TheExpatJournals.com

I always knew how much I loved living in Casco Viejo. When I got here, there were zero Americans living here. Now, they seem to be everywhere. During the year in the building in front of the remains of the Union Club, my appreciation was for the neighborhood, not my apartment. The apartment was okay, even great by NYC standards, but the noise was …well those of you who follow me remember and for those of you who don’t, suffice it to say one of my journals was entitled “Aural Torture.”
Since I truly believe nothing happens by mistake, I now feel like the reason I had to move to La Cresta was to find the apartment I’m now living in. Granted, the easier route would have been to walk around the corner, call the realtor and take a look, but I seem to need to go through hell and back in order to know what’s right for myself. I might have stayed put. I might have moved to Boquete just to find some quiet. La Cresta was the one other place in Panama City that seemed appealing before I lived there. And thank God I only had to live there two months.

I was talking to a friend of mine who lived there for four years. In retrospect, he now sees it was the mildew and mold making him sick. It does! Mildew floats around as spores in the air, so no matter how much or how often you clean something, it just grows back due to being airborne. Like I said, the bromeliads in the seams of a satellite dish should have been a warning sign. Things mildewed that I didn’t even know would mildew…like vinegar bottles, knife handles, pots and
pans. Leather was obviously a science experiment within 24 hours and absolutely nothing wooden or rubber was safe either. My clothes smelled horrific and remained damp at all times. I have a Miele vaccum that I bought in 1998. The springs rusted during my two months in La Cresta. Many things rusted that were perfectly fine for the year before in Casco Viejo.

It’s the greenery. Green spots trap moisture like the mountains trap clouds. The jungle will trap clouds even without altitude. And like I said of my time in the jungle, I’ll be glad to get back to only 100% humidity. Now, in Casco Viejo, it doesn’t even feel humid to me. I kid you not…I’m seafront, it’s rainy season and to me, that feels tan seco.

I absolutely love this apartment, love it! It is beautiful for starters with the gorgeous tile floors, the internal stone wall, and the lovely tall windows. I love the height of the ceilings. It’s a one bedroom. Now I realize it seems small by Panamanian standards, but to this New Yorker, it’s a huge, old world one bedroom. I really don’t know what the square footage/meters would be here, but I would guess between 1000 and 1200 square feet.

I write this sitting in my front window, window that open like shutters, windows where my African Kuba cloth hangs perfect in the lower panes to provide privacy from pedestrians walking down the sidewalk or beside me in the alleyway. They, I realized, are my version of lace. If you don’t know what Kuba cloth is, Google it now! These textiles are so beautiful. They are earthen colored textiles about the size of a large, uneven placemat. I actually first stumbled across the shopping for placemats. After no luck in department stores or specialty stores, I started walking north on lower Broadway and found a street vendor just yards north of Canal. He couldn’t speak English, but I loved the `placemats’ he was selling. I was astounding by the price. He wanted $25 each. I bargained him into a better price, chose six and went home happy. Only later did I realize most people frame them. They are woven by men and embroidered by women of the Kuba tribe in the Congo. When you flip a piece over, none of the embroidery stitching is seen on the back in spite of it’s intricacy. Each piece takes 1-2 months to make and are all natural fibers from palms. No two pieces are exactly alike. Yes, this is my idea of lace. And it was those pieces of Kuba cloth that began my love affair with African art, especially of two tribes, the Kuba and the Dogon.

But I regress…here I am sitting in my front window as people walk to work at Las Bovedas. Across the cobblestone street, only a wrought iron fence separates me from the sea, Amador side. This morning, the sea is a deep pewter reflection of the rain laden skies broken only by the white capped waves rolling in. I love the rainy season…I like it better than the summer. I find the gray so soothing and unlike London or the Pacific Northwest, there’s way too much sun to ever feel trapped by the gray.

