My Panama Park Whore?

“Parkour” is supposedly  a discipline that grew out of military obstacle course training, but which has developed into a new and dangerous loose sport of free running and building jumping.  

Just check out any Youtube channel and you’ll see hyper energetic kids, such as my nearly 15 year old, engaged in  mind-boggling and dangerous Parkour.

So tonight, he and his buddy fairly burst into the restauant, breathless with excitement and news.My kid lifts up his Tee Shirt to reveal a new wound on his side exclaims:

“Mom! Look what Parkour gave me!” 

I glance down and see a not too serious rash-like thing that looks, oddly, more like a large hickey.

And of course, all my Mom ears had heard was:

“Look what that Park Whore did to me!”  

I was up on my feet faster than you can swat a fly.  

And then, all of us,  my son, his friend, the customer I’d been sitting with and I,  laughed so hard at the language confusion until we nearly cried.

But hey, just to be safe... Watch out for those Park Whores, I say.

Restaurant Chronicle 1. My Panama Porn Dogs

Yes, dear reader,  I said "Porn Dogs."  So send the kiddies out for ice cream. This one's for you.

We have a small restaurant in Panama and one of our most popular menu items are our hand-dipped Corn Dogs on a stick.  We figured that since Panamanians love "meat on a stick" and also corn meal, Corn Dogs just seemed a natural way to go.

It's fun to watch people eat a Corn Dog for the very first time. It turns out, there is more than one way to down a dog.

Some folks will slide the whole thing off the stick and eat it daintily  with a knife and fork, the way they'd tackle, say, a chicken breast. Others cut it up into little bits or chunks.  Then there are those who turn it on its side, holding it by the stick, and nibble away, Corn-on-the-Cob style.  And the there's the X-rated way of attacking a corn dog.

I have a regular customer who loves our "Double Dog" basket.  He's an elegant, older gentleman, but when he's in front of those two puppies, he exclaims, every time and  with each bite "Wow! Elizabeth... Tell Larry this is one good corn dog!"

I always sit with him when he come is, partly because he's elderly and alone and I adore him. . But also because I'm afraid he's going to kill himself in the process.  Every bite he takes becomes a brain-bleeding, nerve wracking moment because of the way he eats those pups.
 .
Rather than practice "safe" eating methods, he holds the thing by the stick and then just descends, plunges actually,  straight down on it in what I can only describe as 'deep throating the dog'... or what I now refer to fondly as eating it "Porn Dog" style.

The visuals aside, the bigger problem is that every time he goes down on that dog,  he exposes more and more of the stick. But instead of sliding the remaining food upwards,  he just continues shoving that dog straight down his gullet, -- stick and all --  until I truly fear he is going to stab himself in the uvula.

One day, sitting at the next table,  a gentleman, also with a Double Dog basket, called me over to say he hadn't realized the Corn Dogs had "bread" on them and he was on a low-carb diet, so could I please take them away and cut off the coating for him?  Okay people. I do aim to please my customers.  But I couldn't help notice that he was closer in age to sixty than to ten, and, wondering for a teensy weensy second if he was next going to ask me to cut up his food in pieces for him, I was tempted, just for a teensy, weensy, split  instant, to just deep throat those puppies and yank off that bread with my teeth.

Instead, I smiled, stepped away, and happily, gently, even tenderly removed the corn meal with a knife and fork.  Very respectable.

My Panama Life At My Doorstep

My Panama Life happens right outside my front door.

The Balboa Beer Truck

The Taylors Drive By, Christmas, 2010

A Bird In Hand

Band Practice, Buen Pastor School

Miguel, the Fish Guy

Katy in the Middle

Graduation Day, on to Middle School!

G' Night, Horse.

Another Panama Parade

I heard that between ten and twenty thousand people came to downtown Boquete for the November 28 independence day parade. When I dropped William off in the park, it was 7:00 a.m.. 
The parading began at 8:00-ish and lasted close to15 hours -- without a break.  Just this endless, flowing and  flamboyant,  sixteen-hour long caterpillar.

Folks show up by bus loads, on bikes, in cars and on foot. The come early, wedging  their cars where they can, changing clothing while crouched behind an open car door, or at the river's edge.  

Ngobe people, perched on a hillside by the main road.

Most local schools participate, this being William's class.

I got a "thumbs up!"

One of dozens of parading groups.

Redemption in Panama... Is Oprah The New Jesus?

It's election day in the USA but  here in Panama, it's raining so when the phone rings, I'm nestled snugly  into my sofa.  It's my brother Nicholas in California, calling to make sure we  sent in our absentee ballots on time.

UH oh.
OH Boy.
Ummm . Okay.  It seems we kind of screwed that one up this year.
Sorr-reee.

Without actually scolding, my responsible brother gently and firmly lets me know we have committed the unforgivable by giving away our precious votes to the Tea Party.   But, practically in the same breath, all is not lost.   He brightly explains (as he hits ENTER on his keyboard ) there is still time for me to single-handedly redeem my family from spending eternity in Hades by picking up the phone to  make some "Get Out and  Vote"  calls using, of course,  the link that now and already awaits me via his email.

