thefutureisred

Homecoming Is As A Bittersweet Chocolate Truffle

We spent six months living in Panama, most of that time on a tiny island off the Caribbean coast where only a footpath leads from one side to the other, and everyone knows each other by first name. There are no big name stores, no buying in bulk and never a crowd. Then we went back to the United States.

Before we left Panama, though, we spent a week in the San Blas islands.  Wichaub Huala, one of the bigger of those islands, had even even fewer amenities than Bocas. One lightbulb lit the path in front of the guest house, and the few toilets were meant for visitors. Those living there simply didn't seem to need them. We felt oddly at home there in spite of the difference.

Then back to Panama City to catch the plane to Atlanta, Georgia where we found soft, thick mattresses, air-conditioning and Lenox Mall.

Yes, Lenox Mall, like Disneyland, only everything sells for cheap.

We went to the mall in search of clothing. Most of ours had been destroyed in Bocas. That’s sort of the nature of living on the water. Sand, salt and rain can do that to your stuff. And while a salt bitten sundress with thinning patches wears perfectly well there, here, in shiny clean Atlanta, it seems hobo-ish.

We parked in the side of the mall near Macy's, wended our way through the men's section to the open expanse by California Pizza Kitchen overlooking the food court with Chik-Fil-A, Nathan’s and Mrs. Field’s When I was in high school, there was a movie theater there too, and to this day, even though I know it’s gone, I somehow forget and find myself standing in front of a wall wondering where to buy tickets. No movies or curly fries today, though. Instead, up the elevator to level three.

We passed by Lindt where a large woman in an apron offered up a silver tray of truffles and greet-the-public smile plastered on her face. We each took one then sat on a bench near Panera Bread Company to eat.

When I say eat, I mean as an event. You take only a small bite, letting the taste cover every surface of your mouth with not-too-sweet, creamy, gorgeous chocolate. I shared my dark chocolate  with Lila, and she traded me for a bit of her white. I hadn’t experienced anything like that in a very long time.

Cacao beans grow all over the Bocas archipelago. One of our last nights there, we splurged and stayed at the La Loma Jungle Lodge. Wooden cabins built on stilts in the middle of Isla Bastiementos. The only way out was a boat in one direction and a good pair of shoes and machete in any other.

But why would we want to go anywhere else when we could pad barefoot around the grounds, an old cacao plantation. The owners cultivate the beans and use them to make cakes and cookies they serve during long luxurious meals in the main lodge house at night. During the day, two local women work behind the main lodge to grind the beans into paste, then dry the paste into a fine rich cocoa powder. Still a very long journey from there to the chocolate we held in our hands on that bench our first day back.

Meanwhile, folks bustled around us going who knows where and moving faster than anyone ever moved on the islands. I’d forgotten about rushing. There was never a need on Bocas. Rush where? The beach, waves and little red frogs found only on those islands would still be there. It would still be hot. It might rain, but it might not. 

Every day, we walked down a sandy path to one of the beaches where we collected shells, sponge and anything else we found washed on shore. Lila ran ahead of me, sometimes lagged behind. She disappeared behind a bunch of palm trees only to materialize again on the other side of a wooden plank passing over a little ravine filled with tiny red fiddler crabs and the occasional large blue. Sometimes Lila scored with a raggedy toy washed up from the water. We brought back our treasures, painted them or with them. Popped the bubbles in the sea weed. Then made dinner and went to bed when we were tired.

Shopping, generally only for supplies, meant a boat into town to one of the stores there. My favorite was Lorelei's super gourmet where sometimes chocolate chips and cans of White Rose chickpeas, the bottom shelf store brand I know from New York. graced the shelves. Those chick peas are even more exotic to Lenox Mall, though.

That’s when Lila took off her shoes and started running down the shiny brown and white marble floor to disappear behind a shifting curtain of people moving into GAP, out of The Icing, stopping at Starbucks for a coffee and into check the latest great deal at BCBG.

I rushed to catch up with her, panicking a bit, and guided her back to our bench where her grimy beach kissed shoes sat untouched. I asked her to put her shoes back on.

She asks me why.

What should I tell her?

When Money Divides You: The Difference Between Tourist and Local

Last week, I wrote about scams and how to avoid them while traveling based on an experience I had with a cab driver in Buenos Aires. The comments on that post raised an important point. There is a marked difference between tourists and locals, particularly when traveling through the so-called developing countries. Most times the distance can be measured monetarily.

In Bocas del Toro, a sign at the local boat dock advertises one dollar for the short boat ride across the bay to Isla Carenero, the island where we lived. That price drops to fifty cents if the boat guy knows you. And if you're family or a close friend -- often one and the same in Bocas -- you might just hitch a ride for free if a tourist is already going your way.

