B and I flew back from Quito to Panama City on Saturday afternoon, did a quick stop at her apartment to collect her running gear, and car, and we were off to El Valle de Anton, a beautiful town nestled in a valley of steep green mountains. We'd signed up for a 24K trail run with the El Valle Running group – a fun bunch of trail locos.

The drive got a smidge more interesting as darkness fell. Here near the equator, length of the days don't vary much, and when the curtain falls at the end, it falls quickly. 6:30 pm or so, and boom, darkness. Usually not a terrible thing, even on narrow, curvy, steep mountain roads, but the weather thought to make it a bit more challenging. As soon as we turned off the Pan American Highway for the 24 or so kilometers to El Valle, the cloud spigots opened, and let loose with Noachian levels of rain. It wasn't hairy, because any hair would have washed away. B did an amazing job keeping us both moving forward and remaining on the sometimes barely visible road. We got to the place about 8-ish, and had a nice pre-run pasta dinner before hitting the sack. The run had a 6:00 am start, and a 5:00 am meetup for fresh baked bread and outstanding Panamanian coffee. 

The day dawned misty and wet. It was going to be a damp run. It's not like I'd be cold or anything. Or dry, even if it wasn't drizzling. I'd soak my gear through in an hour anyway, and this way, I'm constantly on the rinse cycle, washing off the salt. 

The first 8K or so were a blast. Through the dense forest, crossing the Rio Indio time and time again, and even simply down the streambed. We climbed out of the river canyon, crawling through the mud under a fence, and started down a road. Yeah, a road. That's where it happened. I rolled my ankle. Not the worst one, but the snapping sound is never fun to hear. I didn't fall, but did the multi-hop until I wasn't moving forward. I checked, and it still flexed, though it hurt a bit. Forward or back, solo on the road? Forward it is, without hesitation or doubt. 

Fast forward another 5 minutes or so. Boom, again, though I wasn't on the road anymore. I'd taken, oh, I don't know, six? steps on the trail. And yep, same ankle. When I did it this time I chanted the injury mantra in syncopation with my one-foot hops until I came to a stop: Fuck, fuck fuck.

Well, now. two rolls on the same joint. Movement? Check. Pain? Manageable. It's uphill anyway, which is easier. Press on. The next 5K or so were challenging. Waist high steps in mud? check. Rocks and unstable footing? Check. Hidden trail due to overhanging vegetation? Check. Pain? Still manageable. Movement? Who cares, at this point.

I got to the aid station (a truck with a cooler and water - the cooler housing Powerade y cerveca). Since I was starting to get cramps in my adductors in addition to my baby cows, I figured the Powerade would be the wise choice over the beer. I can get beer at the end, and it's only another 8-10 K away. Wash down a couple of Oreos, and I'm off with a group of others that had congregated at the truck. We spent probably 20 or more minutes hanging, eating, drinking and getting photos, and that was probably my mistake.

I got about 1/2 K or maybe a bit more, and the ankle said, "What the fuck, dude?" It was a gentle downhill, and even that was really uncomfortable. I realized the route was going to hit significantly steep, unstable, narrow, muddy, rocky portions for the majority of the distance back. I reluctantly, but probably smartly, stopped, and threw in the proverbial towel. I trudged like the defeated piece of shit I felt I was back to the truck to get a fucking ride to the finish. 

In a valiant attempt to put a positive spin on a situation where there really isn't any, I am claiming three consolations to being a worthless quitter yesterday:
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1. I got several early beers
   
2. I saw a cool flower that I otherwise would not have
   
3. The colorful reds, and burgeoning blues and purples of the skin around the swelling on my ankle

Yeah, fucking great.

Time of death: 2207, 3 May 2022. I was sitting on the couch watching an old episode of Seinfeld when my friend and constant companion died. I don’t know what happened, but I looked, and the face flashed and went dark, never to be illuminated again. Requiescat in pace, Apple Watch.

After a brief moment of panic and pissed-offness, I realized not much of my life is going to change. Sure, I won’t be able to track my runs without toting my phone along (something I’m not likely to do here), I won’t be able to track and overly focus on my resting heart rate (it climbed to 42!), or be able to pay at a credit card terminal without my phone or wallet. All minor inconveniences. What I will probably miss most are the notifications that would buzz on my wrist when someone was trying to get in touch. The death means I will have to look at my phone to discover nobody is reaching out.

​I am more that slightly disappointed that it died only 15 months after purchase, though. The EKG function shuffled off its mortal coil a few months back, too, and it was a prime reason I bought the thing in the first place. That had to do with the digital crown, which seemed to be having problems anyway. Maybe too much sweat and seawater.