My brother is, of course, is correct.  Although I'm an Independent, left on some issues, surprisingly right on others, I am still registered as a Democrat,  something I did in order to vote in the primaries -- which of course never counted since I was voting in Florida, where your votes magically disappear like socks in the dryer.  I am, after all, a Ballard.

And Ballards vote. Ballards come from a long line of active Democrats -- that's "active" with a capital "A."  My  internalized parental and grand-parental values were rapidly surfacing, taking on the form of  painful contrition.  And guilt will kill you.

Also,  I'm pretty sure I felt the earth moving under my house as my ancestors began to squirm in their graves.

So, while I definitely wanted to remain in my now form fitting  spot on the couch, that wasn't going to happen; the guilt was now gnawing away at my lazy, easy day.

But was it the guilt alone that propelled me out of my comfort zone? Loyalty to my brother and our family ideals?  Maybe it was my good old higher power calling me into action -- that faint  voice of right and reason that I sometimes refer to as Uncle Jesus' Holy Spirit.

Or, perhaps, just maybe it was the voice of Oprah Winfrey herself!

Let's face it. Haven't most of us over the past 25 years been minding the messages of Oprah?  Oprah leading us to meditate, eat /pray/love;  dump the dieting; follow the mother ship (whatever that is); dive into the vortex (whatever that is); and oh yeah, above all, Vote!

Maybe it was Oprah herself calling to me all the way from Chicago. Chicago, city of my birth; home of Hull House and the great Jane Addams, alongside whom my grandparents worked and where they became directors after her death.  Chicago...place of my parents' alma mater, the then matchless University of Chicago, and home of the progressive Hyde Park area, where my grandparents, and later Barack Obama himself resided, before he moved to the White House.

Whatever it was that pulled me into action, it worked.
I did the good deed.
I dialed. I persuaded. I left creative and cajoling messages, forgoing of course the provided internet Script.
And ... I began to feel better.  I felt redeemed.
I had single-handedly brought the future of my children (and their children) away from the arms of hell and closer to heaven's embrace by my earnest campaigning efforts.

All this got me to thinking:
It's probably forgivable to disobey Jesus once in a while because, you know,  Jesus is a pretty forgiving guy.
But it's not okay to go against Oprah.
Let's face it. If you cross Oprah, you probably go straight to hell.
So.
Is Oprah the new Jesus?
I don't know.
As of this writing, the ballots haven't been counted.

The "Blob" At My Panama Door

There are worse surprises than finding a spider on your bed or a snake at your breakfast table.

Yesterday, very early, as I tidied up and swept my front porch, I noticed a pile of what looked like small trails of ... well... dirt? Only thing was, the pile was slowly moving down the path, like a slinking, slithering  blob.

As I honed in on the mass of black, I realized that it was a glob of maybe a hundred black caterpillars, squiggling individually, but moving slowly, grotesquely and neatly as one collective and large mass.

I have to say, this spectacle kind of put me off my feed..

Yes, Taoists and Buddhists, I blasted them with my lethal weapon, an economy size can of Raid. No guilt.

 And here they are, a little closer to the edge. (And so was I.)

Food is Love: Some Panama Kitchens

In the Philippines I learned  that food equals love. Go ahead and refuse a Philippina hostess' hospitality by turning down her food, and you'll soon discover that you may as well have spat right there on her floor.  While the Panamanians don't take the Food = Love equation quite so personally, cooking here is big, ongoing and somewhat communal.

In our little Barrio, we women are endlessly sharing the fruits of our kitchens and gardens.  It's common to see one of us girls shuttling down the street to a neighbor's with a covered platter or, more commonly, a recycled plastic food container.  Yesterday, my neighbor, Rumelia, turned up with a styrafoam plate arranged with cut  fruits -- and with it a used jar filled "Plantain Flour" her husband had ground from a bunch of plantains I'd given them.  I used the flour to make a hot drink for William's breakfast, adding milk, honey and vanilla.  Another neighbors keeps me in a dozen freshly laid eggs every week so I return the favor by sending over hot, baked cakes.

For me, there's  nothing more comforting that a busy kitchen spilling over with pots and pans and food and love and life.  Nothing.  The kitchen is where I want to be and where I want everyone I love  to gather.  Nothing pleases me more than being able to offer William's friends, or someone just stopping by, a bowl of home-made soup or a slice of fresh banana cake.

Below are two of my favorite kitchens here in Boquete.

The first belongs to Elba Landau but is mostly run by her sister, Tia Chichita, who makes excellent soup. Elba is from one of the oldest families here in Boquete and she used to teach piano in New Orleans.  Tia Chichita, does the lion's share of the cooking and keeps a wood fire burning most of the day. 

You will notice that the kitchen is not walled off, but opens out at the back to the yard.   There is, way at the back, an open, wood burning oven.  Also, there truly is no end to what one might find in Tia Chichita's kitchen, which is more reminiscent of a hobby shop than a cookery.

William & Elba Landau outside her front door.

Tia Chichita in Elba's Kitchen

Grandma Gloria's Kitchen 

When William is not eating at home, he has his meals around the corner in "Grandma Gloria's" kitchen.  Gloria (I call her by her given name, Gloriella) is the grandmother of William's schoolmate, Abraham, and one of my closest friends here.  Gloriella is a Boquetena, born and raised in this pueblo, and she feeds a lot of people. 

