many American fast food spots have sprouted up here in Panamá. as a personal rule, I try not to eat in places I can easily have back in the States. the goal will be much easier to stick to since McDonald's here doesn't have Sweet Tea.
 | ||
| Snack kiosk outside of the Multicentro. Paitilla, Panamá. |
 | |
| Cinnabon in the food court of Multicentro. Paitilla, Panamá. |
 |
| CINNABON. *bangs gong* |
 |
| Panamanians love fried chicken. |
 |
| Popeye's here delivers. To the next Negro, this could be a problem. |
This also goes to show some of you that (all of) Panama is not, in fact, the jungle. So there.
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walking home from my Thursday morning Zumba class, I took a detour to check out a street I had never seen. saw a group of young kids rehearsing in the school yard. these kids were beyond awesome. had I a womb, it would have done cartwheels.
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after arriving in Panama after a 16-hour bus ride.
decided to make life easier during the trip.
decided to make life easier during the trip.
finally made it to the hostel...
I stayed here at Luna's Castle for four days. Being the second hostel I stayed in, it was much larger than Hotel del Parque in San Jose, Costa Rica. It is a restored mansion from the days of Spanish reign. That means the building itself is at least 400 years old. Filled with mostly young travelers, I got to meet mostly non-brown people from all over the world. In my short time, I was, of course, the only brown non-employee with a penis. There was a Black girl from California...but naturally, she was muy frumpy with the most struggletastic braids ever and wasn't too keen on chopping it up with me. Her loss.
I was surprised by the number of people who reported that they'd been here for months or years after deciding not to leave on vacation.
"I came for the summer and decided not to go back to England," a British gymnast told me.
Jason, one of the employees of the hostel came from the States 15 months ago, and decided to stay. Now, he's fluent in Spanish and has built a pretty awesome life here.
I was surprised by the number of people who reported that they'd been here for months or years after deciding not to leave on vacation.
"I came for the summer and decided not to go back to England," a British gymnast told me.
Jason, one of the employees of the hostel came from the States 15 months ago, and decided to stay. Now, he's fluent in Spanish and has built a pretty awesome life here.
 | ||
| Luna's Castle sits atop Relic Bar, a popular local hangout |
 |
| stairway to the lobby |
 |
| the view from my room in the hostel, Luna's Castle. |
Now, I live about 5 minutes away from here, on Avenida A, but pass Luna's Castle regularly when I go run the Cinta Costera in the mornings.
 |
| Cinta Costera |
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 |
| 2003: 18 years old, filled with all the drive and geigh in the world. |
These were some of the most important years of my youth. I was...ah..."sexually liberated," wildly independent, in what was then essentially a marriage (two years), and, most importantly, happy. Friendships have faded, vanished, been tested, rebuilt and strengthened (or not), waist lines have doubled in size...it's been a wild ride since our days in the exercise room of Northampton Community Center. With all I lost (and spent) in the aftermath, I wouldn't trade this time period for all the red velvet goodness in the world. At least, I don't think I would. We were invincible. Shaping our lives and exploring this world together. Dance was our everything. We'd dance anywhere, having impromptu rehearsals in the hallways at school, mall parking lots, street corners, food courts, backyard patios, living rooms. We'd even claimed a "dancer's table" in the cafeteria at school at one point. We were those kids.
In browsing my Photobucket account, I came across a folder with pics dating back to 2002, when it all began. I was 17, a senior in high school, and through forming this company, made some friends who've become closer than family to me. Seeing these photos almost ten years later is immensely humbling. We had not yet, apparently, cultivated a sense of self-awareness or self-editing. For us: the more (bleach, dye, fishnet, etc.) the better. We would literally wear anything. Shirts with one sleeve. Half-shirts and half-jackets. Fishnet stockings as shirts. Fingerless gloves. Hand-painted jeans. Camouflage and mo' camouflage. Underwear on the outside. All in the name of "edgy." It did pay off: we won Best Costumes at a competition in 2003, but that's beside the point. The aforementioned bisonly life-ruining chick even had a thing for squinching and squeezing her Quadruple Bacon Cheeseburger ass backfat-rich frame into bite-sized garments. You live and you learn, right?
Anywho, just found an old write up in the local paper from 2003: HERE.
Here are some of the less cringe-worthy images from more carefree (skinner) times.
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| March 28, 2003: Portsmouth, Virginia. |
enjoy the pizzles, bizzles.
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snapped during my five day stay in San Jose in July.
