After a month of being home and after the unexpected passing
of one of our friends, Ana and her mom (aka “Mama”) asked me to join her in
Panama.
Finally, I saw an opening in my schedule. The week we were supposed to have travelled to Colorado to ruck (What the Ruck) the Leadville Heavy Half. I mean … Colorado … Panama. Same difference, right?
With an itch to get a stamp on my passport (man, have I
missed international travel!), I was finally convinced to book a flight to
Panama City.
This was not meant to be a touristy-kind of vacation. After
all, the purpose was to enjoy time with family.
There would be no watching of ships traversing the Panama
Canal. Or trips to the San Blas
islands. Or searching for sloths. (We played tourist here once before. Just three months before the world as we knew
it, changed. Welcome to the Jungle.)
The purpose of the trip was simple: Relax.
But getting there proved to be anything but!
The day before I was scheduled to leave, I was unable to get
checked in for my flight.
A Health Declaration was required before check-in.
But I couldn’t complete the Health Declaration until I had a
seat number. And I wasn’t going to be assigned
a seat number until I checked-in.
Here we go ‘round the mulberry bush!
Not to mention the fact that the selections for “Country of
(flight) Origin” and “Country of Passport Issuance” did not include any form of
“United States of America”.
Puzzling.
Having experienced similar situations in the past (where I
was unable to check-in for an international flight prior to arriving at the
airport – usually because the gate agent needed to put eyes on my passport), I
wasn’t too concerned.
Oh, but I should’ve been.
I dutifully took (and passed) my rapid COVID test.
And set my alarm for 3-fricking 15 in the morning!
That type of wake-up call is usually reserved for trips to
Walt Disney World, when getting face-to-face with Mickey ASAP is Priority #1!
But it is also necessary if you want to have a cold Panama
beer in hand in time to watch the sunset over the soaring skyline of Panama
City.
Ever eager to spend even 20 more minutes with me before I leave
him for week, Keith agreed to take me to the airport.
I’m pretty sure he loves me (Prince Charming)!
Negative Covid Test and Passport in hand, I stand before
what is possibly THE most un-helpful gate agent ever.
She can’t check me in, she says, until I’ve completed the
afore-mentioned Health Declaration.
I tried explaining to her, the issues I encountered the day
before and was met with “I can’t help you.
I can’t check you in without it.”
My repeated attempts to explain were met with her repeated
negative attitude.
Although … she did say, I could input “Seat 13A” as my seat
number. Before she summarily dismissed
me to complete my task. Off to the side
and “out of everyone’s way.”
Why, thank you, Emma! (insert sarcasm)
My frustrations in completing the online form were further
complicated by the feature used to enter my birthdate.
There was no place to enter Month, Day, Year (a la the Price
is Right’s Showcase Showdown Wheel). Oh
NO.
There was a calendar.
With Forward and Backward arrows.
Which forced me to hit the Back arrow a total of 673 times, when you
consider my age and the 12 months of the year.
And heaven forbid that somewhere in the 673 clicks, you
accidentally swipe! Causing the
app to reset to today’s date!
I know this only because it happened to me No. Less. Than. THREE. TIMES!
ARGHHHHH!
Finally, having completed all fields except “Country of
(flight) Origin” and “Country of Passport Issuance”, I returned to the
counter. All the while praying that I
did not have to stand before Emma again.
Someone smiled upon me when my turn in line was met by the
ever-so-cheerful Sherri.
I explained all of the hiccups I had encountered. She tells me, I “could’ve selected any random
seat number” and that, she “has no idea why that’s even on there” (the Health
Declaration Form).
WHAT? ARGGGHHHHH!
But the proper country not being available in two required
fields is certainly … puzzling. That’s
what I said!
I hand her my phone.
She scrolls through the list of countries. Convinced that I had missed something. She scrolls down. Then up.
Then down again.