In addition to renting room and board to several locals, Gloriella has most of her children living with her:  Abraham and his mother (also Gloria); Aunt Marquelda and Aunt Elizabeth (Ellie), who is also my "tocaya" since we share a name; Elizabeth's baby, little Victor; and Uncle Victor, whom we call Tito, and who helps the boys with their homework.

William loves to eat at Grandma Gloria's and Abraham loves to eat at your house. So they show up interchangeably at either house, as if we were all related.  William especially loves Gloriella's Arroz con Guandu (Guandu looks like kind of pea, can be green or purple, and is a perfect protein), Carimanollas (stuffed mashed Yucca) and any meat she's prepared, including cow tonghe.

About once a month, Gloriella has neighborhood women gather at her house to work on a batch of Panamanian Tamales, quite different from what I ate in Mexico.  Photos below.

 Gloria's pots and pans.

Above is the smooth "river rock" used to smash open garlic or to pound and tenderize meats.  

I have my own river rock t home.

This chicken will be cooked on an open fire out back and then added to the Tamales.

Below, Larry and William enjoy hot Tamales sent over at the end of the day.  (Photos taken in November when we were living next door in the attached apartment.)

                                                                               

Riding The Bus With Jesus

When heading out of the country, most people cab it to the Panama City airport. A cab ride costs something around $40, depending, and takes you on a 30 minute highway tour. Boring.

So, with more than a four hour layover and more idle time ahead, plus a fidgety kid and luggage too, we decided to kill some time and travel the slow bus through town.

The buses here are tricked out beyond the stretches of kistch, and clearly, Uncle Jesus is taking the wheel!

With Hey-Seus being so prominently displayed, including a full center fold type spread on the cieling (see left), I wondered if this might not be Panama's cheaper and improved answer to Allstate.

As the rest of traffic whizzed by at a fair clip, our driver traveled at a trickle, stopping frequently not only to let new riders board, but to allow vendors step on briefly to sell candies, sodas and the like.


Unlike the more glamorous view of Panama City's white and distant skyline, the scenes from a local bus reveal a seedier, dirtier and truer side of the city.'

After about 90 minutes, we were deposited at a stop, a quick walk to the airport, luggage in tow. Hooray for wheels, right? Total cost of our trip for the three of us? About $2.00!
Additional photos of our tour are posted at left.

Down... Down... Down-Sizing.

Our Palace

The beautiful "Jacaranda House" which Larry built ... mostly from Sarasota! By August, we will have had the pleasure of enjoying this luxury for a year and a half. It was nice while it lasted.

Well,nothing stays the same and anyway, I need to be knocked down a rung or two on the ladder of life. Besides, Larry and I both need a new challenge...

And here it is!

Yeah, yeah. The bigger the problem, the greater the opportunity.

Thankfully, I know Larry can fix anything. And we got some fixin' to do!

Yes. I fondly call this my own little dump, or "the crack house downtown." But the truth is this little house is well located near the heart of town and in an all-Panamanian neighborhood... plus, it sits on a dead-end street. One neighbor sells "Duros" or strawberry Icys from her home, so we know where William will be spending his pennies. All the neighbors seem lovely, and there is even a grazing horse nearby.

By September we hope to have an "After" to show, but Larry has his work cut out. He'll have to gut most of the house. The area to the right is a separate apartment and in the back is a narrow but long lot where we will have a garden, patio with fireplace, a covered area for William's skating ramp, and of course a place for Baby, my goofy, obese, asthmatic rooster and his little hen, Honey Bun.

If you put on your cheaters and look way down the road to the left, there is a horse grazing in front of the yellow roof.

That's our untucked William in the photo. Being a social guy, he'll do just great in the hub of activity downtown life presents. He can be my errand boy!

Truth be told, I am truly excited about what lies ahead.

Bilingual? Maybe, Baby.

I wonder often if by moving here, William is missing too much of what beautiful Sarasota has to offer, e.g., terrific kids' theater, skate parks, sailing camps, the Ringing Museum and even a Circus camp. But it's all worth it because he'll be bilingual, right?

People get excited when they remind me of the advantages William will have when he is fully bilingual. In this shrinking, globally connected world, another language will bolster any career the kid chooses. He'll be a better communicator. All true. ( But, whispers the cynic in me ... being bilingual could also mean he'll just be able to sell drugs on both sides of the border!)

Having your kid become bilingual also presents a potential problem for an only semi-bilingual, middle-aged mom. I am now in a constant race to keep ahead of my son in the Spanish department, and he's fast approaching the pass-me-by point. If only I can become fluent, I'll know that when he says he told his posse how great a mom I am, I'll hear that what he really called me is an an evil, wicked dictator.

My friend Jenni, who has four kids, refers to fluency as the "F" word. Now she's been in Central America for four years and has a way younger brain than mine , so if Jenni sees fluency as an unbeatable dragon, I'm in deep doo doo. Or, as we say in Spanish, "mucha mierda!"

Undoubtedly our move has provided a simpler childhood. On the left are posted photos of a lovely spot our friend, Farmer Henry took Larry and William, not 40 minutes from our house. Old fashioned fun from another decade. I must say, it does beat the hell out of a Gameboy.