I enjoyed my time in Costa Rica (see recaps one and two). I initially opted to land in Costa Rica as opposed to Panamá since doing so saved me close to $200 in airfare. My five days here were the first time I'd visited a Spanish-speaking country, outside of Los Mexicangeles, California, where I spent exactly two years (7/1/09-6/30/11). I'll admit to not venturing out from the area immediately surrounding the hostel as much as I should have, but I found the stay mostly enjoyable. If, a month into this journey, I'm still trying to grasp Spanish now, I was significantly more nervous then. Staying in the hostel, where most residents spoke at least some English, so I was cool. More than anything, I ate in San Jose. I ate very damn well. No international sexcapades as planned, but you can't win them all. However, I measure enjoyment in calories consumed. And in the end, I had a fucking blast.
Lasting impression of San Jose: very few Black people. Lots of tourists, as it's the capital, but very few Black people. Most people I saw were of the more fair-skinned, Eva Longoria shade of brown, the ones with black hair and pretty features you see on postcards from Costa Rica. This may seem trivial to some, but I am fascinated with diaspora, with seeing the reach and outcome of African movement and influence. The owner of the hostel advised me that as I get closer to Panamá, specifically toward Colón, that the people would "look more like me." This was a grand understatement, I'm learning. More on this later.
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Note: After publishing, I realized a line I had left out regarding her Jay Leno performance: Refuse to use a prerecorded live track despite...the obvious.
There.
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As of August 6, I've lived in Panamá for a month. If it feels like I'm reiterating this point, it is in part because some (Hi Mom!) still don't grasp the "officialness" of the situation. Birth certificates and various documents are being translated into Spanish, notarized, and authenticated by the Panamanian Embassy. Local wombs are being tested for child bearing capabilities. Eyelash samples of potential baby mamas are being compared against mine. You see, all I ask is that my children have brown hair, pretty eyelashes (*blink blink blink*), and are bilingual with pretty skin. Or not. The goal: dual citizenship, made easy because my mother was born here. I'm "entitled" and such. Strangely the citizenship process is markedly shorter than securing a (temporary) work permit, which lasts one year, must be renewed annually, and could be contingent upon employment with a given employer. No, thanks.
I say all that to say, as I said when a friend questioned my intentions here, "Yes, it's official." For the tenth time. At any rate, this was meant to be a time of celebration and reflection. After advertising all week, I went to Albrook Mall to meet my first client for private English lessons. Due to miscommunication, we missed one another, so I sat in the food court, stuffed my face with some hip-widening goodness, wrote, and chatted with my parents. After declaring the day a loss, I gathered my belongings to return home.
Keys? Check.
Journal? Check.
Empty Calories? Check.
Phone? Check.
Passport?
Hm. Not in my back pocket where I tucked it. I froze while passing the carousel in the Food Court. Dropped to one knee and dumped my bookbag out on the spot. Other butt cheek pocket? No. In between pages in the journal? No. Front jean pockets? No.
FUCK EVERYTHING.
Cue panic.
As of this coming Saturday, I will have been in Panama for a month. Some days, I still can't believe I am here. Every so often, when something particularly awesome happens, I find myself saying, "This is my life. Wow." My short time in this country has show me a great deal about myself the world, made me much more open-minded, and strengthened my belief in the Law of Attraction. In a month's time, I have been able to construct a sturdy foundation for the life I wished and fantasized about in journals a year ago. That I'm even here, in good health, alone, is worthy of celebration. Despite all of the well-intentioned suggestions to make this a visit rather than a move, I'm here. Living. For as long as possible. With no set plans to return to The States. And I'm elated.
Work and Dance
Aside from connecting with my family's past, learning Spanish, and absorbing the culture, studying and teaching dance was a large part of my reason for coming here. I wanted to continue training in ballet and teach hip hop. According to people I'd spoken to previously, there wasn't much of a hip hop dance scene here. They said the classes were watered down and not comparable to anything in the states, specifically Los Angeles and New York. That is to be expected, but I had faith that the dance culture existed here somewhere.
After settling into the hostel in Casco Viejo, Luna's Castle, I happened to browse the classifieds in La Prensa to see what I'd find. I specifically looked out for any postings from gyms, dance schools, English academies, language schools, or anything with the world "English" in it. Happened across a post seeking an aerobics and dance instructor, preferably bilingual, willing to do light clerical work as well. Hmm. The instructor part was cool. I figured being more on the English side of bilingual wouldn't get me murdered, and assumed that "light clerical work" meant something along the lines of signing people into class. Sounds good to me. Responded via email, and exchanged messages with the studio owner for awhile before scheduling a meeting later that night. The school, Zumba Fit 507, is located in an area called Paitilla, a more affluent part of town where the newly constructed Multicentro is located. Here you'll see the bulk of the highrise buildings, fancier apartments, endless renovation, etc. Translation: the money is here.