Locals often assume that travelers are loaded, and most of the time, it's comparatively true. Backpackers tend to carry a lot of cash. Bloggers stash laptops and cameras in their specialized padded backpacks, also not cheap. Even the most frugal will usually have an ipod. Imagine that your third-hand beaten down ipod costs more than a month's even a year's salary to many people across this planet.

But just because a traveler has more money than a local, does that mean we should necessarily pay a higher price for the exact same service?

On the one hand:  What difference does that fifty cents make to you? How much more would it mean to your boat driver and the family he supports?

Matador Travel talks about 10 Conscious Choices To Make On Your Next Trip in order to be a more responsible traveler which includes supporting local businesses. It also suggests you look at locals and see them not as beggars just looking for handouts, but really seeing the local boat man or the woman selling empanadas out of a bucket as people. 

That's much harder to do when you know your empanada costs more simply because you weren't born locally. How are you supposed to look at the boat guy as just another human being when he looks at you as if you're little more than a human money dispenser? In addition, when all tourists agree to pay a higher level of pricing, the entire economic structure inflates, ultimately impacting locals as well.

Then there's Poverty Tourism, also so viscerally known as "Poorism." The concept, in its idealized state, allows those with travel money to connect with those who not only don't have travel money, often don't have adequate housing, schooling, clean water or shoes. But really, how often is the reality of a concept ideal? Poorism, and I sort of choke a little every time I type the term, by its very nature posits two separate groups of people. The Haves and the Have-Nots. The Us and the Them. What sort of real connection can be made under such circumstances?

Well, those with money are more likely to give if they see who they are helping. Would it mean more to know your ten dollar contribution to Bocas Education Service Organization (BESO) goes directly to buy shoes, uniform and backpack for a little girl named Rita, the adorable six-year-old whose hair is tied back with her favorite ratty pink ribbon? She's lived on the island her whole life, and without your help, she probably won't go to school. With an education, she can read, write and suddenly has the opportunity to be a teacher or work in a local business. Without an education, if she can't find a job cleaning for a dollar an hour or less, she may well end up in Changuinola working as a prostitute by the time she's fourteen.

Sounds harsh, but all too true, and you're not likely to find this reality in your average vacation photos.

So, must we simply accept the reality of separate pricing? The local one for those who live on less and one for those of us who have the money to travel. Or should we rail against this system, thus putting tourists and locals on the same level, eating the same foods, going to the same places and interacting as equals.

What do you think?

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Photos courtesy of Alex Barth and bradipo's Flickrstreams

On this Memorial Day In Appreciation, In Gratitude.

I'll admit, I didn't think much about the significance of Memorial Day until relatively recently. I knew it to be a day off in remembrance of soldiers, but I never knew anyone who actually had been to war or sent their children to war. It was a day of barbeques, one of the first days off of the summer. 

Three separate people brought the true nature of Memorial Day to my attention.

The first: Laura McD. A woman I know through this blog. She's sweet, supportive, a really lovely person. I hear from her through Facebook and keep up with her photography on her blog. Right now, the main page shows a picture of Laura, her husband and her son the day before her son started basic training. Through Laura, I've come to gain just a little understanding of what it's like to know that your child is away fighting. It takes tremendous faith.

The second: I met this guy in Bocas del Toro, Panama. He had been in Iraq but discharged early because of a tank explosion in which he lost a leg. He spent months in hospital recovering and eventually made his way to Bocas. It's unfortunate, because Bocas is a place many go to hide or escape. Clearly, this soldier's time in Iraq left other wounds and not once did I see this person sober. I hope he is able to find his way.

Then, third, I met another soldier through Couchsurfing. His name is Charles.This man, only 25 years old, is unbelievably well traveled. Albania, Lesotho, Hong Kong and has lived in tens of places as well. He calls Baghdad home now. Charles writes of his personal life philosophy of mutual respect and understanding, of general being decent and focusing on here, now, today.

I often picture the world as a huge map. Some people stay in one place. Others shuttle back and forth, go here to there, never stay still. Paths move together, intersect, you meet, then the paths lead away again. I somehow doubt I'll ever see that boy from Bocas again, but you never know. Charles and Laura, perhaps we will meet one day. I have come to believe that anything is possible and with enough patience, time has a way of bringing those together who want to be together.

One last thing. The Map of the Fallen, a map of those who have died in service with lines linking from where they served to where they were born and lived. It looks amazingly like the map in my head.  There's great power in actually seeing the faces of those who have fought and died, and great pain in knowing that because of their duty, we will not cross paths again on this planet.

