transformation. For us, this means sizzling nightlife and great bars and restaurants. Panama has 14 of the 25 tallest buildings in Latin America and The Marriott (originally the Trump Ocean Club), has the highest floor count, at 70. Many of the hotels offer exceptional rooftop bars and pools for guests.

In spite of the financial boom, the city is still grounded by its cultural influences and history. Casco Viejo, where Panama City was founded, is a UNESCO-designated historic district. Following the destruction of the first settlement by Captain Henry Morgan in 1671, the Spanish moved the city to the rocky peninsula where Casco Viejo still stands. Surrounded by the imposing rock wall originally built to defend the city from invaders, Casco is a step back in time. As urban expansion pushed the boundaries of Panama City further out around the turn of the century, the city’s elite left Casco Viejo and the neighbourhood rapidly deteriorated into a slum, with crumbling architecture. Fortunately, most of the buildings have now been lovingly restored and the neighbourhood revitalized, home to many restaurants, cafes, shops, hotels and renovated historic buildings.

From any elevated vantage point in Casco Viejo, the town stretches out before you in a labyrinth of churches, plazas and palaces while the modern towers of downtown rise up like sharp-edged glaciers across the bay. Continuously changing cloud formations add drama to every view.

With a delicious cocktail in hand made from fresh local ingredients, it’s easy to fall in love with Panama City.

The top ten:

Downtown and Area:

1. The JW Marriott Panama (originally the Trump Ocean Club)
Punta Pacifica District

To get a seat on the patio of the spectacular rooftop bar on the 66th floor of this 70-storey, sail-shaped building, get here early. The incredible infinity pool looks like it slides off the side of the tower, so it’s just as well we can’t swim in it. It’s just for show but it adds an element of glamour and sophistication.

The building was taken over in 2018 by JW Marriott following a dispute, where the Property Management company reportedly had to use a crowbar to strip the Trump name off the building. The JW Marriott is the tallest building in Panama and in Central America. The tower apparently resembles the Burj Al Arab Hotel in Dubai, which is the tallest in the world at 163 floors.

www.marriott.com/hotels

2.BITS (Bar in the Sky) Rooftop Lounge, Hard Rock Hotel (also known as the Megapolis Tower 1)
Marbella District

A glitzy, glamorous venue, the rooftop bar of the Hard Rock Cafe, “BITS,” is on the 62nd floor of the 63-storey Hard Rock Hotel Panama Megapolis. This indoor and outdoor lounge is stylish and upscale, with sprawling red & pink satin lounge chairs and comfy couches. It has wonderful views of La Cinta Costera (the coastal beltway which has a 2.5 km pedestrian walkway running along the waterfront to Casco Viejo) and exquisite cocktails.

https://es.hrhpanamamegapolis.com

3.W Panama
Campo Alegre District (Business District)

The W Hotel in Panama City is the Marriot W Brand’s first Central American property. The W Hotel’s WET Deck is a pool bar on the 15th floor of the 50-storey W Panama Hotel. It’s a fairly recent, sleek, modern addition to the Panama City rooftop bar scene. Centrally located, it has the sought-after W vibe, views over the Cinta Costera and the downtown skyline, as well as a pool you can swim in.

https://www.marriott.com/

Casco Viejo (Old Town):

4.Tantalo Hotel Rooftop Bar

Tantalizing food and wonderful views are yours on the rooftop of the industrial-chic Tantalo Hotel at Happy Hour. As the sun sets over the red tile roofs of the white colonial buildings of Casco, we wash down delicious fusion-style tapas (think quinoa and chickpea salad, sautéed octopus with coconut milk) with a Michelada, a Mexican cocktail made with beer, tomato juice, lime and hot sauce. The glowing dome of the Iglesia Merced is so close I feel like I can reach out and touch it. Tantalo is a ten-room boutique hotel with a bar and restaurant on the ground floor, but the rooftop terrace is the main attraction.

www.tantalohotel.com

5.Gatto Blanco, Hotel Casa Nuratti

Next door to Tantalo is another fantastic rooftop bar, Gatto Blanco, which is on the top of the Hotel Casa Nuratti. It has an intimate atmosphere with live music Tuesday nights. Wednesdays are ladies nights, with $1 glasses of sangria. Walk through the stylish lobby to get the elevator to the rooftop.