Moving On... Maybe

I've been waiting to write a post, hoping for just the right inspiration to hold your interest. So here's the thing. My wit and sass have gone right out the window, along with the hormones. I'm just fresh out of clever.

I'm also, for once, fresh out of drama. There was one promising day, about a month ago, when we had a few small earthquakes ... 5 point something, I believe. My chair started swaying and I felt as if I were riding a wave. Naturally, Larry and the kids hanging around didn't feel a thing. I, on the other hand, figured I was either having a mini-stroke, or a new symptom of menopause. A second, stronger quake occurred later on and Larry did feel that one, but William and his friend were nonplussed. We're dry as a desert and windy enough only for a daily dose of dust in the house. It's annoying, but nothing like the floods of last year!

Our life in this cloud forest has become what life becomes once your nest is built ... usual. After a full 14 months, we now tap out the hum drum rhythm of the day-to-day... or should I say dia-tras-dia?

We've sold the beautiful house we built and are waiting to close. I'm mildly tickled by the notion that we'll be allowed to stay on through most of the summer ... as caretakers. And that works for us for now.

Well, in case you thought a blade of grass was in danger of sprouting under Larry's feet, we are thinking about purchasing a downtown fixer-upper. This, of course, will make Larry happier than William in a candy store, and I'll be a tool belt widow... again.

I mentioned the location we are looking at in an email to a friend in Connecticut, another Elizabeth, explaining that the property we are looking at is a real dump (trust me when I tell you it puts the "U" in ugly) ... to which she remarked. "So you're buying a crack house! Good for you!" So here is my promise: if we close on the crack house, I'll be sure to post before and after photos.

William is finishing up 4th grade Home School in the mornings and still attending local school in the afternoons. I hope to have him fully matriculated by the end of June. His Spanish is kicking in after spending the Panama school break (December - mid March) with the neighborhood kids, which likely means he is fully bilingual on a WII, X-Box and D.S. He continues to entertain us daily with his own version of Spanglish. But, now that he is really speaking, I have to concentrate on improving my own skills, driven by the horrible notion that by the time William is a teenager, he will be verbal steps ahead of me. Oh God, I can't let that happen.

The Orphanage -- Casa Hogar Trisker

We spend Saturday mornings at a local orphanage where Larry knocks himself out (with William's help) teaching soccer to a group of boys, while my friend, Johnnie Fernandez and I spend teach the girls (and a few boys) crafts. It's a daunting task to come up with projects and materials each week and my gal Johnnie shines in this area. I think I'm mostly there as chaos control.

Altogether, there are roughly 50 children in all. The kids are chock full of mischief, curiosity, need and lice. It's easy to feel frustrated when we see obvious ways we could improve their living conditions and quality of life, but have to struggle in a system that isn't ours.

I confess that I approach each Saturday with with feelings of dread, but I leave with a sense of reward. Every little bit counts, I hope.

By law I am not allowed to take or post pictures of the children. Perhaps I will take one of the outside to give you an idea. Suffice it to say we have grown to love them and are committed to our Saturdays. Don't be surprised if I set up a donation site for school scholarships, supplies, etc. I tell you these children are utterly deserving, and your dollars, which go a long way here, will be well spent.


Wrapping Up The Year

All in all, I'm glad we made the enormous effort to move here. Truth be told, I'm not madly in love with Panama, but it's growing on me. And the benefits of the move are obvious. We have undoubtedly extended William's childhood and given him a broader perspective of the world. While it isn't easy to miss friends and family (especially Dylan who is now in college), we've made new friends, too.

The most positive aspect this move has had on our family is that it has given Larry and me time to get to know one another. Whether we liked it or not! In Sarasota, with Larry working nights, we never saw one another. Here, we are together all the time. I'll admit this kind of intense restructuring was forced and never could have happened under the circumstances of our lives back in the States. Ultimately, we have surfaced from the move as a much changed and definitively better family. The irony is clear: what initially seemed to be costing us so much in the way of stress, effort and money turned out to be our family's priceless gain.

Larry at the Oscars

Here I am in Panama at Oscar time and the big surprise is … Who ever would have thought Larry would become that new best gay friend who stays up and watches the whole thing with me?

And not just THE Oscars, but, unarguably, the most boring Oscar show ever.

By the time it was ended I promise you, I was clear on the other side of menopause. (All those montages… half the time I wasn’t sure if we were still on commercial.)

Thank goodness for Ben Stiller who gave us a laugh doing a timely version of Joaquin Phoenix, whom the world had just last week seen go all the way to Crazy Town and back on Letterman.

Oh, and for a bit more entertainment, there was that enormous, squirrely crew of Slum Dog Millionaire who, collectively, look (honest-to-God) like the entire Lonely Hearts Club wall from those Junior High school dance days. Sorry, but somebody has to be the bitch and just say it.

And, through it all theer, was Our Larry. Our good ol' Michigan, cut-to-the-chase, meat & potatoes, tell it like it is Larry who finally got up and, strolling toward the bedroom in his boxers, commented in his usual Slagle way ... with a manner he has that channels parts of my dad and other grumpy old men … “Boy, I wish they’d just put that end stuff up first. I could have gone to bed hours ago!”