Next time I’m in the Big City, I’ll check some stores to see if they (a) carry them, and (b) at what price. If it’s not terrible, I may make the purchase. If not, a replacement will have to wait for my return to the states. With a new version coming in the fall, I may wait even that long. Who knows, I may find I’m fine without it entirely.

Today was low key. The kids and I decided organized excursions were just a bit too expensive and I found a couple of trails that I wanted to explore anyway. So, to start the day, while the kiddos snoozed, I hopped on a trail and did an out and back run. It was the first one in a week, and I probably should rest my tendinitis more and longer. After the run and the subsequent hike, dang it aches. But, I got a perfect 3.14 miles in for Pi Day. Not fast, not furious, but finished.

Breakfast at the all you can stuff buffet, and we hit some trails. A good time. Even though we were in a really close-by location with civilization nearby, it still seemed as though stepping off the trail would result in getting lost and eventually dying of insect bites, exposure or getting eaten by a jaguar. I read River of Doubt, and can appreciate the rainforest’s unfeeling and uncaring allowance for death. One does not fuck with the jungle. Period. We stuck to the known, and traveled trails.

We saw some interesting things, but for me, the highlight of the time on the trail was spending the time with my kids, doing something that I really enjoy, and watching them enjoy it too.

Wrapped it up with a few beers at the bar, and a burger. It’s hard to diminish the pleasure of sitting in an outdoor bar, with a warm breeze and a cold beer and a good book.

Tomorrow we head back to the beach and Coronado. “Home”, I guess, though being away for a few days already makes it less a home than just a next place to be. I wonder if anyplace will be ever be a home to me?

Friday night Spencer flew into Panama City. I waited at the airport for about 3 hours for him, then we hopped into a Uber to the hotel. After a nice breakfast the next morning, we had time to kill before going back to the airport to collect Mikaela and head to Gamboa. We took the Metro to the Albrook Mall (largest in Central America) and walked its air conditioned expanse for an hour or so, before getting the classic Panamena dish: buffalo wings.

After the snack in the food court, we hopped again on the Metro for a short distance, then walked to and into and around Casca Viejo - the old part of Panama City. Interesting buildings and layout that reminded me of what I’ve seen the French Quarter of New Orleans to look like. We then walked back to the hotel to collect our bags and go to the airport to pick up Mikaela.

Along the way, we stopped at a place to get food. We waited patiently at the entrance to get seated. It was weird. We stood there for at least five minutes and were studiously ignored. Perhaps they didn’t want gringos? No idea. Given the number of food places available, it was no biggie to turn and walk away and find another.

Mikaela’s plane was late (as was Spencer’s) so I got to spend another 3-ish hour stint in the uncomfortable hard plastic seats of the airport. She did finally arrive and we took a taxi to Gamboa Rainforest Resort, where we checked in at 11:00 pm. I was able to fall asleep pretty fast, but I don’t think the kids did.

After a nice buffet breakfast, we took the excursion to the Sloth Sanctuary and the co-located butterfly and frog places. Cool stuff. Back to the resort and the pool and more food. It was the first time in quite a while we’d been all together. It was nice. I’ve scoped out a few trails to walk tomorrow, so that might be a bit more energetic. Fun though.

Another week has passed and another interesting and active weekend in the books. On Friday, John invited me to whack at some golf balls on the driving range – something I’ve never done. The last time I had any sort of golf club in my hand was about 10 years ago and the windmill and hills on the artificial turf wreaked havoc on my game. It was at a kid’s birthday party; maybe one of mine, maybe one of their friends.

On the range, I didn’t do terribly well, but I didn’t do terrible, either. Middle of the road, that’s me. My swing though, that is terrible! After an hour or so on the range, we hung out at the 19th hole for a while before resting up at the beach club and having lunch. Then we went to a bar. I have to stop drinking so much, though; I’m getting round. Interesting to note that my resting heart rate is noticeable higher nights after I drink more, and later in the day. Sometimes approaching 50. Something else to ponder.
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This is Carnival week here in Panama. A celebration that begins on Saturday, and ends on Ash Wednesday, with the culmination on Fat Tuesday. The cars were exiting Panama City in such numbers the police had closed off one inbound lane, converting it to outbound. They did that on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. It makes for some challenging and slow going if you’re going anywhere else. And I did.

