TheExpatJournals.com

I came home tonight determined to take the night off and just rest. I am sometimes feeling exhausted less than two hours after I get up, not a good thing. For one thing, I get so absorbed in what I’m doing that I tend to forget to take care of myself and one of the best things you can do for yourself anywhere, but especially here is drink lots and lots of water. It’s amazing how far that simple remedy can go in terms of energizing though I typically am more aware of its ability to diminish the lack of energy.

So just as I’m approaching my building, I’m listening to the local party on the street around the corner, one of those brass bands coming from the direction of Chorillo and a concert on the Causeway…all at once, this cacophony of sound blending into just another typical Friday night. But above it all, came this chirp, chirp, chirp from the beach below and for me, shut out all else. I became so focused on the constant cry of this bird that I had to walk over to the fence to see. I mean, except for certain night predators like owls, don’t most birds roost at night? I am accustomed to thinking that if you hear a bird at night, it’s like an alarm that something is wrong.

I do spot the creature on the exposed rocks of low tide, though it is so dark and the bird camoflauges so well, that he was only truly visible when he moved. But that mournful chirp for some reason caught
me. I imagined all sorts of things, wondered why he/she was alone at night. Was he hurt? Could he not get out of the rocks because of the puddles of sea in between? Was he crying for help and no one was coming?

Sometimes, the movement enabled me to catch a flash of his eyes with the light of a streetlamp reflecting off of them in the dark. And for some reason, that reminded me of looking up at the diamond shards that individual snowflakes always seem to be in the New York City night. And I associate that with a quiet time in the city and a lonely time for some reason…well, actually the reason is because it is one of the most beautiful things in the world to me and usually, I experienced it alone. And it’s a shame to not be able to share that moment. Granted, there were times I did, but more times I didn’t I
suppose.

And as I keep trying to catch his now shiny bright eyes while he moves, from somewhere towards Sagrada Familia, I hear the same chirp a bit further away. And now knowing there are more of his kind, I am released and able to continue on inside.

All of it lands somewhere inside me where it is dark and quiet and lonely, that place with no words, just feeling. I suppose the best I can describe it is summed up by something I used to say…that I loved the dark comfort of a thunder storm.

Speaking of thunderstorms, we have had two days back to back with rainy season worthy storms. You would think it was August or October! I was walking around today with an umbrella when it occurred to me…why the hell do they make umbrellas out of metal instead of rubber. Don’t you essentially end up walking around holding a lightening rod that way?

I was taught as a kid to begin counting after you see lightening…1 1000…2 1000…3 1000.. and when you hear the thunder, that’s how many miles away the storm is. Today, just as I was walking out of a Chino, I watched a woman plug her ears the minute the lightening hit and indeed, the thunder was instant, no distance at all, and is the kind of thunder that sets off most car alarms. Clouds are so low
here, you are in the storm, not below it. Literally.

This little rare moment of night writing was just interrupted by our local homeless guy with AIDS. You can wag your finger the Panamanian way to say, “No, do not bother me” but some people do not care. There are more beggars in this neighborhood that there probably are in the all of NYC…or it feels that way sometimes. I live on Planta Baja, so they constantly come to my window as though my privacy is completely irrelevant. And to them, it is.

They stop you on the street. But this guy, I hear, used to be quite a good painter. I still hate how aggressively he begs and when someone begins, for the umpteenth time…”I have no family”, well shall we say I sure hope his painting style is worlds away from his panhandling style. At least in NYC, I can remember panhandlers like Condom Man near the subway exit on 6th and Bleecker. They guy had a 2 foot tall condom hat. And I remember another guy there who used to sing, “Beggars in the Night” to the tune of “Strangers In the Night”, but not here. Here, it’s more the fake pathetic face…feel sorry for me and give me money. That doesn’t work too well with me and is more apt to backfire than not. Where the kids picked it up is beyond me!

All the little kids don’t use it with me anymore and actually rarely even ask me for money. They will sometimes ask me to buy them a soda and I usually refuse. But I hug them and talk to them and it’s great to watch them smile when they see me and say, “Amiga Lassie.” I’ve tried to explain to the kids that Lassie is a dog on TV and my name is Leslie, but they can’t quite pronounce Leslie and Lassie is now so ingrained that I just gave up.