She hands the phone back and says “Why don’t you start
over?” Umm … ma’am … that’s 56 years’
worth of clicking to find my birthdate!
“I’m sorry,” she says.
And off I go again. To click the
back button six-hundred and seventy-three f*&#$@&g times. Praying I don’t accidentally “swipe” in the
process!
I only had to start the process over once.
I returned to Sherri.
Phone in hand. Still unable to
find “United States of America” or any form thereof in the designated
fields. She again looks for it
herself. As if something might’ve
changed in the last five minutes.
She turns to a coworker who, blessfully, mumbles to no one
in particular, “How do you say ‘United States of America’ in Spanish?”
She scrolls … and … finds on the list … “Estados Unidos”.
And the mystery is solved.
Now why they would have everything else in English EXCEPT
the country, I have no idea. That’s some
third-world country stuff right there!
Once that was all sorted, it was time to get my boarding
pass and make like OJ Simpson, running through the airport. (Don’t get that reference? Ask your parents!)
Until …it wasn’t.
The gate had closed for my flight. I missed it.
Sherri didn’t think she could find a flight for me today, so
booked me on the same flight the following day.
And … offered to go ahead and check me in.
I called Keith and asked him to turn around and come get me.
Sherri then realizes it’s more than 24 hours until the
flight. And she can’t check me in for
ANOTHER SEVEN MINUTES.
Again, I’m asked to step aside while we wait the necessary
seven minutes until I can check in for tomorrow’s flight. Didn’t someone once say “no one puts Baby in
the corner”? Yeah … about that …
Seven minutes elapsed and Loretta calls me to the
counter. And proceeds to try and find me
a flight that would allow me to barely miss the sunset in Panama City, landing
at 7:30 that evening. After having flown
to Dallas, then Chicago, then Miami and on to PTY. Um … no thank you.
I’m going home and going back to bed!
But I had to be awake in time for my second Covid test in 24
hours. Because the first Covid test
results weren’t going to be accepted upon my arrival in Panama – given that
they would be more than 48 hours old. Oh
bother.
Following an uneventful day of travel, I make my way to
Customs/Immigration Panama-style, which takes no less than an hour. I mentioned this is a third-world country,
right? (and no, I’m not poking fun at my friend’s beloved home – she herself
will tell you exactly how it is in Panama!)
And finally. I exit the airport and am pleasantly blasted by the 2000% humidity. And hugs from both Ana and her sister.
But I can’t remove my mask.
Nope. Not allowed.
Even while riding in the car, we have to wear our
masks. Imagine wearing a wet blanket on
your face. Yeah. It’s like that.
We make a quick stop at Bodega Mi Amiga for ceviche, shrimp
cocktail, and cold Panama beer, before heading to Mama’s.
A slow and steady elevator ride to the 18th
floor. And Mama, along with her precious
pooch, greeted me at the door with, “Welcome Home”.
After face-timing with Carlitos, Ana’s brother, he too
welcomed me home. I asked Ana if this
was a thing. When people return to
Panama. “No,” she said, “you’re
family.” And my heart grew three sizes
that day.
We watched the sunset over the skyline, while enjoying the ceviche and shrimp cocktail. And, of course, a cold Panama.
Our week was filled with family time, sitting on the balcony
talking, and going for walks.
After a couple of days, Mama even said I looked rested. Perhaps the dark circles under my eyes had
given me away upon my arrival.
While sitting on the balcony, we talked of family and
fitness, of friendships and food. And in
between, we listened to the sounds of the city.
Helicopters, carrying the wealthy to and from their beach
homes or the golf course, flitted across the sky.
While El Bollero, who’s sales calls bounced off the walls of
the concrete jungle, yelled “Bollo!
Bollo! Bollooooo!”, hoping to
bring residents from their homes to buy his bollos, a corn-based meal similar
to polenta.
Not to be outdone, the man collecting metal or appliance
spare parts, rivaled El Bollero, as he made his way through the streets,
calling for scraps. We never did quite
understand what he was saying, but we knew why he was there.