We're Going Back to Bocas

Actually, we're back in Bocas now. Arrived just after a huge storm, probably bigger tban any they've had in 100 years. The roads on the mainland to here are damaged. Food, water and other supplies were cut off for a while. But things are back to normal now. Except no tourists.

The Page 56 Game

"It was hard to work so hard and not receive a single word of thanks -- in fact, to have their efforts invariably greeted with resentment.

The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down

Anne Fadiman

A friend of ours from Bocas, Henry Escudero posted this on Facebook. What a great game!

The Rules

• Grab the book nearest you. Right now.
• Turn to page 56.
• Find the fifth sentence.
• Post that sentence along with these instructions as a comment on the blog or as a Facebook note, whicheer you prefer.  Don't forget to include the title of book and author.

Henry, by the way, owns and runs the La Loma Jungle Lodge on Isla Bastiementos. We stayed there for a couple days just before leaving Bocas. It is a unique place. So many of the resorts in the area move in and take over. Henry and his wife Margaret work within the natural resources of the island. They've reclaimed the cocoa trees surrounding them and hired local people to process the cocoa and work with them to maintain the lodge and its land.

When Does It Become Old Hat?

You'd figure after more than a year of constant moving, we'd be used to this. But no. This morning finds us tense, crabby and snapping at each other as we go through our things once again.

We don't have that much. Only a smallish suitcase and two backpacks, but the two hammocks we acquired here take up half the suitcase which leaves no room for our stuff and the gifts we're bringing back. (I have eight of those bags I told you about in my last post.)

Everything we have is laid out on the living room floor right now. Slowly, too slowly, each thing finds a place in one of the bags. What do we need for the last week? What can be tucked safely away not to be touched until we arrive in Atlanta? We also have another larger suitcase at Melissa and Fred's in Panama City that will have to be rearranged before we fly out of Panama too.

I hate this. It just never gets any easier.

Then again, maybe it does. Sorting and packing our Brooklyn apartment took months of cleaning, rearranging, boxing. Blah blah blah.

Yes, blah. That's exactly how I feel right now. It's raining out, and a friend of Lila's has been here all morning. Amani Marcos Guita. He teases Lila. She screams. The more she screams, the more he teases. We're all exhausted from it. The neighbor behind us brought some pizza over for LIla to see if perhaps that would calm things down. It did. Good pizza.

Amani lives on a boat with his parents, Herve and Dag. They've been moving around a lot more than we have. This morning, they decided they also want to leave Bocas. It's not for them. So they'll check the weather, get whatever supplies they need and go. I think they're headed to Colombia. They're also looking for a place to hang their hats. I think they're also a bit tired of all the running around. Last night, Dag told me that she's just feeling lost. When she lived in the US, she felt like she knew herself, knew things, knew what she wanted and figured traveling would teach her even more. But now, she feels like she doesn't know anything.

Whenever we leave somewhere, I start to feel lost. I dont' know where we're going or what we're doing. But before there's a chance to figure it out, I have a long list of things to do. Tedious, boring things that make me wish I could skip through the next few days. It even makes me wish I didn't have to bother with planning a quick trip to San Blas or Isla Taboga (a day trip from Panama City). I just want to be nestled in my room in Atlanta with all our stuff already there.

But I know once we arrive in Atlanta, another To Do list waits, equally boring and tedious. So I suppose it's just best to enjoy the moment in Bocas, especially since I know we won't be back.

There, I said it. It's true.

Bocas is not for us either. It sort of hit me yesterday. We had a goodbye party. It was fun. Started at 1pm and the last person left 9pm at night. But I realized that of all the people we know and have met, there are very few we want to come back to visit in Bocas. Most our friends here will leave soon enough, be it tomorrow or in a year from now.  It's a transient place. A strange and beautiful place, but no one stays too long.

Whenever I leave somewhere, I make a plan to return. Most of the time, though, I do it to trick myself. Oh yes, I'll be back. I'll be back.

But really, what are the chances?

Not in My Back Yard

'

This palm tree has been slowly but surely falling since we moved into our place. So slowly, I barely noticed it moving, but now it's down. Today is exactly one month until we fly back to Atlanta.

Welcome Back to Paradise, Noah!

The path behind our house. I walk this way to go the beach or Pickled Parrot.

Hard to believe last Friday was only a week ago. Then, the past week has been a blur of running around, errands, frantic phone calls to Panama or from the US and then less frantic calls.

Noah returned to Bocas on the 7am flight in time for Lila's birthday party at school. It was a fun party, too. Lila's been waiting for it all year, and she didn't really believe she'd had her birthday until after the party ended with everyone exhausted.

