An Expat Review: Finding Comfort in the Rain


An Expat Review: Finding Comfort in the Rain

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Written by Matt Landau

Saturday, March 24 2007

Every now and then I like to take a step back and examine the curious joke that is my existence in a foreign country. I like to remove myself from whatever hustle and bustle happens to be plaguing my week or my month, to sum up what it's really like living as a young expat in Panama.

My mornings almost always begin with a chorus of monkey–like howls from a small team of parrots and parakeets who seem to think my porch is their Breakfast Club. They'll whistle and screech until I'm fully out of bed and wholly awake, at which point they'll stop and fly off because their job is done. Because I do not believe in clocks, I tend to rely on landmark sounds to keep me punctual and on time throughout the day. For example, I know it's 6:30 when I hear the busy patter of parents walking their neatly-uniformed children to school. I know it's 7 when I hear the local fruit merchant call up to my apartment inquiring as to whether I need any green mangoes or fresh pineapple. “Hey Manny” I'll call back. “Toss me up two pi�as.”

I'll usually eat my pi�as while reading the morning news or better, watching it on TV. Panamanians are infatuated with gore and guts which means the news is no more than a who's who of decapitations, car wrecks, and intentional slayings that went on in the span of the past 24 hours. One particular morning I bought a paper, on the cover of which sat an old man with a beard and no foot. His foot had been chopped off as the result of a drug deal gone bad and for your viewing pleasure, La Critica had included a picture of the man's slaughtered foot which sat like a dead sea bass at the bottom of a yellow plastic bucket. “Columbian Drug Traffickers Get the Wrong Man” was the headline, as if to remind those of us who still have both feet that life in Panama has a funny way of throwing you curveballs.

On my walk to work, I generally pass a band of characters who could each star in their own sitcom. First, there's the homeless/scavenger guy on Via Argentina who I call The Sleeper. He's always passed out on the same stoop, his belongings neatly piled on his version of a bedside table which is actually an empty Tide jug. If I ever do catch him awake, he'll go on and on about how he invented the sports arena wave. Next, comes The Parking Guy #2. He's a tall black man with mangy hair and this absurd turrets-style tick that, when in full form, looks like he's getting attacked by a swarm of worker bees. For a living, he attempts to help people pull in and out of parking spots in return for loose change, but his actual parking usefulness amounts to no more than a pop tart. One block later comes Good Ole One Arm (previously referred to as The Parking Guy #1, but changed when he lost one of his arms in, of all things, a parking accident). Good Ole One Arm's usually just sitting there selling newspapers and watches, but he always offers me a kind salutation. “Oh hey One Arm” I'll say in passing. “Mornin' Matteo” he says back, usually without even looking. I think it's true what they say, that when you lose one sense, another is heightened, because One Arm always knows it's me.

After Good Ole One Arm, there's usually a lull for a few minutes during which I like to rehearse lines from the previous night's 30 Rock. Soon enough though, comes my personal favorite character, Poems. Poems is a well-dressed guy in his mid-thirties who claims to be an aspiring writer. “I'm trying to get my book of poems published” he'll tell unsuspecting tourists as he turns open his briefcase and shows them just the kind of quality work he is capable of. “Spare change for a starving author?” What few people know is that Poems has been practicing the same shtick for about five years now. There's no book. Those aren't really even his poems. But just as Poems once whispered to me as if letting me in on the secret of cooking Korean food, “they don't have to know that.”

Whatever cat said that language barriers were a bad thing was out of his tree. Much like movies with Reese Witherspoon, I find impediments to communication to be one of life's guilty little pleasures in Panama. Like the time I was looking for a small pill case to hook onto my keychain and accidentally requested A SMALL BOX THAT WOULD ATTACK MY POCKET. Or the time the cashier didn't have change for a twenty and—intending to ask what I should do—I nastily barked, SO WHAT DO YOU WANNA DO TO ME? I try to never assist gringos who are struggling to communicate and they often look at me the way you might if you were in a car accident and I was just standing on the sidewalk with a grin. HEY BUDDY CAN'T YOU HELP ME OUT HERE? If really pressed to aid a floundering fellow countryman, I'll sometimes provide false translations like the time at the spa when this guy from Boston was trying to find the word for towel and I supplied him with happy ending. Or the restaurant scene when the table next to me couldn't figure out how to say beef at which point I offered up the term for house cat. I usually then wait for my scheme to go into effect the way a soldier waits for his grenade to explode.

I have finally adapted to the hot weather in Panama City. I can now do things like lift paper clips and make phone calls without profusely dripping sweat on my shoes. And I can now fit into society better by wearing slacks although I still love the look I get when I sport sandals: this evil stare from every passerby that makes yours truly feel like a veil-less woman in Iraq. This disapproving look that says, YOU KNOW YOU PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BE DOING THAT?

Opportunities seem to present themselves around almost every corner in Panama these days. I'm meeting more and more expats who just show up, having left everything they knew, and are making a living. One of the downfalls of this city is that there are not enough hotels and there've been numerous times when I've had a guest in town and been unable to get them a reservation somewhere decent. This usually means they end up sleeping on my couch which is fun for about 2 days, after which it just gets annoying. Speaking of annoying, the traffic seems to get worse every single day, which is why I've limited my car use to outside the conurbation.

As you can see, life in Panama is anything but boring. The rainy season is coming up, which a lot of people are distressed about, but I find comfort in rain. I find comfort in a lot of Panama's downfalls. In order to live down here, I believe you have to appreciate the little things. The little imperfections that makes days atypical and unique. As I always like to say, when life throws you day-old risotto, make arancini.