See you next year!

A Day in the Life....And Larry's Take, Sort Of

We're coming up on six months in the misty cloud forrest mountains of Boquete, Panama. Our friends occasionally ask me "What does Larry think about this adventure?"
Ahhh, a simple question... and simply answered. Let me explain.

Larry put in close to ten years tending bar at Marina Jack and never, ever did he utter a word of gossip about his job. (Okay, except for that one time when a female co-worker of mine arrived so hammered she was immediately cut off, but hung on the bar's edge, hounding poor Larry about her interest my bosom! Wow! So, that indicent did get a slight mention over toast from my usually tacit husband.) But the truth is, if you danced to one of Rock Lee's snappy tunes in the buff, right on the bar, the next day, when asked "How was work last night, honey?" Larry would just say "It was okay." My Larry, a drunkard's dream bartender!

Once, we were leaving the Dollar Theater after just seeing a film I was kind of jazzed up about. So naturally I ask, "Hey, Honey, how'd you like the movie?" To which Larry responded with a nonchalant shrug and an "It was Okay." "Hey!" I jab him enthusiastically. "Want to go to that little pub over there and talk about it?" To which Larry replied, "We just did." Enough said.

As I write, Larry is hotly digging out a fountain-stream-pool under our Chirimoya tree in the back yard. It's going to be quite something when completed. Alan is laying the stone wall to enclose it. Jose is hauling about 500 pounds of weeds I pulled all the way to Caldera, where dumping is allowed... for a whopping $50 bucks. "Cincuenta dolares!" I exclaimed to him... "Me Matas!" (translation: You're killin' me, Jose!). The average worker earns around $200 a month here.

William is at school now full time ($45 a month, not including uniforms and more books than a camel could carry). We'll resume the half home school/half Panamanian school in September.

His teacher has, once again, told him to cut his already cropped hair. William and I both know what she really wants is for him to shave it, military style. Okay. My long-locked, Sailing Squadron, Florida Studio Theater, Skate Park cum Surfer Dude kid does not want a naked skull. So every morning I comb it back, wet, and together we try to fool the nuns. (Okay, they're really not nuns. Just rigid, rote style teachers who can't bend an inch on a rule. So they feel like what I imagine school nuns to be.)

Larry deposited six fresh avacadoes from our tree on my kitchen counter this morning. He's looking for baby bamboo to plant near the fence and he thinks Rodrigo may have some. (Rodrigo owns the Villa Maria, where we used to stay, and has a hydroponic farm.) I call him the Panamanian Jesus because when we arrived to our entirely empty house in February, Rodrigo had placed 3 fully made beds, towels and soap in our house.

Rodrigo just stopped by to give us three heads of lettuce from his hydroponic farm. So I gave hims the avacadoes, thinking maybe I should make it more like a trade. Later today, Larry will clean up, get William from the Spanish tutor, and off they will go to basketball, where Larry coaches with his buddy Terry at a local gym up the road. Then we'll all eat out, or I'll cook.

So, how does Larry like Panama so far? I asked him that very question this morning. And he said "What?" So, I asked him again and this time he heard me. "Oh" he said. "I like it."

It's Showtime!

Ok. My 9-1/2 year old is "in a band"... The Drens. (I believe the name is a derivation of the word Nerds). The Drens perform Sundays under the loving guidance of Jenni & Steve Bliss. (The pix are of their first performance, but Steve has uploaded the performances from Sunday http://www.blissworks.biz/#/videopage/4529931014. ) The Drens have grown to a whopping nine members! Alayna, William, Pyper & Mahlin trade on vocals; Austin beats out the congas; Zion runs keyboards; Josh is lead guitar & Jadon wraps in up with a smooth bass! Not to forget little Ellie, who is a back up dancer (and not a bad singer herself).

Early in the week, Steve will compose & send music & lyrics by email so William can practice at home. Half the band actually belong to the Bliss family, so they start instrument practice at home. Come Saturday, all kids who are "in" gather at the Bliss house where Jenni organizes rehearsal like a pro. (Some days I've counted as many as 20 kids, just hanging out at the Bliss house . Jenni handles this as if there were three. I don't know how she manages this. But I promise, if I were put in her shoes, I'm sure I'd handle have to do something totally inappropriate, like finding a way to mainline vodka ...But Jenni? She's something else.)

If the group are tight enough, then on Sunday we all meet up at Guari Guari for Open Microphone Night (owned by Gordon & Richelle from NY), and do their gig!

If this weren't enough to fill the drama craving, William recently participated in his school's annual cultural event where the children dress up in fantastic costumes and perform dances, class by class. What a Gala! Ok, so the program was oral and I didn't understand a thing. But the costumes speak for themselves and really, they're a Drag Queen's envy! It took all my personal restraint not to rip a headpiece of an unsuspecting fifth grader!

We're Coming Home .... For Dinner

Yes, it's true. We are coming to Sarasota for two whole weeks. The trip, of course, is supposedly driven by our need to clean out and rent out our Sarasota house. So the story goes. But the real line is... Larry just wants a steak. Frankly, I don't think he will last another month without a tender and juicy NY Strip. And me? I'm hankering something terrible for a taste of Sushi, Egg Foo Young and Licorice... drooling for it, actually.