This past week in Bocas has been interesting too. Perhaps because I was doing what is normally done by two, so I was in town and about a lot more often. Some random observations.

The man behind the bar at the Pickled Parrot (a restaurant on Carenero) bartends there so he can make some money. His other job is doctor at the local hospital. He couldn't be more than 23 years old. I'm thinking perhaps "doctor" here means something different than it does in Atlanta or New York. Or even Panama City.

Profession in general means different things here. Fisherman, I think, is not as prestigious a job as boat driver. Oddly, it's hard to find good fish here. You have to wait by the docks until the fishermen come in and jump to buy it for them. Often, they bring in barracuda or other fish that many white people don't find palatable. On our way back from the beach yesterday, Lila and I ran into neighbors Trevor and Osden. Trevor had just found a beautiful snapper for dinner. He cleaned and cut the fish right on the dock. Jose and another kid came to him to ask for the egg sacks. They eat them fried or perhaps raw. Then Osden took Lila and I to see a little of newly born puppies. Their eyes hadn't yet opened and their bellies still had a piece of cord attached. Adorable! From the look of them, the dad is the Rottweiler from down the road.

Trevor, I'd like to point out, works on a fish farm, yet it seems whatever he farms seems not to make it into town. They, like bananas, tobacco, and everything else grown commercially here are sent outward for sale.

When I went into the hospital to rent Noah's crutches, I had to walk through maybe a hundred people in the waiting room. Ninety-nine percent were women and children. I'd guess all of them were Indian and not of Caribbean descent. Not one child cried, whined or screamed in the hour and a half it took to get the crutches.

I have never seen any of the children here tantruming. They also run unsupervised all over the island. That said, they do watch out for each other. Also, they know and are related to just about everyone else on the island. Really, there's always an adult nearby in case of emergency, but I have also not seen any emergencies, although there must be considering the number of people I saw in the hospital. I think if we stayed here long enough, Lila would also be able to run through the island as she pleased. Even now it might be ok. Everyone knows her. But neither she nor I am ready for that.

Lila and I kept ourselves busy baking for a charity bake sale, made vanilla cupcakes with chocolate icing, chocolate pecan pie and chocolate chip cookies. Carrying them into town was not so easy. I'm pretty comfortable getting on and off boats, but when you have an armful of stuff, it's hard to jump on a small boat while the water is wild, although wild here on a sunny day is really not so wild. It just feels that way when you're trying to step on the boat.

As I got on, the wind whipped the aluminum foil off the cupcakes, so I asked the boat driver if he wanted one. "Quantos?" he asked me. It hadn't been my thought to charge him. So I just asked him for the boat ride and off we went. It struck me. In the US, there's this idea that you can get something for nothing. If someone offers you a cupcake, you assume it's for free. You also assume that they're probably insane (or want to convert you to another religion) and if you took the cupcake, would stash it later on in the nearest garbage can.

On my walk to the boat, also, a group of women asked if I was selling something. I explained no, but I considered selling them anyway. What a great way to make money here! Lots of the kids do it. They come by with buckets and coolers of empanadas, tamales, fruit or pickled mango. Twenty-five to thirty cents each. So really, I did well getting a fifty cent boat ride for my cupcake. There's a market for it here, selling snacks and baked goods on the beaches, bars, boats, hostels and streets to tourists and locals. The local business owners don't mind when jewelry makers enter during their stores or set up shop outside to sell. I could probably make a decent living out of it here.

This is jailable in New York City.

Let me get back to that decent living. No one I know here has only one job. Georgina owns the dive shop but also does massage. Tim manages five apartments but he also runs a tour boat. Everyone has their hands in a bunch of little pots, not all of them legal. It makes sense,because unlike Costa Rica, you can't rely on the tourist industry to get you through the year. Not yet anyway. Who knows what this place will be like in ten years.

I wonder if in ten years we'll kick ourselves for deciding not to stay, But proximity to a decent hospital and drinkable tap water feel like musts to me. I think locals are used to it. They've grown up with the various strains of bacteria and have much stronger resistence. We gringos? It just takes over. I have never seen an infection like the one Noah had, because it just doesn't happen in the United States.

Or maybe, we'll decide we want to come back and have a go of it after all.

Yes, Yesterday Began Well

I was out at Playa Mango about to get in the pool with Lila, Melissa, Kai and Teo when I got a call from Marike. It didn't immediatlely strike me as strange that a woman from Noah's work was calling. The next thought was "Uh oh!"

"Don't worry. He's fine, but I'm in the emergency room with Noah."

