TheExpatJournals.com

I have been an insomniac/night owl my entire life. Even when I was a teenager, `they’ attempted to put me on sleeping pills. I didn’t like taking pills, the day-after-groggies rendered the price of admission too steep. And fuhgeddaboutit in NYC…my typical bedtime was anywhere from 4AM to 7:30AM. I seem to be very sensitive to my environment and there is no greater fuel than NYC for the busy brain syndrome. Perhaps it’s a `grass is greener’ thing, but I always wanted a morning and always felt deprived of it. So it is nothing short of miraculous to me that, for the first time in my life, I can go actually go to sleep with no trouble whatsoever. I have never been able to do that…never! And I wake up early here. I finally have a morning!

Now that I also finally have DSL and my wireless router is functional, thought this morning would be a perfect morning to sit on the balcony with my computer. So at 6:30AM, I move outside with computer and coffee in hand. The temperature is perfect, the breeze is gentle and the sound of the waves hitting the shore across the street a wonderful soundbed. The sun hasn’t risen above the shell of the former Union Club across the street yet, so I’m still in the shade. Usually the difference between being in the sun and being in the shade is far more drastic than I ever remember it being anywhere in the US. It’s all so perfect and then a truck full of equipment pulls up.

Now, it’s 7AM on a Saturday morning and there’s a jackhammer taking up a chunk of sidewalk at the entrance to the Paseo de las Bovedas. I don’t know which is louder — the sound of the jackhammer or the generator they use to run it with.

Wanted to (ahem) let sleeping dogs lie, but on the noise complaints, last night, 4:21 AM, I was BLASTED awake because someone decided to open the back door of their SUV to let someone else experience for themselves just how macho their stereo could be. It was truly sufficient for an outdoor concert, the cabinets were at least 18 inches covering the entire back of the truck. The volume was so LOUD, I’d pretty much be willing to bet it could be heard across the bay in Paitilla.

I came downstairs and in my sleepy state, could find neither my robe nor the key for the security doors on my balcony, so I stood there in my nightie screaming, "HEY!" They couldn’t hear me over the volume, but there happened to be a group of about 12 soldiers/national police…whatever they were…coming off the Paseo at that same moment. A couple of them saw me and went straight to the oblivious fool and made him turn it off. At which point, my Spanish returned in the form of "Muchas Gracias" which at least 3 policia acknowledged.

My neighbor was shocked they assisted. She says it’s a first where noise is concerned. Actually, I went downstairs a few weeks ago, broom in hand to break up a dog barking match late one night. After I had chased away the intruder and restored peace to the block, I noticed a cop tucked away in a doorway. He was pretty much laughing at me. As I walked back towards my apartment, one of the dogs started barking again. That time, the cop silenced him. I’m getting the idea that they’re getting the idea and I like that. Poco a poco.

And then it was Sunday. And my friends, this must be one of the most quiet urban spots on earth on Sundays. Actually, aside from the glaring exceptions, this neighborhood isn’t nearly as loud as most, unless you live next to a squatter with huge speakers blaring for the entire block to hear and have lots of windows. Think about it…no buses here except for the occasional smaller bus full of tourists, very few horns, and minimal traffic. The roads are too narrow to accommodate much and besides, no one drives through here, just to here. This adds up to a major perk- far superior air quality to many other areas of Panama City, especially in combination with the constant ocean breeze. All in all, I am where I want to be.

One of the things that I had started to wish for in the US was the ability to go back in time, back to a time I liked better than the time I was living in. I had no desire to work like a slave to be part of a culture that was beginning to repulse me. It wasn’t always so corporate. It wasn’t always so impersonal. It wasn’t always so insanely expensive for everything. I mean, 9 years ago I could still get the best seats in Yankee Stadium for $25. They’re $95 now if you can even get your hands on them which requires knowing someone who purchased season tickets, usually a corporation because few individuals will shell out $30,000 in advance (4 seats), excluding post season, of course. They simply are not available otherwise except through legal ticket scalpers where they usually cost $200 and up per seat. Talk about a wake up call…the average price for a family of four to attend a game in the nose-bleed seats at Yankee Stadium, have hot dogs, peanuts, one soda each- no beer, buy one program and park is at the very least $190. And that’s as American as apple pie. And that’s a month’s rent for a lot of people down here. Or a custom made table that will last for the rest of your life before you pass it on to someone else. Or handmade bejuco furniture. Or groceries for at least two weeks, if you don’t drink. Or a maid for a month…I think you get the gist. And ps…I can’t wait for baseball season to start down here.

