TheExpatJournals.com

For some reason, I feel absolutely every little thing that touches my skin. At first, I thought that was simply my bug/mosquito paranoia. I don’t think so. Most of the time, I look to see what it is and it’s a piece of hair or a string or something innocuous. But it feels so vivid. Wondering why this wasn’t the case in NYC, it’s probably two-fold. First, I rarely went sleeveless or wore shorts nearly as much as I do here and therefore my skin wasn’t exposed to feel it. But also, there just aren’t many bugs in NYC and there, I spent so much more time indoors that bugs weren’t a normal part of awareness. And here, those pesky little hormigas (ants) that are everywhere will sting! Those don’t raise a welt, but for an instant, it’s as though a burning hot needle was poked into my skin that causes me to simultaneously itch…just for a moment. Still, I think the climate has something to do with what feels like increased sensitivity.

I remember deciding that, for my birthday a few years ago, I wanted to go back to where I grew up to go water-skiing on Lake Wylie and then take the boat upriver to eat catfish. So I did with someone I’ve been friends with since we were 5 years old. I will forever carry the memory of jumping in that water to begin skiing. It was like jumping into bathwater, especially relative to how freezing water still is in August in the northeast. As the water so warmly enveloped me, I felt like I was home. I love cold weather, but I can’t stand cold water.

I went up to El Valle last week. At the house where I stayed was a swimming pool fed by a thermal spring they had drilled 200 feet to tap. Water spilled into the pool from a natural looking rock fountain and drained into a pond from the opposite end. El Valle is a valley in the crater of an extinct volcano surrounded by mountains that are in a cloud forest. At night, it gets cool enough to need to sleep under a quilt and frequently, the clouds dip down into the valley. So what an experience it was to float in that wonderfully warm swimming pool on a cool night with the mist of a cloud on my face! Imagine an always clean, always warm, always chemical free swimming pool that needs no filtration? I swear there are pockets of heaven everywhere I’ve been in Panama!

That night, after not being able to light the oven, we went out to dinner at what I understand is one of only two restaurants in town. So as we sat there waiting for our food, there appeared a parade of around 200 students lining each side of the road single file and all carrying hand made lanterns with beautiful designs on the side lit by the candlelight inside. What a beautiful procession! In the center of the line was a marching band. The lanterns the kids carried reminded me of nice street lights at the end of driveways, each about one foot high by 7 or 8 inches wide with inventive designs, some were simply patterns, others were musical lyres and other recognizable cut-outs. All were perched atop a 3 foot mount that resembled a broomstick. In the black night, it was something to stand and look up the road. As far as you could see were these lanterns lining the road. It was the anniversary celebration for the local school. August 17th…mark your calendars for next year, though I’m not sure they do it every year. But I’ll be back to find out.

I have so many things like this happen that my boyfriend thinks I make it up, which he started ‘accusing’ me of after seeing the whales as I left Taboga. When people ask why I moved to Panama, one of the things I say…and I just don’t know another way of stating it…is that, when I came down for a month to check it out, magic unfolded. These kids, that pool and the whales are all examples of the kind of magic that unfolded. You can’t really describe it on the spot and it’s all too personally assimilated to fully relay, nevertheless, as long as I understand it, that’s what matters.

At one point, I tried to describe the noisy neighbors taste in music. This morning, it was at a relatively low volume, meaning I could close my doors and not hear it, but because they were tuned into a station playing American music, the songs should tell the story. The first song I heard this morning was Barry White (whatever the name of the song is that was used in Alley McBeal everytime the wimpy lawyer would feel macho followed by “These Eyes”(have seen a lot of lovin’ but they’re never gonna see another one like I had with you…Wasn’t that Three Dog Night?). So I guess we’re talking adult contemporary 1970’s stuff which for me, is taxing when in the Spanish equivalent at full volume. Again, poor people in my neighborhood may not have much, but they sure have more than adequate stereo equipment. And I can always shut my balcony doors and turn on Blur or Sparklehorse.

So Friday morning, before the mini-hurricane that flooded our apartments and blew a tree down across Avenida Balboa causing already horrific traffic to turn into impossible, I was conducting an experiment. The night before, I inadvertently left a glass of Coca Cola on my balcony and by morning, there was an island of ants in the center of the liquid. I was fascinated.