Across the Bay is the Causeway, the Canal and the hills of Veracruz. Figali Convention center with it’s crème façade, rust colored tile roof, one Arabesque peak of gold and flank of green trees makes me wonder if that was the inspiration for my tile floors as the colors match perfectly. And maybe it was the same shade of pewter skies and sea that inspired the pewter colored tile border on my floors?

Depending on where I stand in the apartment, the Bridge of the Americas is like the best painting of all out my front window. First of all, this street is only one block long and to get to it, you must first travel another one block long street that is too tiny for trucks to turn into and even if they could, they would need to be low enough not to scrape balconies. And forget it if there’s any traffic parked on that street. And there always is. So I’m protected from the traffic noise that drove me crazy at the other place where I was on the equivalent of Main Street and worse, directly across the street from the old Union Club which provided a wall to bounce the sound of every car motor, every voice, every horn, every bit of blaring music back into my living room. Yes, a solid baffle for sound that ended up being unliveable. Here, there is no wall in front so the sound of the cars that do pass drifts off across the bay rather than exclusively into my apartment. And though I’ve paid no attention yet, if I wanted to, I could watch ships entering the Canal across the narrow strip of the Causeway.

On Sundays, my `front yard’ is a baseball field, but only at low tide. The position of right field is in the ocean, on rocks or running in tidal pools to shag a fly ball. I must borrow a long lens to capture a close up of a catch in that setting. People down here are intense about their ballgames. They play with an intensity and crowds gather to watch and cheer. I suppose it’s that way in the US or at least it was while I was growing up. Perhaps I’ve just grown jaded around the game as the result of rising prices for everything at Yankee Stadium, where, a family of four out for a day at the House that Ruth Built will cost about $200. And don’t even get me started on salaries that could wipe out poverty in many small countries.

Still, baseball has always taught me many life lessons. People think it’s slow and boring. I think it’s the most fascinating game there is. I also think it requires as much mental effort as chess. It’s like a chess game in that every pitch, every type of hit, every play, every position is directed by well thought out strategies. People who don’t appreciate baseball, in my opinion, perhaps aren’t bright enough to understand it. And it’s unfortunate because it takes connecting on that level to appreciate the abundance of heart that is an equally huge part of the game, both on and off the field.

My particular love was the modern day Yankee dynasty from 1996 through 2000. By 2001, it was over in terms of magic. 1995 was good, too, though it was so anti-climactic to go down to Seattle. The next year, that Yankee killer, Tino Martinez was in pinstripes. And that was the year of the Yankee underdog. People only think about the following years and dismiss the Yankees as buying their titles. People forget that in 1996, the team weren’t expected to do anything. At the end of
the season in 1995, the entire city was abuzz about boycotting Yankee games because Steinbrenner had fired the beloved Buck Showalter and hired a losing nobody named Joe Torre. Joe had some dubious record I now forget, like most seasons on the field without ever going to the World Series both as a player and a manager. The papers were running articles about it with headlines like “Joe Who?” God I wish I had a copy of one of those now.

And there was the washed up Darrell Strawberry and Doc Gooden, the middle relief kid with potential Mariano Rivera and the rookie Derek Jeter. All the fans knew was that their captain Don Mattingly was gone and Joe Torre was considered a loser. And then the magic unfolded in 1996. Torre proved to be elegant, smart and humble and instilled those principles in his team…YES team. There were no superstars and in post-season, anybody could be the hero and many nobody’s were. Remember Chad Curtis? Chad usually played left field and every time he needed to throw it infield hard, he used his whole body like a swan dive to the field, ending up flat on the ground everytime he threw that hard. Jim Leyeritz? I never liked him due to his ego and arrogance and half wondered if, after his heroic post season efforts, it was that very type of a cancer on the team that ended up getting him traded. Nevertheless, Leyeritz had an unimitable swing at the plate like some cartoon cuckoo winding up. And of course, that year’s World Series MVP was John Wetteland, the closing pitcher.