Truth be told, if it hadn't been for Leah & Paige sending those Tums & Tampons in their giant Walmart gift box, we might have been home by May. (Alas... Nada in the steak department.)

Yes, I know. The food here is fresh. You can't beat a giant papaya for a buck, or an ice cream cone for a whopping .30 cents. William's favorite treats, these little bagged ices from the corner store, go for a nickel. That's right. I said a nickel. Remember nickels? Well some of you might.

We've learned a lot in 5 months. We've learned that nothing gets done in a day, so relax. We've learned not to touch the fuzzy caterpillars, snakes and giant toads. But one of the hardest lessons, at least for Larry, was learning that there is such a thing as too lean meat. Not a spot of fat to be found. You can purchase a slab of beef, marinate the sucker for three days and still have to toss it to the dogs (no dirth of dogs! Bow wow wow...) because you broke a tooth on your Rib Eye. Yikes!

I believe I covered Chinese food in an earlier posting, and then there's Japanese. I'm aching right now just thinking about a fresh hot plate of Tempura with sweet and tangy dipping sauce.... sides of plump and colorful sushi... green tea ice cream... I actually can smellthe food and I think I can hear the ping ping ding of Asian Musak. Ok. I have to stop. Some people call this kind of lustful reminiscing "food sex" and this is supposed to be a family friendly site.

So we're coming home to pack things for storage, and, we hope, rent out our home. We are so excited to see family (Claire, Jon, Max, Connor, Aldona ... William's friends, heck, my friends). I can't wait to go to Redeemer for a proper down-on-your-knees, smells & bells Anglican service and then... hit the Hob Nob for a sloppy burger!)

We'll probably have our home Vonage Florida phone forwarded to a temporary cell so we can be reached. But, if you are around from July 26 - August 7, stop by 3051 53rd St. and say Hola! Hasta Luego... for now.

Life in Panama... Cock-A-Doodle , Bow Wow Wow

Time to catch you all up before these first impressions of the past 4+ months become evanescent, or run-of-the-mill. If I have a good quality, it's that I adapt and adopt easily, so initial strangeness turns to normality pretty fast. That said... before I forget, here are my impressions and what our life is like thus far.

Let's talk Noise. I think sound is a thing that most people forget to consider in many situations. But it's something I can't avoid because I'm what's called a highly "auditory" person. I hear everything, I'm a talker, and hearing even my own thoughts voiced facilitates my comprehension. And I'm cursed with the inability to ignore or minimize sounds. So in college, I was like a cazed schitzophrenic (they have high cortical activity and are sensitive to noise) when someone snapped a pencil at the back of the auditoriumn and I'djust about jump out of my nerdy front row seat. And those people who try to slowly open the candy wrapper at the movies? RIP IT OPEN AND GET IT OVER WITH. YOU'RE TORTURING ME! Okay, so you get the picture. Noise is an issue for me.

Cut to Panama, where we live in a high cielinged, slightly cavernous cement and tile home. I can lie in bed at our of the house and I swear,I can hear a spider silently peeing all the way in Wiliam's room. Back in Sarasota, if a dog dared go on a barking spree and break through my ear plugs at, say, t three a.m., i'd be in my car in a flash, driving in quiet fury around the hood like some maniac, just waiting to get my hands on theright house ....for what? I don't know. Maybe a neighborly note in their mailbox the next day..."Gee wiz, Mister Neighbor, can you stop your dog from barking at flippin' 3 a.m. 'cause it is annoying the crap out of me? Signed, affectionately, your neighbor (no address)."

Guess how many dogs live around our house here? Including Cuco, Rocky, Lisi, the Akita tied to the post, the real barker behind Ulda's hosue, and about 8 more up on the main road (one block away), I count maybe 12. Any passerby even nearing our street, and the symphony begins. If the wind blows, if I sneeze in my sleep... it's just Cock-a-Doodle-Doo Bow Wow Wow Wow Wow Wow... ALL night long.

Lucky for me, I actually like the sound of Roosters (no they don't crow at dawn), and the wind that literally howls and whistles through the pine trees going down toward the river. William had trouble with the wind at first, but now he likes it. Sometimes the rain is so loud during the wet season that you have to shout to be heard.

Bajareque is the word for "mist" and living in a cloud forrest, the air fills with mist and often. It is cool and lovely. It doesn't roll in in a thick San Francisco style blanket. Sometimes it looks like smoke. At times it turns to fog and can be nearly blinding, but most mornings are clear and filled with the good noise of many birds, birds so well fed by the natural fruit, that they just turn their noses up at our bird feeders!

Life is simple and our group of foreign friends gather often, even more than once a week, for pot lucks and socializing. Jenni and Steve Bliss are a young couple from Indiana, and here by way of Costa Rica. They host a running Saturday pot luck open house and have four fierce and fabulous kids. It is through Jenni's pot luck that I met everyone else.

"Everyone else" is a representation of different states, countries, religious and political backgrounds, so conversation is never absent or dull. Indeed, conversation around here gets passionately heated.

What we miss (organized sports, art, events for kids), we make up as we go along. Susan Bostrom (with her husband Glenn and daughter Jessica) has a big hand in managing to gather us all up for one thing or another. Those Connecticut girls... always good for hosting parties, right?