http://hotelgattoblanco.com

6.Casa Casco Restaurant & Rooftop Bar

The five-storey Casa Casco building has three floors of restaurants; the independently-run Marula, Naciyn Sushi and Mano de Tigre. On the fourth floor is the nightclub, Casco Club and at the top, the decadent terrace bar. The cuisine ranges from Japanese to Central American fusion. From the roof, watch the locals gather in the charming Plaza Herrara below, an historic hub of the neighbourhood or peer into the large rooms of the stylish American Hotel on Avenida Central. Then watch the sun set over the old town, coming to rest on the beautifully restored Hotel Central on the Plaza Independencia.

http://casacasco.com

7.Salvaje

One of the coolest bars in Casco – Salvaje (which translates as Wild) is a local favourite not on the tourist map. It is located near the walled entrance to the old town. If you decide to walk to the roof of the lively bar five stories up, you can meander through the crumbling, historic building with its wide, plant-filled balconies, reminiscent of Havana, Cuba. It’s noisy, so try not to get a table next to a loudspeaker pumping out local and international music. The cuisine is Japanese fusion which combines local Panamanian with Japanese ingredients. Watch the Panama City skyline disappear as the sun sets across the bay.

https://salvajepty.com

8.Las Clementinas Hotel & Rooftop Bar

The hotel was named after Clementina Herrerra, an eccentric and successful female Panamanian entrepreneur in the 1950’s. Ask for a refreshing Panamanian Mojito made with clementine juice, clementine segments and Seco, an alcohol distilled from sugar cane, lime juice and basil leaves. There’s also a popular Sunday brunch at Mahalo Restaurant next door, run by two Canadian sisters.

www.lasclementinas.com

9.Lazotea, Hotel Casa Panama

A small bar, with big views. Lazotea was apparently the first rooftop bar in Panama City to have a swimming pool you can actually swim in. It has one of the best rooftops in Casco, with views across the bay. Located near the entrance to Casco, it is at the top of the Hotel Casa Panama, which also houses Restaurante Santa Rita. The cuisine ranges from Central American to French, with a range of European dishes.

Avenida Eloy Alfaro Corner with Calle 11, Old Town, Panama City 0801 Panama

10.Capital Bistro

This unassuming, yet elegant and often overlooked little restaurant/bar is near the entrance to Casco and so close to the water, you can see the fishing boats of the Mercado de Marisco (fish market) coming in to shore for the night and watch the sun set over the bay. The sparkling little lights on the patio make the evening magical and the signature cocktail list and menu from the Capital Bistro Restaurant below ensure an unforgettable experience.

http://capbistropanama.com

See article in magazine:

https://tasteandtravelmagazine.com/2020/12/top-ten-rooftop-bars-in-panama-city/

Article appeared in the Ottawa Citizen

When Spanish explorers arrived at Lake Maracaibo in what is now Venezuela, the natives were living in huts on stilts and using boats shaped like gondolas, which reminded the Spaniards of Venice. They promptly called the area Venezuela — Little Venice. Eventually, the name was adopted for the large land mass surrounding the lake.
These days, Italian tourists make a beeline to Venezuela’s tropical Los Roques islands. These denizens of Rome, Milan and Venice don’t cross the Atlantic just to visit a country named by Spanish explorers to honour an Italian city, though. There are far more reasons to spend a week or two in Los Roques.

Los Roques boasts some of the best coral reefs in the world for diving, consistent winds and protected lagoons for kite- and wind-surfing and dazzling, white-beach-lined cayes (sandy islands) that attract sun bathers and fly fishermen from around the world.

“You make kite?” Lusmila asks, her black eyes wide. My friend and I have just arrived back at the Posada Acuarela with a group of kite-surfers.

“No, but we might take a lesson,” I offer lamely, wishing to impress the go-to-girl at the posada (inn). In addition to Spanish, the hard-working, 26-year-old Lusmila, who is Venezuelan, speaks Italian and Spanish, German and a little English. Lusmila adamantly won’t let us practise Spanish or try even a few phrases of Italian. She insists on speaking English.

Los Roques is an Italian enclave in Venezuela’s Caribbean, surprising given Italy’s distance and the difficulty of getting here. Even though Los Roques has some of the best kite-surfing in the world, the beaches are why most of us are here. Sorry, Lusmila.