Shortly, two sweat bees were also swimming non-stop. As I watched, two other sweat bees flew in, crawled down the side just to the edge and had a sip before crawling out and flying away. I wondered what the difference was between them and the two who were captured in the sea of Coke doomed to drown. Having some vague notion that I have developed bee karma over the years by rescuing them from swimming pools, it has become my habit to rescue drowning bees. I’ve only been stung twice in my adult life, but once in Spain, a sting on my toe caused me to swell all the way up to my knee and rendered me unable to wear shoes which was quite an interesting condition in cold, rainy London where I landed the next day. And again, not that many insects in the concrete jungle of NYC. So whether it’s bee karma or luck, it’s not a fear I’ve developed. Anyway, though many sweat bees have landed on me here in Panama, I’ve never been stung by one. Do they not sting here like those we know in the US?

So back to the island of ants…They were as alive as could be and no telling how many hours this had gone on, so I decided to see how long it would go on. It was so strange to see that teeming activity in the middle of this glass. It reminded me of the stories of men who’s ships went down and they all circled together in an attempt to save some from the sharks. I assume the living ants were living due to floating atop a raft of drowned ants. Who needs “Survivor” when you can conduct your very own survival of the fittest experiments?

Then the heavens opened up, rain POURED down and I won’t willingly drown ants again just to see how long they’ll last. My sister lives on 23 acres at the end of a dead-end road next to the swamps that abut Lake Moultrie about an hour north of Charleston, SC, which is semi-tropical. She has always raised many types of plants and breeds exotic birds for a living. She also rescues many animals: leopards, tigers, lions, wolves, etc. I have actually played with an 800 pound tiger behind her house. Anyway, the morning after my ant experiment, out of the blue on the phone, she informs me that ants can live for up to some ridiculous length of time underwater. So I guess my experiment might have turned into something truly morbid were I to wait for the flotilla to perish.

And take note on a very unpleasant topic, her woodvillian outlook provided me with a really interesting home remedy for diarrhea…yes, the thing we are all loathe to even mention. As someone warned me before coming down here, at some point, you WILL need a gastroenterologist, its just a matter of time. So her remedy is to eat plain, white rice with nothing on it…no gravy, no oil, no butter, no nothing…well maybe salt and pepper. Eat a couple of bowls before resuming normal eating and you’ll be cured like I was!

All these things I do here are all the things I missed out on living in NYC for all those years. There’s nothing like living in NYC to give you an appreciation for nature. And there, because of my business, I did the math once and I must have averaged going out to see bands at least 4 times a week for 15 years. To say it no longer interests me is an understatement.

Now, what I find thrilling I find here on a daily basis is what many might think is boring, but to me is absolutely wonderful! Yesterday, I shopped Avenida Central again. I hadn’t been there since immediately following my bronchitis when it was not a pleasurable experience. Even then, I knew it was a reflection of where I was mentally/emotionally. People read people. If you’re not emitting a ‘I’m a happy person and am someone who is not only not threatening nor arrogant, but I invite an exchange,” then you seem to fall into a category of weak or scary. People have radar and ‘where you are’ is easy to sense on the scope. So I wasn’t surprised that day when I saw dead puppies and was reprimanded. But this time, it was back to the normal wonders of shopping Avenida Central where everyone is friendly and new discoveries abound.

Note: I just took a break to go smoke a cigarette…yes I know, I have to quit again and it’s horrible that I’m smoking, blah, blah, blah…What can I say? It’s a horrible addiction and I can’t believe there’s still no insurance coverage for prevention, only consequences. Anyway, while on the balcony, to the sound bed of Simon & Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence” coming from next door, I watched a little girl across the way in her living room dancing to music I couldn’t hear while throwing bread crumbs to pigeons on her balcony. Every moment in Casco Viejo paints a picture of some beautiful sort.

And back to Avenida Central, it seems all produce is a quarter: .25 cents for a pound (libre) of potatoes, beets, a head of lettuce, a four pack of garlic, a cup of the orange juice I love so much, empanadas de guayaba, etc. Oh my God…this is my new favorite fruit and I had never even heard of it, but I now have Guayaba jam, drink Estrella Azul’s guayaba and pina (pineapple-pronounced peenyah) juice…and sorry, but I don’t have a Spanish keyboard to type in the proper tildas, etc and am too lazy to seek it out on an English keyboard.