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| Paitilla, Panamá City |
Lucy, the studio owner, was finishing up a Zumba class when I arrived. The position was for a Zumba instructor to take over one of her three to four daily classes. What is Zumba? Zumba is a fitness program that combines Latin dance with hip hop, dancehall, african, and other international styles for an intense, high-energy aerobic workout. It's become wildly popular in recent years. The beauty of it is that every class is different. Some classes weigh more on the strictly aerobic/latin side, while others are heavy in more international vibes. A few examples:
Some are more like dance classes:
And some are decidedly more exercise-based:
The bad thing about having a program that's open to such varied interpretation is that you occasionally ended up with a completely flavorless class like this one:
The young ladies are fit, sure. And they mean well. But as Zumba is based in LATIN dancing, I'm going to need then to realize their torso is not a block of wood, and acknowledge where there would, on another more shapely woman, be hips and an ass that are able to move freely. WORK THAT WAIST DAMMIT.
Have I taught Zumba before? Absolutely not. But, being athletic, fit, and familiar with both dance and aerobics, figured I could give it a shot. We talked dance and fitness as well as her expectations of me, the potential instructor. Within an hour of vibing and connecting, she'd offered me the position, as well as the opportunity to begin a hip hop class. This was day two in Panama. Win.
I've been in classes for the last two weeks, learning the pace the classes, the Zumba teaching method, observing Lucy's style and that of a visiting instructor, Mario. There are a wealth of "Zumba moves" that all classes should/will have, and it's good to see both male and female teachers interpret them differently. Again, every class is different. That's the beauty of this. It's based in interval training, with an hour class consisting of between 12 and 15 songs. After a warmup and targeted muscle work, the songs are a mix of fast and slow rhythms that alternately elevate and lower the heart rate for an effective burn, always resulting in you being completely drenched by the end of the class. Zumba involves a combination of aerobics, toning, and dance. I decided my class will involve more hip hop than Lucy's class. The key in this school is to be mindful of the ages and ability levels of the students: mostly 30+ women who are mostly fit, aside from the occasional housewife completely devoid of coordination. That's okay. They're friendly, mostly English speaking, and appear to be very open-minded. This will absolutely be a good thing.
Did I move to Panama to teach Zumba? Not exactly, but I am completely open to outcome and willing to take on whatever adventure or new experience is placed before me. Besides, I'm able to work out, while improving as a teacher, making great contacts, and helping students change their bodies and gain confidence. Everyone wins.
English and Spanish
Gaining fluency was a large part of moving here. It's pretty obvious that learning Spanish in a Spanish-speaking country is infinitely more enriching than doing so in an American classroom, even if the course is conducted in Spanish. From the moment I landed in the airport in Mexico City, I realized that after all the years of studying Spanish in school, none of that Spanish was here. The Mexicans I'd encountered in Los Angeles speak more clearly and slowly than the Costa Ricans I met while there. Same for Panamanians. Then, add colloquialisms to the mix. Then, add in the dialects and accents from the various regions, ethnic groups, and natives of other Latin American and Hispanic countries that I cross paths with. In short: I exist in a cloud of confusion.
I'm faring pretty well in communicating in Spanish. I'm learning everyday and make sure to let people know to correct me if I make a mistake.
I've studied Spanish for over four years. Naturally, because I have always felt a need to absorb the language, I've always excelled in school, on paper. The biggest hindrance to my progress, however, has been a lack of practice. Real life application. My Panamanian ass mother and grandmother rarely spoke Spanish to me growing up. The limited use of the language over the years resulted in me being proficient in reading and writing, but entirely lacking in confidence as a speaker. Then to arrive here and hear Panamanians run words together and pepper their speech with Spanglish? Again: a cloud of confusion.
I'd originally intended to attend Habla Ya, a well-respected Spanish school in Boquete, Panama. After opting for city life versus mountain life, that plan was out. I briefly considered another school here in Panama City before a friend told me about cheap classes at the University of Panama. I did some research and called to inquire about the price and structure of the courses. At the end of the conversation, Profesor Eduardo asked, "What's your native tongue?" I told him, "English." Then: "Bueno. We're starting a new class for advanced English students, where they focus on conversation in real life situations. We're looking for a teacher. Would you like the job?"