Larry has become shockingly social. First of all, he calls people on his cell phone! He coaches basketball at a nearby gym 3 times a week. He pals around town with his buddy Terry Sandhoff, gathering up meat and fireworks for the 4th. He goes online to give out advice to friends who might have a visa question.

Church here is a challenge because either it's in Spahish, or at a private home, which turns out not be really Larry's thing. But our great friends, Bruce &Sharon Brown play the role of our family's spiritual team, and Larry sits in on Bruce's easy lessons. Jenny &Steve also offer a weekly adult discussion, which I attend, and somehow we end up not falling too far off our Christian path.

What do I miss? Of course, family. All our family in Sarasota, Michigan and California. And photos and paintings. But beyond these, it comes down to a few things. Food and theater and activities for William. You can't find a good cookie here to save your life. Sushi? Forget it. The steak and burger meat here have no fat in it. You'd think that is a good thing, but Larry will tell you otherwise. Plus, cheese and nuts cost a fortune. As for kids... there is not movie theater here, no skate park, no local kid theater. Every town in the world should have local kid theater and a skate park. (Teens in small towns with little to do end up drunk and pregnant. So that may be when we hit the road to the States!)

But the trade-off, for now, is good. William and his friends mostly play outside. In the rain. In the mud. In the trees. They invariably come home soaked, and cut, or caked in mud.
So... you hose 'em down. Scrub 'em off. And never leave home without an extra set of clothing stashed in the trunk.

Costa Rica Weekend

Without a permanent visa, all visitors must leave Panama after 90 days for 72 hours. We found the quickest crossing was to drive the pleasant 2 hours to Rio Sereno, where we left our car under the promised care of local Panamanian police. Then, it's a quick walk across the border to Costa Rica, stamp in, then a 15 minute ride to the town of Sabalito ( the name, Sabalito, refers to a little fish that used to be abundant in this are of Costa Rica.)

The taxi was a rugged jeep where William and I sat in the back, Larry in the cab, stopping only to photograph a fantastic tree that rises outside of town. (Can't recall the name of it.)

Sabalito is a rinky town with few shops. Mostly local bars, a few eateries, a park. Very Ho Hum. We stayed at a Hostel (the Riviera) owned by Ana and, while I approached the edge of panic about what to do with a non-stop energetic kid. Then, Ana told us about her sort of adopted sister's Tilapia Farm nearby. S-a-v-e-d!

The farm is about a 15 minuted ride out of town, and we walked it the second day because the view was so lovely. The farm is owned by Meyer & Mary, both Costa Ricans. They've had it about four years now, when they found coffee farming was not as profitable as it was proved for them.

They have several acres where they farm Tilapia in a system of nine pools. They have to be fed frequently and sometimes burrow holes into the soft silty sides of the ponds. Meyer catches his fish by hand net (see photo) and cleans them himself. They are served two ways: filleted, or slashed and deep fried. Both come with fried plantains, salad and rice.

The family also have row boat, a family horse, a waterfall, and a swimming pool. The pool is big, shallow and adjacent to a large, open air restaurant with 11 picnic style tables and a kitchen.

Mary and Meyer, along with their children and a few helpers, do all the cooking and serving. The get away is popular with locals and they can clean, cook and serve up to 100 Tilapia on a good Sunday.

We made fast friends with Maryand Meyer and their children. So much so that we spent all three days at the farm, boating, riding the horse, trudging through jungle to the falls, sharing life stories, eating abundantly, and even dancing (that would be me, a total spectacle and embarassment to William, because Mary played all of Michael Jackon's "Thriller" album). .The photos at left illustrate our very pleasant long weekend.

Three days later, back in Boquete, Larry's permanent visa had come through, which allows William and me to move forward with processing our residency as well. Once that is secure, we won't need to make mandatory border crossings. However; we plan to visit Meyer and Mary again nonetheless.

The one challenge we seemed to face consistently during our little trip was around ordering food at local eateries. Larry said it was like watching a skit from Saturday Night Live.

Picture us in a Chinese/Costa Rican Restaurant with one of those daunting menus that has maybe six flippin' pages and over 165 selections and lucky me... because when it comes to ordering food...."Tag! I'm "It!"

So my head is spinning over maybe 20 Chow Mein recipes because William wants noodles. Just noodles, right? So I explain to our Chinese/Costa Rican server in perfectly polite and grammatical Spanish tAnd he's cranky because he's hungry. So... mom to the rescue to secure a plate of just plain noodles.