"OK," I replied, because I knew he probably was really, truly fine, but I had to wait to hear what she said. It's amazing how long those few seconds can last, and the thoughts racing through my head were that fine means different things to different people, and fine can also be a way of easing a bad blow.

Thankfully, he is fine. Really fine, like the kind of fine I want him to be if not banged up and bruised a bit.

He and Marike went snorkeling to check the fish cages and he accidently banged his foot against some coral. It didn't bleed while he remained in the water, but as soon as they got out, blood began to pour. Marike took a look at his foot and saw it had been sliced down to the bone.

"Come on, we're going to the hospital," she said and away they went.

Since it wasn't life threatening, I decided to let Lila play in the water for a while before heading to meet them. What good would have been for her to sit in the emergency room just waiting? The boat that picked me up at Playa Mango dropped me off at the beach right behind the hospital. He brought us close to the shore, but I still had to wade quite a bit before I reached dry sand. I was glad to be dropped so close, otherwise, I would have had to carry Lila a good half a mile to get there, but he gave me such attitude about it. Lord, he's the one who chose that drop off point. I woudn't have known about it. Anyway, I arrived just after Noah's foot had been stitched back together (seis puntas), received a tetanus shot and was ready to go.

A huge thank you to Marike for insisting he go immediately to the hospital, driving him there and waiting.until I arrived, soaked and dragging mud on my shoes.We took her out for dinner to say thank you, then negotiated the trip back with Lila sleeping in my arms, a couple bags of groceries and poor Noah, shoeless, hopping down the street, then climbing over one boat to reach the another so we could get home.

He really is fine. He can't get his foot into his shoe and try finding a pair of size 14 chancletas in Panama, and I guess he'll be hopping around the house for the next few days. But fine

The Day Begins Well

If you want to know a great way to impress a woman on a first date, I'm going to tell you. Take her jetskiing. And if she doesnt' want to go or doesn't like it, you didn't want to date her anyway.

We then explored down the side of Isla Cristobal on the way to Dolphin Bay as well as Isla Solarte and up toward Changuinola. At one point, we just stopped in the middle of the water, turned off the engine and just listened to the sound of nothing. Maybe we heard the slight hum of generators from Bocas, but not much else. Today was a perfect day for it. Hot, but not too bad, and the water stretched out smoothly on all sides. Most of the time, though, we went straight into open water and just gunned it. 

In the way back, we ran by an enormous US Coast Guard vessel that has been stationed out there for the last three days. It's got its own helicopter and a cannon. I have no idea what they're doing there. I wanted to go close, wave, say hi and ask what brought them to Bocas. Noah thought, perhaps, not the best idea.

So here I am back on the dock preparing to work. I've finally hit my stride with that story I've been writing. I know where it's going and what I want it to be about. The worst, I think, is over. Now I need only fill in the blanks, smooth it out and I'm done. With some real attention, it could be finished today, possibly tomorrow.

This afternoon, I'll pick up Lila and take her to a friend's place on Playa Mango. Melissa, a really lovely Italian woman who worked as a television producer in her pre-Bocas life. She produced the Italian version of Art Attack, a great show that Lila and I both like.She has two sons, Tai and Keo, in school with Lila.

Noah goes back to the Smithsonian today. He's been working with a woman there researching the chalk bass. So far, he's spent much of his time counting fish eggs, but yesterday, they went out in the field. Which means, they went out on boats, set out cages for the fish, snorkled around the water to see how things were going. He's also working with a woman from Holland. She's getting her MA at Leiden University and came here to complete her thesis.

I'm still not sold on living here. We'd like to be closer to a city. The people here, we still find a bit strange. Not all, but a surprising number. But the life here breezes and rolls. It's easy to forget the time or day of week or even the month. December and April, the sun shines. Or it rains. Tourists visit. People go to work, swim, go out at night or stay in. Sometimes, someone living on one of the outer islands comes to town and invites you to their place or for a ride on their boat. We may join Cher and Keith, the people from whom we rent our place, on Gouchero this weekend.

Time flows too quickly. Just over a month, and we leave. Between now and then, we have Lila's birthday. She's been telling us that "her birthday is coming up" for the last ten months. To which we always reply, "Yes, it is. In about ten months." Or nine. Or eight. Or seven. But really, what does that mean to her? She knows only today and holds some vague idea of "before today" and "after tomorrow."

We're thinking of putting together a barbecue for the kids in her class, their parents and some friends. Noah's going to ask if we can have it on the Smithsonian grounds and borrow a grill from someone. (I've heard tell Tony at the dive shop has a big one).

We'll see.

