Panama City, November 2010

Disclaimer: This post is strictly based on my experience in Panama City. I’ve been told that the rest of the country is much different, more agreeable, cheaper, relaxing, beautiful. And I’ve said it before, I’m not a city girl, but I’ve come to believe the city is where the heart beats. The soul you can find elsewhere, but if it doesn’t work in the city, how’s it supposed to work elsewhere?

I didn’t think I was being cocky, but maybe I was. To think I could just pick up and leave and land and live happily ever after without a plan in the world. I came to Panama so “it” would come find me. I came to Panama to fall in love. Do I love it here? Sometimes. Would I come back? Without a doubt. Could I live here? Still in deliberation.

I did not come prepared. I did not come to work with a particular restaurant in mind. I did not understand the distances I would need to cover on the primitive bus system I would come to rely on. I did not come with friends made, or contacts lined up. I did not know I was coming to live in a house full of older, white American men. I didn’t know I was going to hate what the general ex-patriate community has become. I didn’t know they would barely speak the language and defend what they do with “Well, that’s just Panama for ya”.

I don’t want to be that person.

Part of this is no doubt my fault. What I’ve always hated most about the general American is their sense of self-entitlement. That they deserve to be treated better, that they believe everyone should speak English, that they expect and demand courtesy and respect everywhere they go. And almost every older, white American man in Latin America? Living off their retirement and here for the young, beautiful, sassy yet subservient Latina woman, trained from birth to take care of their man and recognize white money. Most of them don’t speak English. I recognize I am painting a very general sort of picture.

I also recognize that it’s my fault that I ended up in a house full of this type of American. And so I recognize that all of the above is true. A lot of my experience here was undoubtedly affected by this.

Panama lacks a culinary culture. There’s no real roots anywhere. They love fast food or street food, and then for those who can afford it, really expensive food. Fine-dining level. I never went to those places. No one ever recommended them. Which means regular people don’t eat there. I am a regular person.

I don’t see an awareness of food, or farm, or land. If I had to survey a favorite vegetable, it might be the plantain. The city is developing at such an extraordinary rate, perhaps pure economics haven’t allowed for extracurricular thought. Much like the music program getting cut from schools, culinary thought is on the back burner. We’re surrounded on all sides by ocean, and even the seafood culture doesn’t seem to go beyond corvina (kind of their national fish) and a small Mercado de Mariscos.

"A donde el corazón se inclina, el pie camina."
A literal translation of this popular saying would go something like “Where the heart goes, the feet follow”. I like this interpretation because for me, it means that I’m allowed to settle in one place when I feel the time is right. But that I’m allowed to pick up and leave when it’s not. Very appropriate, as I think I’m approaching a moment which may count as one of those right times.

Although I spent a lot of time alone, I did meet quite a few people here, and the one thing I notice about all of them is that they’re very well versed in their country’s history. Like, a LOT. They can walk by any statue, park, or street and explain why it’s called this, when it was put there, or for what reason it happened. It’s something I’ve consistently noticed throughout all of Central America. Apparently every Latin American child took their national history class seriously, and to this day, can spit out volumes of information I couldn’t ever dream of doing about the US of A. I even took the AP course.

But then again, I don’t think I’ve ever said that I'm from the States. I tell them I’m from Hawaii. And then, I realize, that I too can drone on for days about the island I call my home, with our unique culture and distinct history. I’ve always been proud to be from Hawaii, to the point where I’ve been made fun of because I get mad when they call me gringa. Oh, helllllll no, I’m no gringa, I’m a hawaiiana. See this black hair and dark skin? Yeah. Hawaiiana.
A pretty famous chef I used to work for once (gulp, twice actually) told me that I needed to focus on forming an end goal, in order to give my life and career a direction. That even though I was a fast learner, got along with people, could adapt quickly and lead a team…if I wasn’t taking the right steps to get toward that goal, then I was just wasting time becoming the Jack of All Trades, but the King of None.

Back then, I wanted to be the Jack of All Trades. I thought it would make me a more valuable employee. But now...I think I finally understand.

"Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar." see Panama slideshow here

A month won't be long enough to know

A friend recently told me I could do anything, because I was a "strong, independent woman". Now, while I know a lot of you are nodding in agreement with that statement, I'll be honest and tell you that I responded to that notion with the idea that it's usually interpreted to mean "doesn't need anyone". Are you still nodding?

My original plan was to be in Panama for the entire month of November, with the idea that after a month, I'll know whether this place feels right. To know that this is where I might belong. The plan to stay all month still stands, but I've changed my mind as to whether that amount of time will be enough for me to make a definitive decision. It's hard to have to start from nothing and make that kind of decision.

I had to disappear for a moment there. These first two weeks have been a bit of a struggle, not knowing what to do or where to go, but I think, mainly, that I had no one to turn to. Having no friends is lonely.