It’s not even about the money anymore. It’s about things becoming expensive in a way that feels offensive. Not unlike shopping at the Match House in Multi Centro for housewares - you could pay $15 for that plastic juicer or you could buy it elsewhere for $1.89.

"Exploration, oceans, mountains, city, business, new cultures, indigenous art, a new home I can buy if I opt to do so in a rare historic neighborhood with the most magnificent views, new friends…all in one month. The apartment is one block away from the French Embasssy, Las Bovedas-preserved dungeons from the 1600´s that now house a fine restaurant and art gallery, a block away from the mayor of Panama City´s house - I can look through most of his upper floor, less than a block from Ruben Blades´ house who is reputed to be the next Minister of Tourism, a plaza away from one of the most happening cultural spots in Panama City – Café de Asis, sweeping views of skyscrapers, sea, mountains, the entrance to the Panama Canal, amazing architecture…god I could go on and on. There´s also lots of poverty with squatters in un-restored properties. Oh and a few blocks away is the Presidential Palace. One person said to me, `only artists and gays live over there.’ He said he couldn’t be comfortable in that kind of a place. I told him that I, on the other hand, would feel right at home.

All of this just for leaving NY. Unbelievable."

This was an email I sent to a friend of mine after my month of visiting Panama, the evening I took my apartment. My excitement hasn’t ebbed at all, on the contrary, I’m moving out of the infatuation stage and falling madly in love with Casco Viejo. After my illness and while I was still weak, I took it quite easy for awhile. I spent time getting to know the area and what I discovered was that there is beauty to be visually captured in every single moment here. I don’t see crumbling ruins and poverty. I see an abundance of color on faded facades and in crumbling walls. I love seeing the seashells that are part of the concrete from God knows how long ago. On any given run down wall, layers of years of colors are revealed to add up to a visual feast, not an eyesore. It’s time will come and it will be new again, but for now, I’m going to enjoy the ancient history the colors represent to me – crème, white, grey, blue, green, rusty red…that’s about a square yard of the shell that was once the Union Club. I even took a picture of a corner that to me, is as beautiful as any painting I’ve seen. Colors shift with light. And like a coral reef, the `biosphere’ at night is completely different than during the day. Palm trees that are green by day become multi-colored at night. Golden spotlights completely alter the façade of a restored building at night. Day or night, everywhere your eyes land there is something beautiful to see. Living in Casco Viejo is like living in a fine art painting …perhaps more accurately, it’s like living in a museum full of fine art and, of course, history.

People can say what they will about Chorillo, but I take taxis through there all the time and what I see is the incredible essence of life in this culture in spite of poverty. Life may not offer the conveniences we Gringos take for granted, but these people revel in their children, in their faith, in their music, in each other. Old men gather to talk. Anyone is free to discipline someone else’s child and will also keep them safe from harm. Children are taken care of as a community and old folks are respected, not tucked away out of site, but a part of life. You can feel it, see it, hear it when you drive through Chorillo— there’s a lot of simple happiness to witness there because there’s a lot of joy in their lives.

These people aren’t about careers, technology, nor anything else of the material world. They are about the joy they find in each other and they find it on a daily basis. Maybe it’s dangerous there for Gringos because we remind some of them of what they can’t have and for a moment, their life will never be enough. But when I drive through in a taxi with the ability to be the equivalent to a fly on the wall, small children are guided to the shop by their older sister who might be 7. Old women and old men sure don’t seem to be in the least bit daunted walking around. People sing in the churches. People listen to music, dance, laugh, cook outside, set up small shops in their doorways, sit on handmade furniture, eat on handmade tables and sure seem to love being alive. And when there’s a kid’s soccer or basketball game, it’s a major neighborhood event and it seems as though nothing else exists. Time is suspended and the only thing going on in the world is that game. People love it and it shows. The good feelings are palpable, smiles are everywhere and no one is left out.