BITCH, WHAT?
"............of course. When can I...?"
"Can you come today to learn more? Say, in an hour?"
"Of course. Wow. Thank you!"
So, I went to the Centro de Lengua at the University of Panama. Met with Profesor Eduardo. Chatted briefly about my life, past work experiences, and reasons for coming to Panama, in Spanish, while he got a feel for my comfort with the language. He explained what he expected from me as a teacher: a conversation class, conducted solely in English, three times a day, twice a week. 9 AM, 1 PM, 6 PM, and a Saturday morning class. Each class is roughly an hour. My initial fear was that these courses would interfere with my other teaching commitments. Then, he gave me the option of Mon/Wed or Tues/Thurs. Since my Hip Hop and Zumba classes are Tues/Thurs, I opted for Monday/Wednesday. Whew.
Then: "As an instructor, you'll also get to take Spanish classes here for free."
MOTHERFUCKING WIN.
I had already budgeted several hundred dollars for Spanish classes. Win. Win. Win.
I will also admit that my thug exterior was breached, as I, overwhelmed with my accomplishments, shed a tear and a half on the phone with my mother after leaving the Humanities building. Sue me. After you fight me.
*holds up gang signs to offset emo moment*
I registered for (free) Spanish courses today. Did an oral evaluation with my professor, and my first (free) course begins next Tuesday (for free). Since the next session of English classes don't begin until September, I've put ads out for private English classes. A classified ad in the paper for about six days spread over the next two weeks, combined with fliers posted on a handful of bulletin boards. Individual, couple, and group rates. I've been getting calls. All good things. I'm thankful.
The next step is to continue advertising the hip hop, Zumba, and English courses. The goal is to continue networking with dancers, checking out events, meeting up and dancing with crews (I rehearsed with a b-boy crew last weekend!), and just self-promoting as much as I possibly can. It appears any fear I once had to advocate on my own behalf was left in Los Angeles. If I have reached this point in a month's time, I can only imagine where I'll be one year from now.
And yes, I do intend to stay at least that long. Ahem.
Look out for videos of my first hip hop and Zumba classes next week.
~chrisAlexander
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About two weeks into my trip, I'd experienced many of the various versions of the Panamanian breakfast situation. More often than not, especially when eating on the go as I have been, the meal will include something fried.
yucca frito
(fried yucca)
carimañolas
(Panamanian/Columbian origin. Fried yucca stuffed with meat)
holajdre
(literally, fried dough)
tortilla
And so on...
With all the walking around I do on a daily basis, I don't necessarily like to fill up on greasy things so early in the day. Sure, I should be blending into the Panamanian way of life, but last week, I craved something familiar.
FRENCH
TOAST
*bangs gong*
The last time I crossed paths with the sweet and magical breakfast delight was at The Waffle in Los Angeles.
So, perhaps I was setting myself up for failure expecting something...similar...here. At any rate, off I went to Cafe Coca Cola.
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| Cafe Coca Cola |
They claim the title of oldest cafe in Panama City. Opening in 1875, the landmark in Casco Viejo has lots of history, even once hosting Che Guevera and the beat down of the late Panamanian Vice Presidential Billy Ford.
Jeopardy trivia aside, I was lead here again after an unfavorable first visit. Having just returned from a weekend in Colón with family (where food is leaps and bound above food here in Panamá City), I wandered into Coca Cola in search of a simple meal. My first dish: goddamn combination fried rice. How do you mess up fried rice? The primary flavor: grease. Bland and upsetting. A new friend later told me, "Well, it's a combination.....of rice from different days of the week." This explains a lot. Food in Colón, where the population consists largely of Panamanians of West Indian descent, was rich and flavorful. Even the Chinese food was among the best I've ever had...even BETTER than Chinese food from Brooklyn, which says a great deal.
At any rate, I knew I wanted French Toast. First question: Would they serve French Toast? Upon sitting at the counter, I spotted an old friend:
GODDAMN TÍA JEMIMA.
That it was the health-conscious LITE version of the busty, wide-hipped Auntie I was used to stateside, I wasn't too alarmed initially. Hell, syrup is syrup, right? More on this later.
Browsing the menu, I saw quickly that I was in luck:
see: Tostadas a La Francesa at the bottom.