The majority of the posada owners in Los Roques are Italian, as are the tourists. There are only a few Americans and no other Canadians. El Gran Roque (or Big Rock) is the largest island in the archipelago of Los Roques. It’s the only inhabited island, about 160 kilometres north of mainland Venezuela and a 40-minute flight from Caracas. Reflecting the popularity of the island among Italian tourists, the restaurant menus include risotto and fish carpaccio. There are a disproportionately large number of places in this tiny town where you can get a decent espresso. There’s even a bocce ball court.

It was only 15 years ago when the island received electricity. In fact, the first posadas were renovated fisherman’s shacks. Today there are some 600 permanent residents and about 90 posadas, set amid some 1,400 square kilometres of lagoons, reefs, and the most beautiful beaches we have seen. “The Maldives of Venezuela,” as a tourist called them.

Acuarela, one of the most sophisticated of the posadas on the island (and there are many beautiful posadas to choose among), seamlessly blends indoors and out, with lush tropical plants filling every hallway, niche and corner. Furniture made with dark tropical wood, ornate wrought-iron doors and abstract paintings give it a cosmopolitan feel without relinquishing any Caribbean charm. The paintings are by the owner, Sicilian-born Angelo Belvedere, who splits his time between Caracas and Los Roques, when he isn’t exhibiting his works in Madrid or Barcelona. Creating Acuarela was a labour of love, says Belvedere. His name means “beautiful view.”

Island-hopping is a daily ritual. Excursions to the stunning “fantasy islands” which surround El Gran Roque, are part of the posada package, called “full board.” You can choose any of the islands, and the posada takes care of getting you there, supplying lunch with sandwiches and cold beer, beach chairs and umbrella (a must no matter where you go, as the islands offer no shade).

Los Roques was declared a national park and ecological reserve in 1972. The closest islands are only a 10- to 15-minute boat ride away; none of them have buildings other than a rustic restaurant or the occasional boathouse. The islands include Madrizqui, Francisqui, Selesqui, Carisqui and Nordisqui. They were named by English explorers and then renamed by Spanish cartographers. Northeast Cay became Nordisqui, Sailor’s Cay became Selesqui, and so on. Snorkellers can swim through schools of fish on Carisqui, fly fishermen can angle for bonefish off several of the islands and sunbathers can watch the kite-surfers’ stunts on Francisqui.

It is completely possible to find an island to yourself. We opt for Francisqui.

“10 a.m. and 10 degrees from the equator,” says Jésus, the guy hired by our posada to run guests back and forth to the islands. He smiles, the sun glinting off his gold teeth, as he moves our beach umbrella and packed cooler to a better spot. I move my toe into the shade of my umbrella. I am already so relaxed, I have only a fuzzy recollection of being whisked to this uninhabited island in a motorboat by two men in white Acuarela T-shirts. A black lizard is watching me as I eat my sandwich. When I throw a crust, it grabs the morsel and scurries, squirrel-like into the scrub. Pelicans dive mere metres from my legs. Boobies and terns dry their wings on resting boats.

The kite-surfers are in their own endorphin-fuelled paradise, practising their manoeuvres again and again in a constant wind that never lets them down. The lissome Italian girl changes into her bikini with extraordinary ease under a perfect pareo — the Italians have sunbathing down to a science. The water is a brilliant aqua, the air smells like fresh fig, the sand is blindingly white and the beach goes on forever.

By mid-afternoon, Francisqui is a pageant of idleness. The umbrellas have been placed at steep angles to create shade. The couples who this morning were strolling the beach to show off their tans are now curled up next to each other in fetal positions or are sitting waist-deep in shallow water. The designer kites of the more ambitious kite-surfers, which at first drew crowds to watch their daring jumps, are now just a distraction high in the spotless sky. The less ambitious surfers are already having a beer, their kites straddling the beach like giant spiders.

Los Roques strikes the perfect balance between comfort and rusticity. The atmosphere in the posadas and in the town is Caribbean casual. There are no cars, the streets are pure sand and everyone goes barefoot. Supplies are flown in from the mainland and fish is caught fresh every day. There are only a handful of restaurants. No discos and no nightlife to speak of. It is expensive to get here, but the posadas are reasonably priced. By law, none of the posadas can be larger than 15 rooms or taller than a single storey with a mezzanine.

“Jésus, Raphael or José — who should we bring with us tomorrow?” The animated pre-dinner conversation of the deep-sea fishermen, discussing the merits of their marine guides, wafts my way with the warm breeze on Acuarela’s front porch.