Eliz. Alright. I think we like to have one order of just the noodles?
Srv. What? Noodles? You want noodles? Chow Mein. Look (she's stabbing my menu). Number Three..... Noodles. Noodles with chicken. With Vegetables. You like that?
Eliz. Well, nooo. Just the noodles. Maybe with some sauce.
Srv. WHAT? (she's nearly shouting) SAUCE? What you want? SAUCE? No. Can't do sauce!
(She begins the stabbing again, pointing out various orders.) Chow Mein with beef. You want beef? What you want? Meet? You want Vegetables? What you want to order?
Eliz. Hmm, I see here it says you have Spagetti. Ok. Just an order oforder Spagetti. But NO sauce?
Srv. WHAT? No SAUCE? Okay. Here, number 3. Noodles. Vegetables. Chicken. You want Chicken? (William is not a fan of chicken.)
Eliz. Well, no. We ...just ...want ....some ....Noodles....on a plate.
Srv. O-Kay. You like this one (pointing again to number 3). It come with noodles.
Eliz. Alright. We'll order the Number 3 (I look pleadingly at a cranky William and practically hiss "William... Just eat the NOODLES... Oh Kay.???")
Srv. O-KAY. YOU want order number 3. Good! I get you Number 3.
Eliz. Well, Nooo. You want me to order number 3....

This exchange took maybe five exhausting minutes. By the time Larry got around to ordering, I think he just looked up at her and stabbed at any old thing that seemed to work. By then, my brain was on hold so I gave up and ordered a beer. William proceded to eat the Number 3 .... Chicken, vegetables and All.

Over the Water & Through the Graveyard, A Surfin' We Will Go!

That's right. I said through the graveyard!

William is, and has always been, a dare devil. I knew back in Florida, when I had to stop him from doing full flips off his skim board into a teeny foot of water, that we were headed for deeper water. Either that... or I was going to end up with a quadriplegic. Given the choice between neck breaking flips into shallow water, or the possiblity of crashing into reefs and sharks, I had to opt for the latter. So last weekend Larry, my personal travel agent, planned a surfing trip.

Bastimento is one of the small islands that make up the archipeligo "Bocas del Toro," off Panama coast on the Carribbean side. And it is there we headed to look for what the locals call "Wizzard Beach," known for having some decent surf.

From Bocas, where we were staying, we took a quick water taxi to Bastimento. Once on the dock, we were instructed to walk along the cement path that hugs the shore of this loud, littered shanty town.

The houses are make shift rickety, close and colorful. Reggae music blares at top volume, competing with barking dogs, crowing roosters, hollering mothers. The children play along side their houses or by the shore, on tiny patches of ground littered with filth that is tough to look at.

After about 7 minutes the cement walkway ends abruptly and we turned left as instructed, finding ourselves suddenly on a narrow, uphill dirt pathway that landed us smack in the middle of the local graveyard.

Suddenly we were standing amid heavy cement-made, above-ground burial sites, neatly and brightly tiled, and adorned with flowers, photos, etc. (See photos). We wended our way through the monuments, hunting for a break in the brush. We found a tiny path that grew larger and walked about 20 minutes through island jungle on a muddy, slippery path, grappling for vines from time to time to keep from slipping.

And then there it was. Beautiful Wizzard Beach.

The instructor, Javier, was waiting for us up the beach with 2 surf boards. After some preliminary coaching, off went Javier, into the white surf, with William in tow.

The waves further out were probably 8 or 9 feet and with a nice curl, but breaking quickly. William stayed much closer to shore as Javier pushed him gently onto his first small wave. That rascall jumped right up on that board and rode that wave nearly all the way in to the shore! Honestly, in the two hours he practiced with Javier at his side, he toppled only a few times. What a kid!

Six Spiders, An Iguana & One Hefty Dinner Toad

It was 3:00 a.m. and I was in our cavernous bathroom, tired, not feeling well, and not up for much. I looked over and there, on the stark, cold white tiled floor was a shockingly enormous creature. I was so startled by its size I nearly let out a spontaneous "Bow wow! Arf! Mooooo!." It was a frighteningly large thing. But no, it wasn't a dog. It was a very large spider. My sixth in 4 weeks. Go ahead. Shudder at that thought!

I had come close to stepping on my first only a few days before, as I was doing laundry. That night I cringed as I boldly slammed it, several times, with a broom pan. (It was spry and was not easily defeated.) Truthfully, I do not enjoy killing anything at all, so we were going to have to get the spiders outside. To that end, I decided to leave the carnage for Larry, hoping he would be shocked into doing something about our obvious problem. But there the skeleton lay, crinkled up, for nearly a week.

Not long after, I caught sight of another eight-legger boldly inching its way out from our bedroom and down the hall. Then, another night, very late and while all alone in the kitchen, I had to practically wrestle a fourth spider over to the sink, where I applied hot water torture techniques. (Very traumatic for both of us.) Once again, I saved the carcass for Larry, right there in the drain! But the spiders kept infiltrating. A fifth beast was found relaxing in William's shower and still another caught looming in my closet. Obviously, we are not safe. And clearly, Larry is not a spider slayer.

Then, last week, William came shouting excitedly into the office, just electrified! What appeared to be a one-pound toad, about the size of my had spread out (photo below does not do justice to its size, but note the quarter to the left of the toad) ,was plunked down on our car port. We prodded it and photographed it from every angle to no end. Finally, our toad hopped heavily off into the wild. That is the end of the real story. (But . . . in the movie in my head . . . we become stranded and although we nearly starve to death, we are saved by our hefty toad, big enough to feed a family of three, who keeps us from the horrors of cannibalism.)



Yesterday, as we drove home along our local mountain highway, Larry nearly had to break for a large Iquana that darted across our path! A big, green Iguana.

So far, we are surviving the wildlife. Fingers crossed! But... what's next?