And so each day crawled by a little slower. I stayed up late watching Spanish episodes of Law and Order. I woke up late because I went to bed late. I wondered what I’d do today. Again. There were days I never left the house, as much as I tried to talk myself into at least walking around the block to get outside. But sometimes your inner depression forces its mighty chokehold upon your will, and so more tv it was. I haven’t had cable tv in over ten years.

I find myself having to cook for...myself. When I used to work in restaurants, I would often come home late, throw on a pot of water and a bag of Korean saimin, slices of Spam or frozen sausage, some kim chee, and an egg at the very end. When my case of saimin ran out, I would usually have to steal part of my mom’s stash because the stores were always closed before I got to work and were still closed by the time I got off.

And not to make excuses, but I never made myself anything that took longer than 10 minutes. I'm too tired and too lazy to care about cooking for myself properly. I don't get hungry while working, and tend not to eat at the restaurant either. So despite popular belief that everyone who works in restaurants must eat really well at home, it’s just not true. We don't cook like we do there. We don’t have time.

Except that now, I have lots of time. So I’m cutting my own fish, and butchering whole chickens, and buying fresh fruits and making my own juices from them. Things I used to do for the restaurant and never for myself. It’s a little weird. I’m sure it tastes fine, but it’s probably not as good as it could be, because I have no one to share my food with. There’s no one to cook for. This goes against every reason why I cook. This is not how I was meant to cook.

Please don't misunderstand me, though. Things are not terrible. I have begun to make friends. I am right between the end of rainy season and summer, which means the weather (for me) is perfect. I am beginning to feel like I live here. And any man who tells me I’m “the most beautiful thing he’s seen all day” is going to get the smile that a man who’s hissing at me will not. But most importantly, I am learning about maybe who I really am, or what it is I want, or need. Moral of the story? I really can do anything.

Reflections on Nicaragua...and finally, Panama

Sitting on Jason’s balcony overlooking the Pacific shoreline is every ex-pat’s dream – warm, gentle waves rolling onto miles of beachfront and lush greenness everywhere. This is the life, I want to think. This is paradise.

Except that for me, I’m not looking for paradise. I come from an island that IS considered paradise. If that’s all I needed, I wouldn’t have left. I’ve barely been here a week, and already I feel like I’ve been here a month. Everything about Nicaragua feels the same to me, because nothing really changes. It feels like home, and my nomadic heart doesn’t want to be at home.

I visited my Mechapa host family. Whoa. Things here have changed. My host brothers, who were 11 (Erick), 14 (Helmin), and 16 (Jasser) at the time, are all now 8 years older, which means they’re all grown up now. It’s kind of weird to see boys I used to watch in school parades and run to waterfalls and play dominoes with…as men.

After some initial awkwardness – and a plate of rice, beans, and fried chicken that I ate by myself at the table while everyone else watched – we got over it. They showed me new additions to the house. They told me about their job, or college classes, or lack of a girlfriend, how their dad was getting fat, how their mom was about to qualify for a green card. And how I look taller and skinnier than before. Maybe even prettier. And younger.

Yep. Although I mercilessly teased them about showing game with those last few comments, I was actually kinda proud. My brothers have learned how to woo a woman.

Still, nothing really changes. Taxis still take the long way, buses are still full,we still haggle over a few cents just to get the upper hand. We cram onto the sidewalk to share the corner of shade, and we all walk on the streets because the sidewalks are full.

But maybe I’ve changed. I’m more confident walking the streets these days. I still get the same stares, the same catcalls, and the same “Oye, chinita, chinita!” that once frustrated me so. But I’m not as bothered by it as before. Perhaps I came better equipped mentally, or had already created expectations of it happening. I still fume on the inside, but can now shake my head and laugh it off.

Or maybe I’m finally growing up.

Crossed the border into Costa Rica. Was forced to stay in San Jose overnight. They advertised having cable. This is the cable I watched the Giants win the World Series on. Got repeatedly either locked out of my room, or locked in the hotel-house thing. Meh. Costa Rica gets the big X. Never really ever considered it anyway.

20 bus hours later, I've finally arrived. I’m staying in a town called Las Cumbres, about 20 minutes outside of Panama City. I don’t know anyone down here. I have no jobs or fairs or festivals lined up. I don’t really know the culture, or food, or history. Hell, I've only seen the Canal once. I’m a little nervous, to be honest, starting absolutely from scratch in a foreign place in a city I don’t know with almost nothing in my possession – all based on a happy, comforting, being-alive sensation I had 6 years ago when I visited after having finished Peace Corps.

I guess I’ve come back to see if what I felt was right. Maybe I'm home?

see more pictures of Nicaragua/Costa Rica/my room in Panama