In the evenings, fireworks dotted the night sky. Even mid-week. Panamanians will make any excuse to
celebrate. And those celebrations often
involve fireworks. Fun!
For the first three days of my visit, there was sun. And lots of it. It seems I must’ve brought it with me as it
had been raining non-stop for several weeks prior to my arrival.
Complete with wind that howled like a banshee (whatever a
banshee is). The kind of rain that poured sideways. Relentless in its pursuit of soaking anyone
who dared to be out in it.
Rain, that as Mama ever-so-astutely pointed out, made the
buildings disappear.
The bursts of noise rising up from below as honking cars
traverse the city. As drivers run stop
signs and dart between cars, narrowly missing each other.
And the motorcycles!
They. Are. Everywhere. Delivering
just about anything your little heart desires.
And I do mean Any.Thing.
We had Chinese Breakfast (delivered). Yes, that’s a thing! It’s not … breakfast food made in a Chinese
restaurant. It’s Chinese food. For breakfast!
There was Dim Sum.
And (equally amazing) burgers!
And Botox!
I mean … when this hunk of a specimen doctor shows up
at your door, would you let him stick a needle in your face? (And yes, I totally stole this off his IG.)
I did mention that you can have anything delivered, yes?
There was family dinner night at Ana’s sister, Ani’s home. Together with her daughters and their husbands. And the puppies! More puppies!
Ani’s son-in-laws hosted make-your-own pizza night. And kept our wineglasses full. And there was laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.
There were daily walks.
In the park adjacent to Mama’s building.
A leisurely stroll in the 2000% humidity. Getting all of the odd looks because we had our rucks on. Along with our masks.
But the rucks came in handy when we stopped at the fruit market to pick up oranges, bananas, and avocadoes. And a watermelon that Ana recently reminded I had her carry (because I just didn’t know if my shoulder could handle it. 😉)
Self-conscious about the puffiness that was my waistline
(never mind the utterly scrumptious dulce de leche croissant I enjoyed for
breakfast!), I told Ana I wanted to climb the stairs in the apartment building.
There are 24 floors on which apartments are housed. PLUS. Five
floors worth of parking garage.
It didn’t take long for the deep breathing to commence. And only slightly longer for “f&*@ you”’s
to escape Ana’s lips.
I turned to her, “Are those for me?”
“YES!” she said. But I know she was smiling. If on the inside.
That evening, as we watched the sun dip behind the skyline,
she said she’d like to do the stair climb again the next day.
And so we did.
And my glutes are still thanking me today. Our rucking crew calls that “perky butt”.
Having walked the park both directions (Ana was not about to
let me put another watermelon in her ruck), we decided a change of scenery was
in order.
A walk along the (Balboa Bay) bayfront certainly qualified.
The skyscrapers (of the Panamanian variety) on one side and
the bay on the other.
We watched as the cargo ships lined up in the distance,
preparing to enter the Panama Canal. We smelled the fish market long before we
reached that end of park.
The day before I was due to return home, Ani, was gracious
enough to set my appointment at the clinic and make sure I got my Covid test
before returning to the States.
While the two tests I took before leaving home were simple
(swab yourself, inserting only about an inch of the Q-Tip in each nostril),
this was something entirely different.
Third world countries being what they are, they haven’t
exactly moved as fast as other countries where testing was concerned. They went old-school, where they shoved every
inch of a 6-inch swab up my nostril, tickling my appendix in the process.
The clinician actually chuckled. At me.
As I nervously patted my leg and my eyes teared up.
At the end of the day, I understand the necessity. I do.
But I can’t help but wonder if it was really necessary to complete a
tonsillectomy in the process.
We enjoyed dinner with Mama overlooking the night sky one last time. Followed the next morning by a final cup of Panamanian coffee on the balcony.
Rested. Relaxed. Rejuvenated.
It’s always nice to go Home.