Perfect weather, lush decor, the anticipation of sumptuous Italian cuisine and the mix of kite-surfers, sun worshippers, divers, sailors and fishermen from around the world give Acuarela the buzz of a New York restaurant. It is hard to believe we are on an island that’s more than a hundred kilometres from the nearest continent.

The heat, which is unrelenting during the day, has dropped to comfortable temperatures at night. On the beach, posadas and bars put out candlelit tables or artful arrangements of beanbag chairs. The island dogs play dead on the beach. They like to fall asleep exactly as they hit the cool sand and no one disturbs them. After a day of unforgiving heat, this is a dog’s idea of paradise.

Los Roques is our idea of paradise too. I am already starting to think about coming back. In the meantime, perhaps I will take up kite surfing, or maybe Italian.

Diane Penwill is a freelance writer based in Toronto. She read about Los Roques in a newspaper article a few years ago and visited in February.

Article appeared in the Toronto Star

LA ENTRADA, HONDURAS – “Feliz Navidad!” cried the 5-year-old girl in the white party dress, cackling with delight each time a firecracker went off.

“Buena, muchacha!” her parents praised her as they handed her another firecracker, beaming proudly.

We arrived in La Entrada, a town a few hours west from Honduras’ business capital, San Pedro Sula, late on Christmas Eve on the first day of our seven-day cycling trip.

We found ourselves without a hotel in complete darkness in this tiny town on the way to Copan, which owes its existence to the junction of two roads. Here, they believe fervently in Christmas and just as fervently, that Christmas means fireworks. They would proceed to set them off all night and into the morning, until they were just too tired to light another.

We found a place to stay and walked around town to investigate. By around 10 p.m., the activity was really intense and each house had a sparkler brigade in front.

Once went off centimeters from my face. We escaped temporarily as we ducked into a place that looked like it might be a bar. Hard to tell, since there were no tables and few chairs. However, they didn’t mind selling us warm beer.

They found some seats and lined them up in front of us like some kind of Honduran stand-off. After a few minutes, we all lapsed into a comfortable silence, though and I was content to drink my beer, which provided me the courage to venture out into the street again to join the pyrotechnics party.

We had to keep walking around dark, dirty, dusty Entrada to find groceries to get us through five hours of pedaling the next day – Christmas. All the stores seemed to sell were chips, pork rinds and Fanta. Giving up on groceries, we left with double chips and pork rinds, all set for a grueling day of cycling, knowing there would be no more opportunities to find food because everything would be closed.

Somehow we managed to sleep through the ear-splitting fireworks going on at the front door of the hotel. When I looked down at about 2 a.m., the same little family responsible for the fireworks when I went to bed were still cheering each other on.

When I got up the next morning all was quiet. I stumbled from the hotel into intensely brilliant sunshine that washed over me in a wave of tropical heat.

A gentle breeze caressed me as we began to cycle. Even La Entrada didn’t look too bad on Christmas Day. Within an hour, we found ourselves in bucolic farmland.

“Sin botella!” “Without the bottle!” the woman at the store urged. We wanted me to drink the Fanta without the bottle to save me having to pay for it, as I attempted to quench my raging thirst.

I gave her back the bottle and she poured the Fanta into a little plastic baggie, inserted a straw and handed it to me. I gulped it back and asked for another baggie-full.

As we cycled through the hilly terrain of Honduras, at each village we came to we found the beer was warm, the juice non-existent, and the coffee instant; only the Fanta was cold, delicious and plentiful.

We were reminded more of England than of anything Central American as we whizzed by the pastoral Honduran farms.

Here, finally, there were no fireworks, no dust, not even traffic. Only rolling fields, which were becoming terraced as we headed into the mountains. We struggled up the hairpin curves, relishing the long downhills.

It is customary for the drivers of passing cars to honk, the louder, the better and then laugh as they pass. They were usually pickup trucks, packed with eight to ten people in the back. No Hondurans cycle, it seems, except one lone man with a load of firewood who was weaving his way precariously uphill.

As we passed him, he looked startled, then grinned and waved, echoing a “Hola” to our “Holas”. By the end of the day, at that magic hour just before the sun sets, we were rewarded with a heavenly downhill ride past villages and farms, a winding river valley opening up in front of us, the mountains retreating behind. Honduras was now as serene and peaceful as it had been raucous and noisy the night before.