That was the year Joe Torre’s brother had a heart transplant during the Series after waiting years to receive a donor organ. His sister was a nun. Darrell Strawberry made his comeback after drug rehab proving to all that his fabled career would still continue. Doc Gooden pitched a no hitter. That was the year the Yanks were down 3-0 to Atlanta before heading to Turner Field to continue. And everyone thought it was over. But they miraculously won. And that was the last year the ticker tape parade lacked a velvet rope and VIP speakers and was truly about the fans, the team and the game. That was the last year it had heart and soul, 1996. The subsequent ticker tape parades were all about the VIP’s.

The truly purchased Florida Marlins won in 1997. It wasn’t a Series worth watching for me. And the following years of the dream team provided more spiritual lessons than church ever did for me. There was David Wells getting publicly put down for being slack and fat. Two weeks later, in May ‘98, he pitched the 13th perfect game in history. David Cone, at the age of 38 and at the point in his career of when everyone thought he was over, followed suit the following year with his own perfect game. I’m always reminded of these two games when I watch Kevin Costner’s “For Love of the Game”, a lot of which was filmed in Yankee Stadium, is one of my favorite movies because it is one of the rare baseball movies where you actually learn some things about what goes on in the mind of the a baseball player. I remember when he was filming and Page Six reported about Wells and Costner hanging out at the Four Seasons Hotel and it was redneck, hog-rider, Metallica loving Wells that the women were hitting on, not film star Costner who was in the middle of his “No camera shots above that expose my balding head” moment. And the movie seemed to portend the following season for David Cone.

In ‘98, they swept San Diego in the World Series, and oddly enough, San Diego were such big hearted underdogs that I remember feeling as bad for them as I felt good for the Yankees. Scott Brosius, the 3rd basemen who’s career was over the year before was World Series MVP that year, another unlikely post season hero. That year, I will perhaps remember almost even more vividly Padre Tony Gwynn’s elegance. That man was so worthy of everyone’s esteem.

‘99 was the year they swept Atlanta. I was there for the first two games. It was the first time I had been to an away Yankees’ game and was at first, so very odd to be such a tiny minority as a Yankees’ fan. But boy did those of us there compensate by being loud. I lost my voice. I made signs. In the middle of the obnoxious Atlanta “Team of the Decade signs”, I came up with “Team of the Century” for my handmade Yankee poster. I had never seen it before that. It appeared everywhere afterwards. Did anyone see my sign on TV during that series? God knows, I got very lucky with my seats…the second night, I sat about 15 feet away from Willie Mays and Hank Aaron because of the All Century celebrations going on.

Each night, exiting the stadium, all the Yankee caps high-fived each other. I called my friend from a cell phone to laugh when David Cone hit an RBI…Cone an RBI!! That year, Mariano Rivera was the WS MVP. By then, he had set impossible standards and now only had himself to beat. And that year, on the morning of Game 4 in Yankee Stadium, right fielder Paul O’Neil’s father died. He still played that day. The moment the game was over and the Yankees had another title, Paulie dropped to his knees out in the field and started sobbing. He could finally let go. The cameras reeled in like buzzards on road kill and instead of taking their hard earned moment of glory, the rest of the team huddled around Paulie, escorted hi off the field with human shield of privacy, denying the paparazzi their shot of his grief and prioritizing that act over their crowning moment. That was the sort of thing Joe Torre inspired in his leadership and that was what the Yankees were about and that was why they were winning. They were a team. They were there for each other. There were no egos on the field. It was all about heart, humility and small ball.