Yesterday, I was sitting on the stoop when 3 kids I know when by and after the “Amiga Lassie” from the middle of the street, I called, “Ven aca.” I, again, explained that Lassie was a dog, told them the
correct pronunciation only to have him end up saying something that sounded like lettuce. So now I telling him that he is either calling me a dog or lettuce. The kid did nail the pronunciation at one point,
but moments later, already couldn’t remember. I give up. Amiga Lassie it is. Maybe I should try Lelie like many of the adults still pronounce my name?

So I don’t get to write very much these days. I’m working all the time, both on things that matter to me in a social sense, in a cultural sense and then there is the unfortunate realty of needing to earn a living which is harder from here and even harder when you’re essentially trying to change careers this late in the day and, oh yeah, down here. Still, something inside still knows I’m home. So all I can do is take the next right step and have a little faith.

This neighborhood has changed so much since I first got here that it’s crazy! This year alone, I can think of 6 new businesses in the neighborhood. And it’s not such a big neighborhood. Sometimes I hear more English in La Casona than Spanish. Sometimes it feels like there are more foreigners in this neighborhood than Panamanians. Even apart from the daily invasion of tourists. And sometimes, I wish I had a crystal ball to know how much longer there will even be what we now call the local population in here. Funny I should phrase that `in’ here instead of `living’ here. It is like this place is apart,
separate, its own world. Sometimes, I feel like I only go into `the city’ maybe once a week. I’ve said it before and it’s more true than ever…I don’t live in Panama City. I live in Casco Viejo.

So again, I don’t get to write very much these days. I’m working all the time. But every now and then, I have a moment. It doesn’t seem to me that these moments add up to enough to write about, but once I start, I usually surprise myself by where I wander.

Tonight, I had an appointment in Balboa. So I get in a taxi. And this guy says something to me in English he is obviously proud of being able to say, except that he calls me `Sir’ and `Mister.’ So I explain to him that is like calling me Senor. I tell him it’s `M’am.’ He seems to doubt me, so he pulls out his handy Spanish/English dictionary and we look up sir, by now pulling over to the side maybe two blocks from where I live. I explain to him that we have two ways of addressing women, so I can’t exactly say that m’am is like Senora because it could also apply to Senorita. But, by now, he thinks Miss is correct until he sees in his dictionary Mrs. So I explain that’s like Senora or Senorita, but that in English, `M’am’ will work to address either and is easier for him. So he learns a new word. And now I have to wonder…isn’t `M’am’ short for Madame? And have any of you actually ever written the word `M’am’ or just said it?

There was a football game in the center of Chorillo as we passed and, as usual, the fence surrounding the field had people hanging off every side watching the game. It’s always uplifting somehow to watch how into these kids soccer games they are. Last week, I was in a taxi heading over in the same direction and when we got to the edge of Chorillo, just before you turn right and go under the bridge into another world that used to be called The Canal Zone, these kids were playing ball on the corner in an empty lot. And for a moment, I had fun just because I could see the fun they were having.

I almost bought a car this week, but didn’t. And tonight, with this guy and with my exhaustion and with my propensity for the internal landings so dark and morbid upon occasion, I had this moment of thinking about how I seem to forever be drawn out of that self centered proclivity and into some sign of life outside me, be it the driver himself or what I’m seeing out the window. If I had been in my own car, I would be all alone with my thoughts and probably miss so much of what pulls me out of that place and back into life. And I define life as living, not just being alive.

I don’t know why this neighborhood, not Panama City but Casco Viejo, is such a life affirming, life giving cocktail for what ails me and holds me back, but I know that it is. And like something you thought you had lost until it was recovered, I cannot take that for granted and I love it more than ever. In spite of how little I’m writing about it these days.

I sat at lunch today with two men from Estonia. It seemed like I knew everyone who passed us by. I like that. I like living in a neighborhood instead of behind some gate or concierge. I like the pleasantries we exchange, the way time passes and we grow even more pleasant with one another with the trust that brings. This place is far from perfect, but it sure is perfect for me. To this day, I
haven’t missed NYC for a moment. But sometimes, I do still miss the snow.

I just heard bats. I love that sound. I hope it rains again tomorrow. I love the rain. It’s so heavy it’s like a blinding snowstorm. It literally whites out any views. Summer is nice and the evening temperatures could not be any more perfect, but I am someone who prefers the rainy season in spite of how scary that lightening can be. I like getting my feet wet when I walk anywhere. I like the sound
of rain. I like how it cleanses the air of the putrid smells of garbage and washes away the human and animal urinal these streets are. I’m sensitive to smell and that, my friends, is no picnic in the sweltering day time summer sun of the tropics. No, I’m a rainy season kind of gal, I’ve decided.