For more information on Honduras, go to www.hondurastips.honduras.com.

My friend and I hadn’t seen a person, restaurante, bar, fruit stand, farm, or even a tree for 100 km. No jeering-cheering locals packed 10 to a pick-up truck for company here. No weeds, no insects, only dust devils. The birds flew so high they were barely visible; they had no reason to stop. The place didn’t have a smell.

Our cycling journey began in the resort town of Bariloche, in Argentina’s Lake District, a two-hour flight southwest of Buenos Aires. We had booked a last-minute flight, without research. But we had maps, plenty of optimism and planned to do some serious, if limited, cycling on the fabled Route 40. With our three bike days we planned to cycle 267 km to Esquel in Chubut Province.

The 100 km between Bariloche and El Bolson offered exhilarating peaks and valleys, turquoise lakes and never-ending vistas which gave my hungry eyes as much a workout as the bicycle did my legs. The dazzling sunshine was bliss, although the air was thin and the wind strong, so I slapped on sunscreen.

Each turn in the road brought another view of the glaciated Andean foothills that we shared with no one. Rainfed rivers fell thousands of meters in straight lines from high up on mountaintops. Shadows from banks of white clouds created a continuous-play movie on steep, rocky slopes. The steppe was carved by arroyos, dry gullies created by streams.

High on scenery, we arrived in El Bolson, a laid-back town of about 20,000. Next morning we were back on our bicycles. We were innocent of the kind of day in ambush for us. Since the first 100km had been refreshing, we figured to do 167km to Esquel we would just start earlier and push harder. We could always hitch a ride. Worst case, we had a tent. There were a few things we couldn’t tell from the map, such as—the entire route was on a slight uphill incline.

“There will be something after that hill up ahead,” my friend kept saying. After the first 30km, it was a running joke. After 95km, the joke had worn thin. Thin, like the air, the foliage and our supplies. Just after the 100km mark, we spotted a grove of trees—were we delusional? No, it was a farm, with an empty farmhouse.

So, and as, we progressed south, the landscape became more barren and skeletal. Purple thistles provided the only hint of color. Snow-capped peaks played with desiccated river bottoms. 40km to go. We had to reach Esquel by nightfall.

Nightfall came first. More twists in the road. More uphill. It got colder and windier. At 160 kilometers, I spotted faint lights in the distance and the road began to decline ever so faintly. A mountain bike breezed past.

A voice asked if we needed help. We managed to communicate the distance we had come. Jorgé, who lived just outside Esquel, guided us through the dark for the remaining 5 km, beaming when we asked him to join us for dinner. 

It was about a quarter to midnight when we sat down to eat with our new friend. My first experience with Argentinean beef surpassed its legendary reputation. Admittedly, 12 hours and 100 miles of cycling had given us an appetite. The bold, hearty taste of the Malbec brought the flavor of the beef to ecstatic levels, topping all my dining experience. Sated and stiff, we left with Jorgé to find a hotel and make plans for brunch.

We woke to brilliant sunshine. Esquel had a ‘50s feeling. Later that afternoon, we noticed a flat-fronted building with the word “Bar” hand-painted on each side of the door, the “Bar Bar” to the uninitiated. Of course, why would the only bar in an end-of-the-line Patagonian town need a name? A quick glance revealed spare walls, a small pool table, and two men toasting each other’s lives and shortly after, ours – a first encounter with gauchos.

Descended from the American cowboy, the gaucho has been elevated culturally to a myth and endowed with impossible strength, bravery and honor. The first gauchos were mestizo, of Spanish and Native American blood. They made their living selling cattle, hides and tallow in exchange for tobacco, rum and maté. Early accounts depict them as vagabonds who spent their time drinking and gambling. It was, it seemed, fitting we found them in buoyant mood. They exuded a naïve macho charm and were dashing in traditional bombachas, baggy trousers, colorful braided belts and kerchiefs. When we asked for their picture, they posed flamboyantly. After several hours of laughing, they enjoying shots of each other in our camera’s display, we reluctantly left the “bar bar” and promised to send them prints. But myth and history seemed to agree as we found ourselves with authentic fun-loving, hard-working, land-loving men who enjoyed a laugh and a drink.

After that, anything Patagonia had to throw our way seemed possible. We had to catch a flight back to Buenos Aires, although next trip we will cycle further south to see what else the road might have in store.