It reminds me of going to see the fireworks on the FDR in NYC. Hundreds of thousands of people crushed together and everyone is in a good mood. For a couple of hours, there is no such thing as a stranger. And the cumulative value of that much good will is a powerful force that no one ever seemed to even recognize. There was a time July 4th was the only time you could safely walk through the projects on the lower eastside. But that one night, you always could without a problem. In the early 90’s, I remember walking back and hearing a group of Hispanic kids singing along to REM. It was so shocking to me, but it summarized, for a brief moment, the epitome of two cultures emerging as music can often seem to accomplish. That’s about heart, not head. And the residents of Chorillo may not have money or education, but they sure have a lot of heart.

I was on the phone with a friend of mine in NYC the other day. He told me he was talking to another friend of mine and cynically expressing disbelief about how I could come down to Panama, adapt, thrive and have so many things unfold in such a short period of time. Our mutual friend told him that, unlike him, I wasn’t a shut down, closed minded New Yorker, but was rather receptive to what the world can offer up. In NYC, that’s a dangerous mindset leaving one vulnerable to many problems. And the only alternative is to live as though behind mental security gates. I think I am a trusting soul by nature, at least on a human level. God knows all those years in NYC left me cynical where trusting is concerned. I used to jokingly say that I’m pleased to only have become a cynic, rather than a bitter cynic. I do feel that the people of Panama are, stereotypically speaking, good hearted people and worthy of the benefit of the doubt. Again, on a human level. And being someone who responds to what’s around me, I love the softening effect of that. I love the ability to relax and enjoy. And I truly believe you can do that here. And that difference is perhaps why I get to experience going to sleep at night easily for the first time in my life….and see beauty in everything…and feel a childlike sense of awe at all there is to soak up in the world. I love that Panama has given me the opportunity to be an open human being. I didn’t even know it was missing until I found it here.

It’s almost like getting a chance at a second childhood…everything is new, everything is an adventure. Even sounds are new. It’s amazing how we reach a point in our lives of where everything is referenced already…you know exactly what something is when you hear it and it registers deep inside the brain without even having to consciously think about it. I remember being outside the evening I arrived at a friend’s place on Shelter Island…at the end of Long Island. In the pitch black dark, I hear this sound and realized instantly it was the sound of a car crossing a bridge a slight distance away. In NYC apartments, there’s the sound the radiators make when the boiler’s cranking. God knows how many millions of sounds the brain instantly references as familiar. Not true here. Every single bird is new. And oh God, I love the sound of a gecko. I’m just amazed that such a tiny creature can make such a huge sound. I found one in my apartment one day and was thrilled! But I haven’t heard him nor found his body, so I assume he made his way out. I was sitting at someone’s apartment in Marbella one day, it’s maybe on the 14th floor and all of a sudden, I heard a gecko. He didn’t even know that’s what it was, only knew he had been hearing it. I can’t describe this sound, wish I could. The closest I can come is to say that it sounds like some larger-than-a-squirrel, but smaller-than-a-raccoon furry animal should be making the sound instead of a 3 inch long lizard. Maybe at some point, in addition to the photographs I’m slowly getting posted, I can find a way to record some of the many sounds as well.

And people? Remember how it was when you were a kid? I’m here, you live next door, let’s be friends. As simple as that. You didn’t ask the kid what grades he made, what his Daddy did for a living, etc. You just took it at face value based on the mutual interest in playing which usually involved imagination. And that’s not to say you were friends forever, but it was surely the time in life when friendships formed the fastest. In many ways, the English speaking community (expats and Panamanians) here seems that way, too. No one has to prove anything to anybody, you just get to be.

Of course, I say this as someone who does lurk on C_E_W where the kids revel in nasty fighting. While it seems they still fall short of breaking the bottle to use as a weapon, they don’t need to, their words are just as sharp. And I have also noticed how much some Panamanians like to drop names. And the expats with agendas (please note that agenda is not used here as a negative, just a fact) have joined that particular aspect of culture because clearly, one true thing about Panama is that getting things done is about who you know. Which brings up one other interesting thing for me.