The Fine Line Between Traveler and Expat

This song has been going through my head all day long. Not the entire thing. Just the I don' wanna, I don' wanna, I don wanna wait in vain. No, I don wanna, I don wanna, I don wanna wait and on and on.

A friend once told me that in order to excise a repeating lyric, you have to listen to the entire song. Only then will it finally disappear. Unfortunately, I don't have it or at least can't find in in our itunes library. It might be there, perhaps under some anonymous Track 3, Unknown Artist, because that's what happens when you download, copy and rip music from all sorts of sources without labeling.

You see, this morning, I am procrastinating. As one part of this, I read through a recent post on a friend's blog. She talks about the different phases of becoming an expat. The Honeymoon Phase. Irritation and Hostility. Gradual Adjustment. Adaptation.

So of course, now, that scene from All That Jazz pops into my head. The one where Roy Scheider runs drug addled through his scenes all the while repeating the phases of his life. This, requires a quick trip to IMDB to see if I can figure out exactly what pill he pops into his mouth before looking wild-eyed and crazy into the mirror. It doesn't say. Just says drugs.

Back to my previous point: I'm wondering which of those phases we are in. It's comfortable here. Perhaps Gradual Adjustment? This weekend, we went to a chili cook off for charity. Imagine beer and pots and pots of different kinds of chili on the beach. Lila met Colin, Demi and Ava, some of her friends from school, and we along with their parent walked up the beach to check out Playa Tortuga, a new resort.

To be honest, I don't know why anyone would stay there. It's expensive. $160/night. And it looks like a glorified Motel Six. Not that I have anything against Motel Sixes, we've stayed in our fair share while roadtripping through the US. It's just that they're meant to be a cheap stop on the road, And with all the beautiful choices to stay here, I'm not sure why anyone would want to stay that far out of town where it's hard to find taxis and there's not much to do.

Again, back to my original point: Maybe we're still in Honeymoon. Every morning, I look out on the dock with amazement. I never get tired of the sound of waves against the floorboards,and there are still so many things I'd like to explore. Bastiementos. Diving in areas the dive shops don't generally take you because they're far away and most divers are too inexperienced. We still have visited Isla del los Pajaros or La Loma Lodge.

Occasionally, like yesterday, when I met a woman, an expat from Florida, who had been attacked in town, because she chose not to use the advertising services of another expat here. A man, one of the owners of the advertising group, jumped her, strangled and spit in her face. "I've never in my life. In forty-seven years," she said. "Even though I don't look forty-seven. At least I hope I don't. Had anyone spit in my face before today." Marlon, a man doing some carpentry on the dock, and another expat, piped in to say that here, assault is not an arrestable offence. The police will take you in. You pay ten dollars and then can go. This sort of thing leaves me in Irritation and Hostility. Or perhaps Bewilderment and Fear?

Then, I realize, we don't qualify for any of the phases of a true expat, because we are not. We are in Limbo and have been there since we left Brooklyn. It's a kind of Pernanent Transcience that at first was horribly unsettling then became exciting, wonderful and now I find myself wishing we could find more of the Permanence and less of the Transcience. I think of all the people we've met on the way. Tom. Sib. Steph. Maryanick. Elisa. Ariella. With whom we spent a night, a week or just an evening, All of whom I feel I've known for much longer, would love to spend more time with them, but have no idea when, if ever, we'll see them again. We would love to buy bikes. It's probably the best way to get around, and I just found the best places to buy them. Yet, it seems silly to do when we're leaving in less than 2 months, so we rent instead. 

Yes, less than two months until we fly back to Atlanta.This will be difficult for Lila. She had a hard time with our trip to Costa Rica, leaving her comfortable place in Bocas with hummingbirds on the front porch, ice cream at Golden Grill after school and her friends. 

We will have to make some real choices, not yet, but soon.

I wonder what soon will mean, because it entails finding a country, city, place to live, school for Lila and work. It means not being able to pick up and visit wherever we want whenever we want, because we will have RESPONSIBILITIES beyond ourselves. Either way, there is a lot to give up and a lot to gain.

So what am I avoiding with all this procrastination? Writing a story. I won't say I'm blocked, because experience has taught me that there is no such thing. There are times when the sentences flow easily and everything fits together well. And then there are times, like now, when every word seems a chore. This story, right now, feels like I'm writing something Hemingway should have written when he lived as an expat in Paris, getting drunk, breaking up with his wife, meeting women who lead him all places but the right ones and ultimately finding nothing but emptiness at the end of his road. But I am not Hemingway nor is my life in any way similar. I have no desire to write a story like his, because it has already been done (and done well).

I believe these "stuck" times signify a change in perspective, and when I get through this story, it will be different than any I have written before.

