Arriving after a nine hour layover certainly isn’t ideal but it gives me an excellent excuse to sleep all day without fear of guilt or loath, since I’ve still got plenty of time to get wasted. On my first flight I was jarred into reality as the plane lurched to one side and an elderly southern flight attendant grabs my chair to keep from falling, then in a dark humor looks at me and says “I don’t know about this driver” as she raises an only slightly sarcastic eyebrow. Some eighteen odd hours later I finally descend into Panama City, where I’m met by two lovely and familiar faces. Now I sit watching two men slap paddles across a table in a beautifully ancient hostel known as Luna’s Castle in Casco Viejo, Panama City. Yesterday as I arrived in this tropical metropolitan I am greeted by Rachelle, my love and her cousin and my dear friend Monica. Graffiti abounds the walls of every concrete surface in familiar and bizzare ways. Brightly multicolored apartment balconies show how every place of home has been uniquely customized to providing a distinct lack of uniformity, a collage of DIY home projects, surrounded by the lush explosions of tropical flora.
Upon entering any country I always find myself considering the impact my own homeland has had upon it. Strange as it is to say the USA may have actually not only supported this country in it’s most ambitious and profitable project, the Panama Canal but in doing so made this country a global economic power in it’s own right. That being said we didn’t relinquish control of the Canal Zone until 1999 December 31, and the construction cost the lives of thousands, many of which were slaves brought here to perform labor for benefit of colonial assholes (as is usually the case with such servitude). To be fair our tardiness in giving Panamanians their primary source of commerce is for the most part due to our clinginess to things we put billions of dollars and resources into, we also like to put our fingers in a lot of pies if you know what I mean (wink).
After settling into our hostel Rachel, Monica and I made our way across the freeway to an outdoor market where they each ordered a styrofoam cup of ceviche, shrimp for Monica, octopus for Rachel. Meanwhile I wait patiently avoiding the eye contact of wandering merchants until my deep fried red snapper arrives, head, fins and all. Although my stomach is still queasy from the flight it’s not enough to stop me from choking down a few fish bones. Buildings here in Casco Viejo are ancient, harking back to an era where colonials, conquistadors and pirates decided it was their God given right to lay claim and plunder the land and it’s people in whatever way they saw fit. Old cathedrals both in restoration and ruin share the streets with chic bars, restaurants and cafes. Several streets are blocked off and guarded by armed men to protect El Residencia de el Presidente, a shocking fact which detoured us around half the neighborhood.
A few… Scratch that- Many drinks later we return to Castle Luna, and maybe it’s just my new beer goggles but I begin to notice all of the art decorating every wall and ceiling, like someone here intended to turn the space into an impromptu art gallery with every style from impressionism to abstract throw-up to spiritual geometry.
Luna´s Castle Hostel
I’m drawn into a ping-pong game with a local jewelry merchant by the name of Alex, most of his craft is wire wrapped gemstones and swirling metal, all things which are familiar to me from the street stalls back on Telegraph ave in Berkeley. However generic his gems might appear to me (of course speaking as a Cali raised child of hippies and being burnt out on the idea of stones wrapped in coils) Alex did turn the three of us onto a local salsa club literally around the corner, and praised be the gods of diversion, there’s a pool table there. We walk in a spiral in the opposite direction but find the place when Monica’s Cabrera compass kicks in (an old familial trait Rachel seems not to have inherited). Lo and behold the night we arrive they are not having a show, as per usual, but instead having an event organizers pow-wow for the sake of all the local community musicians and the folks that make sure they have a stage to perform on. Fortunately this funky little spot can’t stay quiet for long and after wandering towards some cocktails, calamari and baby octopus we find our way back to this quaint but provocative spot known as Piña Calavera. When we return the music is pumping but the place is empty save for some obvious regulars most of which are in the back away from the stage, smoking cigarettes and playing pool. With the dance floor all to ourselves and being out numbered by the band I find the confidence to step on my girlfriend’s toes a few times as she teaches me how to salsa. We choke down a Jaeger bomb, smash some foosball then wander out back where I ask if I can play in the next game of stripes and solids. A gentleman whose name I forget and who made a ritual of making out with his lady everytime it was his turn wrecked me, twice.
Humbled by my loss and new found hole in the wall, I swagger back to our hostel where I find myself laying naked under a fan, yet still sweating, with only a thin sheet to protect the other residents from my glistening figure garnished with swamp crotch. Intending to wake up at 6 am to catch the train to Colon to see the newly expanded canal locks, me and Rachel talk into the night and the small hours of the morning, crying, laughing and almost waking our bunkmates (or perhaps doing so but without hearing any scorn for it). We eventually rest our heads together at five in the morning, an hour before we were set to wake, and we sleep until we have less than an hour to check out of our room. Timing is everything.
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