TheExpatJournals.com

My friend Dawn was the first person to ever make me aware of how sensitive I am to my geographic location. You know how certain people might bring out your sense of humor and others bring how your intelligence? I have found that where I am on this planet does the same thing for me.

As I write, I’m on a plane bound for NYC. Kids, if you ever have concerns about crossing borders, invite me along. I don’t know why, but I must have a face that says “I’m an innocent, don’t waste your time.” I am never hassled. Now, as sure as I write that, let’s see what happens when I come back to Panama. I should say, to date, I’ve never been hassled. Not after Lockerbie when leaving Heathrow. Not during September of 2001 leaving NYC. And once I had to fly to London with a colleague who was of Arabic descent. He said it was the first time he hadn’t been hassled. So, I’m the designated smuggler. Of course, the only time I remember smuggling something and lying on my customs form was because I was hell bent on bringing back 4 liters of the most amazing olive oil I’ve tasted to this day. It was from the south of Spain. The olives were grown on the property where I was staying the oil was processed at a co-op down the road.

I still remember it was $1 per liter. And I MADE everyone I knew taste it when I got back. It wasn’t uncommon to have a meal of bread and olive oil, it was that good. My friend Raul gave me a Cuban cigar I had forgotten I had until I was packing and for a moment, I thought about bringing it back with me and then I decided it wasn’t worth the risk. What do you suppose the penalty would be for smuggling one cigar? Bet they’d confiscate it if they found it. Okay, so no wonder they don’t hassle me, but today, it was odd…it seemed almost everyone was getting their fingerprints checked as they showed their passport. Not me. The guy asked me how long I had been in Panama. I answered, “Eleven weeks…long enough to get a tan and if you knew how white I was, you’d know what I was talking about.” Not to put myself in his company, but as I write this now, it seems like a Yogi Berra kind of nonsequitor. He laughs and I suppose, in retrospect, I was anxious for the woman to invite me forward to clear customs and passed quickly. My bags weren’t checked anywhere today. There was a guy in front of me who has some special US government pass who was practically strip searched. Is it me? Or am I just consistently lucky in terms of the random checks?

I was sitting here thinking that it was going to feel weird to be back in NYC after living in Panama. Like, what the hell am I doing here? And the odd thing about that is, it’s a first. Quite the contrary was the norm-I felt weird anywhere but NYC. I did leave in ’99 for two + years. But I never could let go. I missed it horribly, mourned it even. I didn’t want to NOT be a New Yorker. The last couple of days, I knew I didn’t want to leave Panama, not even for New York City which I can honestly say, I haven’t missed for a moment. With the only possible exception being good TV. I will never again complain about all those channels and nothing to watch after DirectTV in Panama. It sucks. I got a real HBO Sunday night coming up! And with HBO on demand, I can catch up with Six Feet Under and The Sopranos and Bill Maher!!! And yes, I get to watch the Soap Channel (the only brainless thing that will put me to sleep once I’m wound up in NYC…day’s repeats at 2AM on the Soap Network.) In fact, I have a friend on one soap and the time I moved away, she and I stayed in touch as I did with a number of people, but only her face could I see regularly.

In fact, I remember that when I would see someone I know on TV, it really hit hard and made me feel like I was missing out on the ‘good life’ by not being in NYC. And before you think I’m dropping names, (though I never named her and I could name drop by naming friends I’ve know much longer who are really famous now) let me just say that I would imagine anyone who lives in NYC for any length of time ends up with famous friends. It ain’t that hard folks. And it only means whatever the friendship means, nothing more.

So, back to the ‘good life’… what hit me on the plane just now was that after I moved back to NYC, I realized that what I once defined as the ‘good life’ was no longer my definition of the good life. Which brings me to Panama. I wish I had the ability to relay in words how much I LOVE that place due in no small part to living in Casco Viejo. As I walked that sea walk last night, I looked at the skyline of the city across the Bay and then out to open sea and then to the ships anchored waiting to pass through the Canal and then to the Causeway dotted with palm trees and the mountains of Veracruz beyond. And I held onto it in my mind to sustain me while I’m gone. And I didn’t want to go.