The following year was the Subway Series. Derek Jeter had become the first Yankee to win All Star MVP and also ended up World Series MVP. The next year was Sept. 11th. I was at the Stadium on Sept. 10th and was supposed to be there Sept. 11th. I was talking to a friend of mine about coming with me. Roger Clements was about to set a record. I no longer remember which one. And that first game back in NYC after 9-11 was when I finally broke down and sobbed… the firemen and policemen lined up along the field with the players before the game, the Eagle grounded at home plate, the Harlem Boys Choir, the images of 9-11 on the Jumbotron, the massive flag across the outfield during opening ceremonies and the tattered flag from the World Trade Center flying above the outfield, the handmade sign “NO FEAR” from the tier box between home and third, the bleacher creatures adding Rudy Guiliani to their pre-game player chant for acknowledgement and Rudy acknowledging like the players do. For hours after that game, I wasn’t sure I could ever stop sobbing. That year, Derek Jeter became the first baseball player in history to hit a home run in November, due to baseball being postponed around 9-11. All Star MVP, WS MVP and then minutes after midnight, he became baseball’s first Mr. November.

And they lost and deserved to lose for playing so badly in Arizona. Of course, Derek Lowe and Randy Johnson had something to do with it. That year, Mariano blew the World Series all by himself. And he walked off the field as calmly as if there would be another inning. Only in big wins have I seen Mo react. I remember times the cameras caught him sleeping during a game out in the bullpen. I used to love sitting in the good seats I had occasional access to and watching up close and personal the interaction between the Yankees in the dugout. They liked each other. By 2001, it was all different. Steinbrenner went after the big bats. He now had more than a desire to win, he was greedy to win. And so he did start trul buying a team designed to slaughter. Problem was, they weren’t a team, they were just a bunch of hired guns getting their paycheck from the same owner. The chemistry was gone. And they haven’t won a World Series since. They didn’t win with the big bats, they won with small ball. It’s not about the big gets, it’s about the constant little ones. Like the NL. Like Joe Torre. Like any lesson in life if you think about it. You revel in the grand slams, though they are as rare as a blue moon, but it’s the little bit on a daily basis that ends up being the constancy that moves you forward in this life.

Anyway, I loved that there is a baseball game on the beach in front of me and I love seeing someone love the game enough that they will play in the ocean at low tide. It’s gotta be hard on the sand…I watched several times as an unhit pitch ended with a thud in the sand and didn’t roll an inch. And I know from volleyball how much harder it is to run in sand. So to see such a large group of folks playing in those conditions for the sheer love of the game was as good as a no hitter in Yankee stadium. I wish I could have seen the Kurundu kids playing at the World Series!

Oh God I love these big sky views across the Bay. I love the peace of this side instead of the view of Paitilla. And I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE the quiet on this side. Even if there is some kind of street noise or if my neighbor is having a BBQ on his balcony or if…blah, blah, blah, I can retreat into my bedroom, close the door, turn on the split, read or watch TV and I have complete silence except for the noise of my choosing inside that room. And that to me is miraculous in Casco Viejo where the biggest complaint I ever heard and the deal breaker I experienced was the noise. It does test your tolerance and at the end of the day becomes unliveable. So to be here, with this view, in this wonderful apartment with tranquility is why I had to live in La Cresta. Because I always have to take a long, self torturing circle back to where I started just to know I’m doing the right thing. Fortunately for me, normally that’s an internal journey and doesn’t involve so much heavy lifting.

And at the end of it all, I sit here soaking up this enormous view from the front window of an apartment I love while feeling that sea breeze slip over my body like weightless silk. I have written many times in an effort to capture the essence of the breezes here and all, I’m afraid, fall short of describing anything close to the reality. I’ve said it is like skinny dipping in air on those humid days of the rainy season. I’ve described it as being akin to silk sensually slipping across the exposed parts of my body. As I sit here, sometimes it’s strong and then suddenly, it stops completely, like a lover’s tease, before starting gently and coming back strong. Maybe if you imagined silk and velvet all wrapped up into one but weighing nothing you could begin to understand. But, like some photos, I’m convinced certain things can only be experienced, not captured nor explained, only felt and appreciated in person, in the moment. And then, without proof and like any other cherished memory, you get to keep it forever.