Sounded close enough to me, so I was game. I'd previously read about the no-nonsense waitresses. Here they were before me, in all their unsmiling, I'd-rather-be-drawing-on-my-eyebrows glory. I almost felt as if my order was an inconvenience, interrupting her intense texting. At 11 AM, there was no sausage or bacon. Only ham. Deep sigh. Scrambled eggs and ham. Cafe con leche. Jugo de Naranja. Read the local paper as I waited.
Clearly, I was still wearing my American hat. Without thinking much of it, I was anticipating something like the dish at the right.
Here's what came:
*chants*
Must be open-minded.
Must be open-minded.
Must be open-minded.
Okay fine. Let's go.
First step:
Smell everything.
It matters not where I am dining. It's a personal rule. I must smell what I'm eating, especially if I'm eating a dish for the first time. If It doesn't smell good, it probably won't taste good. Some of you Vaginal Explorers can probably attest to this rule of thumb.
Smelled edible. Reached for the syrup. Poured on one piece. Tasted. Sure, this'll work. Not sex-on-your-first-night-in-a-new-country good, but I smashed it nonetheless. Only downside: you know how, after squeezing syrup from the bottle, there's typically a string of it that drips down the side the side and sticks to the cap and such? Yeah, none of that happened. It's part of the gluttonous experience, dammit! As soon as you release the pressure from the sides of the bottle, it sucks back up inside like retreating snot. I, however, attribute it to the demonic qualities of a food labeled LITE, as opposed to a varied product recipe in a different country. 
I had completely forgot that, here, "____ and eggs" often means the accompanying meat will be diced and combined with the eggs. However, unless there are veggies involved, I like my meat and eggs segregated.
| | <---- eggs over here. meat over here. -----> | |
So, there was that. Even before smelling the eggs, the first word that came to mind was "struggle." Perhaps it was just that they were scrambled quite hard before serving. Smelled. Paused. Smelled again. Shrugged. Tasted. Paused. Smelled again.
Maybe not.
A chef (used loosely) was leaning against a wall in front of me, sipping a coffee. He appeared to be searching my face for a reaction to the food. Either that, or he wanted to go a round in the back, but I'll stick with "searching for a reaction." Only because he stood watching, because I didn't want to be rude, and because I know not to cause friction with people who handle your food, I took a few more bites. I gulped the coffee and juice, paid, and left.
before
i even
hit
the door,
i knew
something
was
wrong.
Not "oh, this bitch shortchanged me" wrong.
I mean "STRENGTHEN THE GODDAMN LEVY" wrong.
I hadn't eaten an egg that wasn't mixed into something else in almost a month. Instantly, I remembered how much I love scrambled eggs (with cheese) despite the fierce hate eggs possess towards my innards and me. Leaving the cafe, I paused to gather my thoughts. Calculated the distance to the apartment. Continue with errands or power walk home?
Needless to say, I spent much of the afternoon within ten feet of a toilet. Still not sure whether to attribute it to a personal issue with eggs or Satan's handiwork. At any rate, unless EVERY other restaurant in the country of Panamá is closed and all of the fruit on the trees has died and every gummy worm in the hemisphere has disappeared, I will not be returning to Cafe Cola Cola.
upside to the day: relentless diarrhea does wonders for the waistline.
end.
Maybe not.
A chef (used loosely) was leaning against a wall in front of me, sipping a coffee. He appeared to be searching my face for a reaction to the food. Either that, or he wanted to go a round in the back, but I'll stick with "searching for a reaction." Only because he stood watching, because I didn't want to be rude, and because I know not to cause friction with people who handle your food, I took a few more bites. I gulped the coffee and juice, paid, and left.
before
i even
hit
the door,
i knew
something
was
wrong.
Not "oh, this bitch shortchanged me" wrong.
I mean "STRENGTHEN THE GODDAMN LEVY" wrong.
I hadn't eaten an egg that wasn't mixed into something else in almost a month. Instantly, I remembered how much I love scrambled eggs (with cheese) despite the fierce hate eggs possess towards my innards and me. Leaving the cafe, I paused to gather my thoughts. Calculated the distance to the apartment. Continue with errands or power walk home?
Needless to say, I spent much of the afternoon within ten feet of a toilet. Still not sure whether to attribute it to a personal issue with eggs or Satan's handiwork. At any rate, unless EVERY other restaurant in the country of Panamá is closed and all of the fruit on the trees has died and every gummy worm in the hemisphere has disappeared, I will not be returning to Cafe Cola Cola.
upside to the day: relentless diarrhea does wonders for the waistline.
end.
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