So Edward awaits me. He just fell down a flight of steps, lost his belongings and is now drinking more whiskey in a cafe with an old friend and a woman he believes to be the love of his life. More choices to be made here.

Oh, it was benzadrine. Bennies. That was the drug of choice for whatshisname.

Shipwrecked

There is was one morning. Small boats flocked to its built in port to pick up passengers and take them to town. And the next morning, gone.

These Days Are

It's been raining heavily these past days here in Bocas. Gave us a glimpse of what the rainy season can be like. After a couple days staying home, we just decided to go about our business, getting soaked or no. Yesterday, we joined Cori and Jeff on Isla Bastiementos catching frogs. Cori is doing post-doctoral research on the red, green and yellow frogs of this area. Different islands have different colored frogs, and she's looking to find out why.

We made dinner that night as an ocean liner parked itself outside our front door, and an enormous moth took up residence on our kitchen window. The geckos think it looks like a good meal and chase to eat it.

Today, it was cloudy, but not much rain, and we dropped Lila at school a bit earlier than usual this morning. This means she was only ten minutes late and off Noah and I went to Starfleet Scuba. My first post certification dive. An enormous drum fish floated on the bottom in the reef. We also saw a spotted moray eel, trumpet fish, lobsters, crabs, parrotfish and lots of fish I didn't know.

Tomorrow, when I go into Bocas Town to run errands, I'll swing by Starfleet to thumb through some of their fish books. I'm also printing a story, called Sweet Cold of Pistachio to send for possible publication.

See how dawn caresses each piece of furniture rousing the objects of this place. A frying pan, thick with grease, remains in the sink. Moving along, you find a living room adorned with a drab green but comfy couch. Rumpled sketchbooks litter the floor in front of a large but very broken television. You can still see bits of glass in the carpet. On the fireplace mantel, a frameless black and white picture rests. It is of a young man, playfully grasping the waist of a beautiful young woman. She is small with curly hair and straight white teeth. She looks outward, and if you could see the color of her eyes, they would be green. He sees only she.

At the other end of the living room, stairs lead to a short hallway with four doors. Behind the first, a bed holds wrinkled rainbow sheets. The room’s occupant left a hairdryer on the bed when she ran out. Probably late for school. “Mom, Dad,” you almost hear her shout, “I’m spending the night at a friend’s.” A typical teenager. She doesn’t care if you’ve heard her or not. Your eye soon catches on the duvet cover in the room across the hall. Where have you seen that before? Feel sun stream across the soft skin of the young face on the pillow. No, you cannot brush your hand across her cheek. It is time to enter the room at the end of the hall. The master bedroom. See the master snore gently in his bedroom.

This used to be the opening chapter of the novel I've been writing. This story, though, is much changed from its original incarnation. As for that novel, I've decided that I'm going to remove a bunch of chapters, keep only the ones that come in one particular character's voice and start sending that out. I'm done with this thing.

But I digress...

After that, we picked up Lila from school and went to get pizza at Golden Grill on the main street. There, Lila ran back and forth, holding hands with a 3 year old girl named Oceania; we chatted with her parents. We got home. I worked and Lila napped with Noah. While we sat there, Giovanni, a friend of Lila's from school, rode by on a bike with someone I didn't know. "Lila. Lila. Lila," he called after her.

Then this evening, Time stopped by. "I've got some sushi in my pocket," he said. I'm not kidding. A tuna he caught while out fishing today, something apparently he promised Noah one of the nights they sat on the front porch chatting (about things I can't write here) and drinking gin.

Then Tim sliced it thinly; we mixed wasabi with soy sauce and sliced some ginger, and we all ate it raw. Even Lila liked it, and how couldn't she?

Now, Noah's not feeling well. So I guess it's not all perfect, but he is curled up on the couch under a blanket watching A History of Violence.

Tomorrow, we may go kayaking. It depends on how Noah feels. Either way, I'll try to get some work done. Still working on, So I Looked Up From My Terazzo and Fell In Love. There are some Bocas based stories to be told as well, but in time. All in time.

And So It Begins....

This morning I find myself a bit wild-haired and bleary eyed after last night's party.

Yesterday was the first day of spring, and I swear, it's like someone flipped a switch from the All-Time-Sunshine button to the Now-It-Must-Rain, because it's been raining pretty much non-stop every since.

It did stop just long enough for us to get into town last night for a party. Trevor and I have the same birthday, and we were invited to the party. We took Lila because we don't know any babysitters. I can't tell you her disappointment when we walked in to find a darkened restaurant full of adults and a table of food and alcohol.

"What the hell is this?" she asked.