After growing up in the prejudiced south, one thing I LOVED about NYC was the ethnicity. I do remember the day I came back to NYC after being away for two years. I sat on a street corner on 51st and 6th, had a falafel from a street vendor and just watched people. And out of my mouth came the words, "Ahhh, ethnicity." It literally felt like relief after time in the South. And after growing up in the South, when I decided to move to Panama, I thought it would be interesting to be the minority for a change. (This is not the time nor the place to talk about being a female in a male dominated business in NYC…that is a different kind of minority.) Anyway, yes, being white is the minority in Panama in terms of numbers, but what I was not prepared for was the class system so ingrained in the culture here.

Being white puts you in an automatic position of something akin to elite. You’re treated differently. You’re privileged if you’re white. No there’s not racism, but yes there is an undercurrent of white equaling an upper class. And even the locals expect me to treat them here and there. I’ll have kids ask for fruit, cookies or sodas, etc. They don’t ask for money anymore because I refuse. They do me little favors and I treat them with respect and with treats. And `thank you’ seems to be the exception to the rule.

This difference in perception due to the color of your skin is a difficult one to actually describe because it is more sensed than explained. It’s the flip side of gringo pricing structure or perhaps the very reason for it. It’s as though you’re viewed as `above’ others if you’re white, not necessarily in human value, but in one’s station in life. Whether you merit it or not. And the good old boy network is very much alive and well in Panama. Again, it’s about who you know whether it’s getting a phone line in or getting paperwork done or finding property. Another thing I’ve noticed about this `upper class’ of Panamanians is that they do show up for appointments on time and they do know how to use `thank you.’ Then again, it seems that most, if not all, of them went to college in the US.

I continue to be amazed at the incredible indigenous jewelry I find and how downright cheap it is. Today, at the Crafts fair, I bought five bracelets, a pair of earrings, and two necklaces…one is absolutely perfect simple elegance made of beautiful dyed slices of tagua. The total tab was $26. Years ago, I decided that one of my goals was for everything I owned to be handmade and preferably unique, obvious exceptions would include the TV, the DVD, etc. I had come a long way towards that in the States. But when I moved here, I didn’t bring anything with me. I may be furnishing my new place at a snail’s pace, but it did occur to me that everything I’ve put in here so far is handmade and unique. It’s like all my possessions have soul, even my cookware! It felt like Christmas finding Chambaware at crazy low prices. Might be the only bargain to be found in Multi Centro at a store called Wisa that sells wonderful Colombian crafts.

Chambaware is a lightweight black clay pottery from a village called Chamba in Columbia, SA. They have been making it the same way for centuries. There were only 3 places I knew of in NYC where you could even buy it. The largest piece I bought is a huge casserole that I paid $18 for. Online, you can order it from a place in the UK for cost plus shipping…that’s about $175 last time I checked. I spent $55 for what would have cost me roughly $400 in NYC. This stuff is so beautiful. You can cook in it – oven, microwave, open fire, anything..- and then it goes straight to the table as a serving piece. (Okay men…jewelry, cookware –how bored are you at this point!)

I continue to be amazed at how moderate the temperature is here, generally speaking, and how I, who could never tolerate heat, so rarely use my air conditioner. The evenings are almost always pleasant and a fan truly is enough. I didn’t believe all those people who told me that before I moved here. I honestly thought I would need AC 24/7 and that I would be someone who could never `adapt.’ It was virtually the only reason I thought I could never live anywhere in Panama other than Boguete or Volcan and I knew I couldn’t live isolated there all by myself. However, I do not find the heat here nearly as difficult to live with as NYC is in mid-summer. Here, the evening breeze can be such a perfect temperature and velocity, that when it courses over your body, it feels like skinny dipping in air.

I continue to be amazed by how easy it is to meet people and how open people are to knowing you. It’s not just the expats, it’s everyone. At the crafts fair, I bought a large `basket’ made from the rounded bottom of an old cayuco that still has several layers of paint visible, not unlike the peeling facades in Casco Viejo, and equally beautiful to me. The lady who crafted it had a lot of work that I just fell in love with. We chatted and now I’m invited to her home. That seems like the norm here.

I continue to be amazed by how clueless I feel in the meat department at the grocery store. I simply don’t buy meat here because I can’t figure out what anything is. Their cuts of beef are not at all like what we know in the states. None of it looks even vaguely familiar to me. But more on that at a later date. The things that are different in world of grocery shopping are too numerous to begin at the end of this saga.