I have also developed quite a taste for fried, sweet plantains and those tiny, tiny bananas. Plantains are everywhere and I’ve learned that the ones that look like bananas that are so overboard ripe that the only possible use might be banana bread are the ones to buy if you want to fry sweet plantains. The ones that look perfectly ripe as bananas go are used for patacones. I was surprised to learn that patacones are not breaded as I thought, but rather simply smashed plantains. And yesterday, where I bought a large, shallow wooden bowl in the Mercado de Artesanos off La Plaza de Cinco de Maya, the gentlemen also had a small wooden device, that looked like a box until you opened it, used for smashing plantains if it’s patacones you want.

Before I move on, it has really struck me how Panama uses a combination of systems, both US and metric. There are kilometers, not miles and gallons, not liters, but there are pounds instead of kilos. Bizarre…does any other country mix systems?

Anyway, one of the most enjoyable moments of shopping yesterday was when I was directed to a man who had those tiny bananas to sell. As with most of the merchants, he was so friendly. When I approached, he was with a group of 3 others beside his stand and they were playing music with instruments that don’t immediately come to mind. They were in a groove though! The baby bananas, which are considered a gourmet item in NYC and cost over $5 a pound, are still on the limb from the tree. He pulls out a small machete and cuts me the requested pound. For .25 cents (of course), I bought 12. I guess the stems weigh in a bit or it’s more expensive in the city because in El Valle, I bought 3 for a nickel. But it was worth twice the price to watch him hack them off for me. How cool that seemed relative to all the sterile packaging I’m
accustomed to.

Speaking of gourmet items, I used to live a block away from Balducci’s, a Village landmark now gone that sold gourmet food. They used to seasonally sell fiddlehead ferns…the curly-cue part that is the beginning of a new frond, as an expensive specialty item. I was always intriqued, but never knew how to cook them and never tried. In El Valle, I took photos of fiddlehead ferns that were larger than a baby grand. That has happened many times here and the closest I’ve come to describing that to folks is to say that there are what we know to be houseplants here that are Jurassic-sized.

Anyway, I also thoroughly enjoy it when the Avenida Central merchants decide to give me Spanish lessons on the spot, usually around the Spanish names of vegetables. It’s always one of those sweet, amiable exchanges and then you’re gone. It’s almost like complete strangers are quick to take you under their wings for a brief moment in time and then disappear.

It’s happened for me at pharmacies, buying fabric, and seems always present if I’m willing to participate. And I am willing. And it’s very nurturing for the soul somehow. It is certainly a constant validation of my impression of Panamanians as warm, gentle, big-hearted people.

I also had a merchant insist I take a load off…by this time, I was toting quite the load as I left the Mercado de Artesanos at Plaza Cinco de Mayo for last because of my intentions to buy ceramic pots for plants and then hop into a taxi for home. So I sat for awhile in a rocking chair he had for sale. He told me that ‘Now, I was being Panamanian.” At first, he had tried to sell me tourist trinkets and I was not interested. I told him I lived here…as in, why do I want some crappy little trinket with the word Panama on it? I did end up buying this wonderful wooden chopping board from him for $4. I had been looking for one and I liked his handmade board more than the commercial ones for three times the price. It was hot, I had too much to carry and sitting there was quite pleasant. I hit the ceramics stand, bought a couple of large pots and the guy carried them out to the taxi for me, otherwise, it would have been two trips with all I had purchased. By this point, I had bought 3 bath towels, dishwashing liquid, floor cleaning liquid, 4 double rolls of Scott tissue ($1.44), tomatoes, cucumber, lettuce, guayaba empanadas, 4 pounds of potatoes, 2 pounds of beets, 2 plantains, 1 pound of tiny bananas, peppers, garlic, fresh peas, the huge wooden bowl, a small painted coconut container, the large chopping board, and now the huge ceramic planters. Total tab was roughly $40-$45.

Today I went to the Mini-Max in Bal Harbour. I bought rice noodles, 2 peppers, 1 pound of tofu, mushrooms, lemongrass, a massive amount of basil, cheese, another head of lettuce and 3 small squash. The tab was $20. ‘Specialty items’ I ‘can’t live without.’ Actually, I’m allergic to wheat…so you know those guayaba empanadas are worth the price of admission…and these rice noodles I use in lieu of fettucini are the best I’ve ever had anywhere. I have never eaten more pasta than I do these days because of how good those noodles are. .75 cents a pack will provide 3 servings for me. In all fairness, the cheese I bought was $6 and the basil was $2.50. That same amount of basil in the US, would cost anywhere from $25-$40. What I bought took me well over an hour to de-stem and wash. Once chopped, only about half of it fit into one of my largish, stainless mixing bowls. I’m gonna have pesto for months! (Or make friends and neighbors happy to know me.: ) PS…if you don’t add the parmesan until you’re actually preparing it, fresh pesto will keep 2-3 months in the fridge and 5-6 months in the freezer.

