Twenty two Panama travel, investment, and lifestyle lessons from a twenty-nine year old who’s spent twenty percent of his life getting to know a some 500 year old country.

In New York City, I once paid $40 for valet parking and the guy left the salvageable end of a joint in my seat crack. I envisioned him giving me the keys, then patting himself down as I drove away and cursing himself for being clumsy. I tipped that guy a few dollars and it was worth it, but in Panama tipping is even more obligatory since everywhere in the City, valet parking is free of charge.

In the golden age of rock music, the back rooms of concert venues were knee deep in beer bottles and general party paraphernalia. You see it all the time in movies, these trashed hotel rooms or tour busses and I never really grasped how drinking could get that out of control. Until today that is, when I woke up with a furious headache and three live crows in my apartment living room gnawing on chicken bones.

About two weeks after moving into an apartment in Casco Viejo, I gave up on trying to understand the locals and took the easy way out. All I'd ever say was "could you repeat that?" anyways and generally this was in response to something commonplace: the speaker saying it was nice out, for example, or asking if I'd had a good weekend. As a result, I adopted the word ofi, which is a shortened version of oficial, a confirmation of sorts used by the people in my neighborhood. Saying ofi is like saying "right on," and each time I used it, I felt delighted with possibilities.

My friend Kara was telling me a story. "So I'm on this flight to Panama and the woman next to me is coughing up a storm. She's convulsing and busting her lungs and no one's saying anything. With the swine flu and everything. So I put on my surgical mask and then the flight attendant..." This was where I stopped listening and asked who actually carries a surgical mask with them? "You know," I told her, "surgical masks only help people keep from spreading the disease. They don't protect against getting viruses because viruses are too small."

"All I know is that if I was voting in this election, you could bet your sweet bippy I'd be voting for Kike. He's got a whole lotta know-how that Kike guy."

"I'm not sure it's pronounced like that," I said, trying to get past the fact that the phrase sweet bippy is still used outside of the Oregon Trail. "I think it's pronounced more like Keekay," I said, "and I also think you just like saying the name."

At my high school graduation, a slight error was made and I was awarded a plaque for perfect attendance. I was presented the award, together with about ten other students, on a stage in front of the graduation audience and when the photographer from the local newspaper came to capture the moment on film, I gave a wry smile that said, I'm not sure you've got the right guy, but in the name of dedication, hell I'll play the part.

Around the age of twenty, I spent a summer working at a famous kitchen décor store in Baltimore, Maryland where middle-aged women who thought they were younger than they really were shopped between their yoga classes and tennis matches. Strolling in with large handbags hung over their arms, they'd often talk on the phone and motion, with their hands, as to the area of the store that interested them the most.

This December marks the beginning of the dry season and represents a critical telltale time for on the fence investors. Even the most optimistic bullish market participants seem to be a bit on edge, as this past rainy season knocked some confidence out of the international investment contingent in Panama. It's a survival of the fittest time and those who are unwilling or unable to adapt their strategies and who are pegged into the speculative real estate mind frame and operating mentality are going to have to morph or risk failure.

I used to work as a booker in a modeling agency in Europe, so I've always been curious about the industry. A few weeks ago, while waiting at the hairdresser for my mom, I read in a magazine that Wilhelmina, the famous modeling agency, has a head office in Panama. What luck!

It was early February as I was walking to my local deli to order a tuna sandwich, no mayo of course. During this time of year, large groups of tourists have a tendency to converge on my neighborhood of Casco Viejo via large white busses which block the narrow roadways and take up valuable parking space.

(Panama City, Panama) For the past twenty years or so, I've made it a habit to not throw garbage out the car window. Besides being extremely convenient and even fun at times, there was always a renegade sensation that escorted tossing a piece of trash on the ground. Not unlike a tattoo or a skateboard, the act of littering was a show of rebellion for young people like me. But unfortunately, in my hometown as a child, it could also get you thrown in the bureau jail alongside the kid who let rats loose in the public library.

I originally flew to Spain based on the amusing joke that was my education, ultimately trading in my studying habits for a white bullfighting uniform and a tepid bottle of Rioja. After my time there, the country had burrowed its way into my heart like an aggressive little mole, and there are certain facets of Panama which almost nostalgically bring back those reckless days to mind.

Coronado evolved as Panama's first developed beach town. It sits conveniently about forty five minutes to the West of Panama City, via the InterAmerican Highway which, compared to other highways in Central America, pretty much takes the cake in terms of quality.

As Americans we are taught from a very early age to try to appreciate other languages. I remember my brother, for example, when he was back in preschool proudly coming home with a stack Japanese characters written out on note cards: and here I thought kids were supposed to be focused on candy. 

When I lived in Arizona, we had this group of people called "Snow Birds". Retirees that would go north to escape the surface of the sun heat of the summer months. Inevitably, they would come back for the winter and find that their homes had been ransacked, valuables taken, or in some cases to find that someone had been living in their home while they were away.

I have always very much liked ethnic and racial slurs, to such an extent that I keep a small diary-like list of them updated in the second drawer of my desk. They are words, not unlike small traffic jams or menstrual cycles, which tend to get people all up in a fuss, and to me this alone makes them great.

Growing up, everyone told me to save my money. From a very early age, my parents spent time teaching me about frugality the way adult camels teach baby camels to walk on four legs. Doing by example. "See here honey" my mom'd say at the bank. "I'm putting this paycheck into my bank account so we can enjoy it later." I was never quite sure what made money so much more enjoyable down the road, but I wasn't in a position to argue. I was five.

On the elevator, I saw a man speaking into what looked like a thin cell phone. “Try and copy SCT lists for Monday” he said, as if noting it to himself for a playback at a later date. I found myself curious, not only as to what exactly these SCT lists might be, and why he might be trying to copy them, but also what that little device was and how I might go about acquiring one.

There is of course the Panama of postcards: shiny skyscrapers, remarkable beaches, and can’t-lose real estate deals that appear to be hanging on every branch. All very attractive and well worth the visit, if you like that sort of thing.