Georgina offered to have Lila spend the evening with her son Sam. Sam and Lila both go to the Tangerine school. And my Lila, who until relatively recently would have always preferred to stay with Mama and Daddy, left in two seconds.

We met some new people, but really knew just about everyone there. It was all the people from the dive shop, many of the parents from Lila's school. The woman, Mary, who Noah will be working with at the Smithsonian (where he will be looking at the chalk bass, an hermaphroditic fish, and I don't know if he's kidding, but will be dissecting fish gonads.)

Note: Anyone who knows Noah well will not be surprised to hear him cheer the following. GO NADS! GO NADS!

But I digress.

I spent quite a while chatting with Tenille and Melissa. It's a small town, and there seem to be some rivalries about. No specifics, but let's say they seem to be divided by real estate office. The REMAX people tend to stick together and make the occasional comment about the ProBocas people. And vice versa.

This, I want to stay out of. And yet, I also want to hear more.

Aside from that, I am struck with how helpful and open people are. Georgina having Lila over last night at a moment's notice. Melissa suggesting that Lila go with her daughter Ava after school with Ava's sitter so the two little girls can spend more time together and Lila can learn more Spanish. Tenille taking my number to call today and give me details about a mom and kids party at (another) Melissa's house on Saturday afternoon.

If this place is like NYC, Tenille will not call. Just as I told Georgina a few weeks ago that I'd love to get together with her some time. Then Jen came to town. We went to Boquete (which I have to write about). We went to Panama City. Then I got sick. And somehow time passes.

But I think it's a very NYC sort of thing to tell people you'll get together, and really mean it, but time just goes. I don't know how that translates here.

In fact, I am surprised at how uncomfortable I am with people being so helpful with their offers of babysitters, time, getting together, inviting to parties and even invitations to other people's parties. In Brooklyn, I always found there to be walls. You never just stopped by someone's place to say hi. Playdates are arranged well in advance. Even meeting at the park is a specific event entirely devoid of chance or kismet.

This is one of the reasons I wanted to leave Brooklyn. I wanted so much to be in a place where people can just stop by, say hello, invite you to stay for dinner or a drink and just hang out. Of all things, who would have thought this is one of the most difficult things for me to get used to? It's like I don't know how to be part of it.

Perhaps it's because it's really just been the three of us so much of the time. Lila is rarely out of our sight. The last time she was left with anyone (aside from school) was with her Granny and Grandpa in Atlanta. And we've found many ways to fill the time. Collecting shells from the ocean and then painting them. Baking lots of cookies. Dress up. She's been very into wearing make-up these days, and she's surprisingly adept at applying even eyeliner. We read together, watch TV, play house and build forts.There are pillow fights and building sandmen on the beach.

But it's clear that Lila wants to spend time with other kids. When she plays, she suddenly completely and utterly loses her desire to stand behind me clutching onto my leg shyly. She needs it. I mean, look into those sweet brown eyes.

Slipping Into Lazy Island Days

Time moves so softly here, you barely realize the days going by. One lovely day slips into the next.

Today, Noah went to the Smithsonian Institute (STRI) to talk to them about work. Two neighbors, Cori and Jeff, study the frogs around here. They are the same species, but each island developed a different color frog.

Meanwhile, Lila and I went down the beach for paddle boating.

Well, we tried. The first time, it started to rain just minutes after leaving the house. So we came back, made pancakes and watched while rain poured and wind whipped our once dry towels off the clothesline.

"Mommy, Mommy," Lila came running. "It stopped. Can we go paddle boating now?"

So we picked up our stuff and went out the door. Again, tiny droplets of rain began to fall just as we stepped onto the path behind our place.

"Let's go back to the house," Lila suggested. I asked her if she wanted to paddle in the rain anyway.

"No, I don't think so."

"How about if we go down the beach and find a place for tea?" She loved the idea, and we walked down to Dona Mara and ordered two teas and a brownie. The sun was shining by the time we left.

I just followed the coast of Carernero in the direction of Bastiementos. Dolphins swam right by the boat. I stopped paddling and we floated in the wake of motor boats, watching and waiting to see the fin and rounded back arc out of the water and underneath. All the other boats around stopped as well to look.

"Let's go to that beach," Lila cried. So I paddled to shore. We swam, snorkled a bit, got back in the boat and continued down the coast to another beach.

The sun shines constantly here. When it doesn't, you just wait. The sea can be rough, but not so rough. The animals in the water are beautiful, but the most dangerous you'll find is a nurse shark or moray eel. Although, I have seen jellyfish all over the place. Small ones. This is the summer here. 

Now it's 6 or maybe 7pm. I don't actually know.