The BBC is reporting that Patrick McGoohan passed away today at the age of 80.

His television series The Prisoner was one of my favorites growing up. I watched it in late-night re-airings on CBS in the 1980's and it gave me hope that television could be interesting, witty and intelligent back during a time when T.J. Hooker and Dallas were the staples of American television (and I'm not knocking T.J. Hooker, either).

My favorite part of The Prisoner was that you never knew whether the writers were trying to make a point about politics of the 1960's, attempting to be slightly subversive while maintaining their dignified British personalities, or just smoking a lot of pot -- the answer is: all of the above (in my opinion).

I purchased the entire series on DVD a few years ago and still watch an episode or two every few months when I need to be cheered up.

(photo credit: BBC / Rex Features)

Today was primarily a travel day, so I began by taking a taxi to the Terminal Terestre to catch a bus to Puno. The bus station is a dizzying mele of chaos, and it was exactly what I was expecting. It took a while to find a bus to Puno, as some of the companies would list Puno as a destination on their signs, only to tell me "no PUNO." I finally found the bus I was looking for and paid my s/15 (about US$6) and paid my departure tax of s/1 and boarded the 7am bus to Puno.

This really was the locals' bus, even though it was a "fancy" motorcoach. The toilet was out of order and every seat was full -- as well as many laps. I had a window seat so I could put my pack on the floor under my legs and keep it secure for the seven hour trip. I listened to the iPod for most of the trip, but I did share my bananas with the lady in the next seat and her grandson. They gave me some of the bread they were carrying back to their village in the middle of nowhere.

Upon arriving in Puno, the skies opened up and the cold rain was mixed with hail and thunder. It didn't make Puno, already a fairly ugly and dirty place, any prettier. In fact, Puno had a sense of desperation about it, as though it wanted to escape but couldn't. I took a mototaxi to the hotel and had a siesta.

At 6 pm, I wandered out into the streets and found that the rain had washed away a lot of the dirt and trash from the streets, and the city was a little cheerier. I walked around a while and found the Plaza de Armas. A few blocks away was the main shopping district and I came across a restaurant that had been recommended in the Lonely Planet guide. IncaBar was good, but a little too touristy for me. The alpacca steak in wine sauce was good but I imagined that normal Puno residents were not having this for dinner.