Yesterday was that kind of day. I made pickled beets, tofu marinade, made the pesto and I pickled fresh lemongrass . I will use the marinated tofu along with lettuce, thin sliced marinated cucumbers and shredded carrot, the pickled lemongrass and fresh mint in what I call Vietnamese fajitas (my own version of summer rolls), also delicious with grilled shrimp! If you have never tried the combination of shrimp, lemongrass and mint, you don’t know what you’re missing. I can buy rice paper in this same market, something I always had a difficult time finding in NYC, but then again, I had more than one favorite Thai and more than one favorite Vietnamese restaurant there. Who needed to cook? Here, I end up making my own little gourmet take out so eating during the week is not too time consuming. I don’t have the patience every day and so many of these items aren’t on menus here or I’d be eating out instead of taking a domestic day. My Southern heritage loves the fried foods here, but thank God it gets old pretty quickly.

On the Casco Viejo dog update, as much as I adore Manuela, I’ve created a bit of a monster. Her owner goes to work all day every day and now Manuela will sit out on the balcony and whine or howl as though her heart were breaking in hopes of me coming to get her. Like any kid, she quickly learned how best to manipulate. It usually works. We spent about 16 hours together over the weekend.

If you remember the story about me chasing the dog off with a broom late one night, that story revolved around 3 dogs that were a nuisance. Two were the ones who were poisoned and the one I chased off was the mascot of the tourist police station. I haven’t seen that dog in almost two weeks now, so I am assuming it is permanently gone. So all three of those dogs from the story are now either definitely dead or presumed dead.

And it’s more quiet here as a result. The dog next door is so intimidated by me, that when she begins to bark, all I have to do is walk out on the balcony and she runs inside. And that is as it should be. I’ve never touched the dog and the worst I’ve done is squirt her with water. People think dogs understand your words. I think dogs understand your tone. Either that, or they’re certainly gifted with languages because I’m assuming I could be the only English they’ve ever had directed their way.

Honestly, this neighborhood has the ugliest dogs I’ve ever seen anywhere! No one takes care of them, they’re mangy and decrepit and were already incredibly ugly mutts before illness set in. I really should take some photos. It’s actually quite heart-wrenching if they weren’t such a pain. Whenever I walk Manuela, I have to carry a stick to protect her from these local mongrels.

So I learned a valuable lesson this morning when I walked to the corner Chino’s to buy milk. Who is served first has nothing to do with who arrived first. It’s who speaks up first. And that’s the last of this saga. I may not post much else before October as I’ll be in NYC for the month of September. Leaving Casco Viejo on September 1 and hoping Torrijos inaugural activities won’t provide a departure problem given my proximity to the Presidential Palace. Arriving NYC in the middle of the Republican Convention where I know I’ll have, at least, movement problems. My apartment is 11 blocks north of that one and way too near all the hotels around Times Square. Oh joy. Could I have timed it worse if I had tried?

I’ve said to some that I could never in my wildest imagination conceive of anywhere that could so captivate me so that I didn’t miss NYC for a moment. I haven’t missed NYC for a moment. The last time I tried to move away, I felt horribly depressed after 3 months because it was so miserable not living there. Were it not for the World Series in Atlanta where I got to watch the Yanks sweep the Braves while seated 12 feet away from Hank Aaron and Willie Mays (my journal in the form of a letter to friends at that point in time was called, “Baseball Equals Life” and they’ll never know how true that was.), well I don’t remember anything else in life at that point that could quite compensate for the loss of not being in NYC. I couldn’t let go and as I used to say to people, because NYC in on tv and in films all the time, it’s like breaking up with a lover and then watching home movies of the two of you practically every night. I can’t let go. I would find myself watching something on television and needing to remember what was behind the camera. And it hurt to know NYC was changing and I wasn’t there to know about it. I felt so left out.

This time, after 3 months, I just don’t care what’s changed or even how the Yankees are doing…and anyone who has known me a long time would think that paramount to sacrilege in my book because they all know me as a die hard Yankee fan. I didn’t even subscribe to Beisbol on DirectTV down here! It’s not really that I dread going back, it’s that I would prefer to remain here, in Panama, because I love it so. This time, leaving Panama is like leaving a new lover you’ve just fallen madly in love with…no matter where you are, it ain’t a gonna compensate.