The breeze made the early evening a perfect temperature, and instead of packing, I decided to enjoy the remaining sunlight on that fortress above the sea. So I sat with the Kunas I always talk with for 2 hours. Most of the vendors on the Paseo knew I was leaving. On that walk, one Kuna lady gave me a mola. The mother in the Kuna family I’ve gotten to know made me wini…that’s what their arms and leg rings are called. She made me small wini for my ankle in the design of the Kuna symbol for a frog. It’s almost like a communist art version of an X… if an X had a small platform in the center where it intersects. The end result is sort of two arms raised and two symmetrical legs ala the Egyptians, somewhat bent. While we sat on the Paseo, the clouds that arose as the sun set were magnificent…like Ghost Buster clouds. I took photos of each of the Kunas from a bench looking up with nothing but head and shoulders and that huge sky full of clouds. I’ll get an example up in the photo albums, because this is one time a photo truly is worth a thousand words.

And I didn’t even get to the part about seeing the huge rainbow halo around a setting sun, not because it had rained, but because of the humidity in the air and the light. And you should see the incredible white halo around the full moon in the Panama sky. These halos are at a great distance, like a center dot on a clock and the circle at the outside perimeter.

While sitting there, Omar walked up and gave me a book on the restoration of Casco Viejo and told me it was from his mother. Omar, his mother Chema (pictured in the women playing cards photo from the full moon night), and their extended family live in a hovel behind my building. I was so touched and thought of the irony at what the image of people like them are in my neighborhood (the squatters standing in the way of complete restoration and skyrocketing property values) versus the reality of who they are. They are the ones stereotypically viewed as ‘dangerous.’ To me, they are a very big part of what makes Casco Viejo so rich. Running all of those people out would be tragic as far as I’m concerned. I would no longer say a lot of people know me in my area of Casco Viejo. I would say most of them know me, at least to say hello.

Speaking of hellos, because of all the activities around the new President that have been taking place in Casco Viejo, the neighborhood has been full of prominent looking people. As we sat there last night, 3 men in elegant suits leisurely strolled and chatted. Following behind them were their 3 bodyguards. I don’t know who these men were, but you had no doubt they were important. They came by and were looking at the Kunas wares. Not a single Kuna acknowledged these men out loud, which is unusual. If anything, I wish they’d learn (not ‘my’ specific ones, but as a stereotype) how to back off and just let you look without the hard sell. I don’t know why they feel compelled to say ‘Molas’ to anyone stopping to look at their molas. In US culture, that would call for a Bart Simpson, DUH response.

I, on the other hand, said “Buenas” and they all smiled and responded in kind. Later on my balcony, the same pack walked underneath and I was able to say, “Buenas un otro vez” which I hope means, “Hello again.” One heard me, waved and nudged the other one to look up. I say “Buenas” to everybody…from these guys to the shirtless man who sits out on his balcony in his building that doesn’t look inhabitable near the Tourism Police and all others in between. I couldn’t help but notice the reverence afforded these men by the Kunas in the form of distance…like deer frozen at the sight of a car. There was something palpable about it.

Anyway, this final walk on the Paseo felt like Christmas: a mola, a book, and wini made especially for me. Oh, and they are now the second Kuna family to invite me out to Kuna Yala with them. And I can’t wait to go! They all came to my house while the mother put the wini on my ankle…not something a white person could do without lots of training. It’s a very slow, deliberate process of matching strands of beads so the pattern is intact and tying the string just so in order to keep it intact without being too tight. While she was putting them on me, her husband opened a website to show me photos of her from a woman who has a shop in Bon Aire that sells molas and other art. While the computer was open, I had them write how they spell their names. All this time, I’ve been picturing in my mind, the mother’s name as Adid…as in Adidas. You can imagine my surprise when what they wrote was Edith. And while she was tying, she suggested I take a photo of her doing it. And that makes the second Kuna woman in full costume who has asked me to take pictures of her.

Panama is not just immersion in Spanish/Panamanian culture, it offers incredible opportunity to learn about indigenous culture, too. And what an incredible adventure that is to me. I only had two hours of sleep (had to pack sometime) last night and because my flight was late, I missed my connection. So right now, I’m 12 hours away from Casco Viejo and about an hour and ½ away from NYC. I’m exhausted. And I’m already wishing I were back in Panama before I even arrive in NYC.