On Saturday, I’d been invited to Micah’s for Sam’s birthday. Casual time in and around the pool with burgers and dogs on the grill, and beer in the cooler. John and I decided not to drive because (a) alcohol, and (b) traffic. So we parked his truck at El Rey at the entrance to Coronado, and did some shopping for appetizers. As we were checking out, Micah texts asking for beer and wine. We park what we have past the checkers, and dive back in. The stores are crowded with celebrants, so it was busy. We get the stuff (a case of brew and six bottles of wine), and track down a taxi for the ride to Buenos Aires. $12 is the negotiated price, and we pile in the drinks, snacks and our bodies and take off. If John wasn’t there to negotiate, I’m sure I’d have paid $20 for a similar ride. Language helps!

Long drive, traffic forces us to go way past the turn and double back, but we get there. Good times, good burgers, and good dogs – both the kind you eat, and the kind that wants to eat your food. I’m talking to you, Luna and Odin.
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Then it was off to a birthday dinner on the beach. This part came as a surprise to me, but, heck, roll with it, eh? We pile into two cars and it’s down the hill, All we needed to do was cross the highway less than a K to the left. Seems simple, but nah. We had to go right for K after K after K before Felix did a sneaky turn he wasn’t supposed to and doubled back. What would normally have been a 30 minute drive was an hour, and would’ve been more, if not for sneakiness.

We get to the Pink Palace on Punta Chame, and it’s a great place. Laid back, quiet. We spent some time whacking golf balls off the sand with a three-wood, drinking (yeah, I know, more drinking) before an outstanding dinner of cranberry walnut bread, hummus, tabouli, Thai curry, gorgonzola pasta, and key lime pie, all made right there by Panama Peg. We ended the experience with a bonfire and Frangelico. Yum.

Sunday, I went to an orphanage with a different friend. Amanda, from Australia, started a foundation to help with the place. She needed some signatures and asked if I wanted to go. Decline? Not me. We hop in to a cab and ride nearly all the way back to Panama City. The orphanage was really quiet because all the kids were on an excursion Sunday. We did see the infants, though. Poor buggers weren’t invited on the excursion.
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I just hung around while Amanda got done what she’d come to do, then it was back in the cab for a LONG ride back to Coronado, because, traffic. Got to Coronado, and the Mexican restaurant she wanted to hit was closed. Flag down a cab, and we go closer to home to Luna Rossa, and get a really good pizza. The crust was wafer thin. Snarf that down, and no alcohol. Go me. I needed that food, though, it was about 2:00 pm and I hadn’t eaten since the key lime 18 hours before.

It was nice not to hear about various shit storms going on in the world and just spend time with friends in a beautiful place. It’s now Monday, and I need to run off some of the calories. Maybe today will be the day I’m successful in my limbo attempt at the entrance gate. So far, my attempts have only been successful at making the guards laugh. A win in my book, regardless.

It's hard to believe, but another week has passed. I've now been in Panama for more than a couple, and to be honest, I need to look at a calendar and count just how long I have been. (Checks. About six weeks.) The days go by with an easy fluidity and pace. Morning coffee, sometimes a run, read, go shopping, write, walk the beach… There is such an ease to things, that it's so simple to get sucked in and lose ambition and drive – not that I really have a lot of that in me anymore.

All that being stated and out of the open, it was nice to make a small change over the weekend. Friday night began Thursday with the usual "go to Picasso and listen to trivia" as I sit in my now-usual place at the bar. I get there late afternoon, and sip on auga tonica con limón, read on my Kindle, and watch the number of patrons grow. It's Trivia night. It's the night all the ex-pats come out and socialize, and TBH, drive the staff batty. Lady, it's a small kitchen, and there are fifty orders ahead of you, it's going to take awhile, mmmkay?

A couple sit at the bar next to me. I being my usual shy and retiring self, stick my ugly mug into their conversation and introduce myself and we all semi-play the trivia game. They are Harry and Wendy from the Twin Cities area of Minne-COLD-a in the good ol' USA. We chat awhile, agree to meet again on Friday, and we split.

Cue Friday. I return to Picasso, and station myself a bit before 5 at my usual spot. Bill (an ex-pat from Australia/UK/USA)and Dingo (his dog) show up and take his usual table. We chat over a Bucket o' Panamas for me and a couple singles of Balboa for him. He's off to dinner with a friend (and Dingo, natch, cuz Dingo goes everywhere), and I thought chances were good that I would be meeting Harry and Wendy, and maybe up to three others (John, Bruce and Amanda) as I had either directly invited them, or in John's case, if he was done with the golf tourney, I might hear something and he could join. Doing the math, I thought a bucket would be a good start.

Time flies, and Dingo and Bill leave, and I'm back in my spot at the bar, several beers down on the bucket and nobody has arrived. Not unexpected, to me. Plans are fluid, things change, and communication with new friends isn't always readily available. I order a Fuji roll of sushi and plan for a quiet night.

Just as my roll is about to arrive, Harry and Wendy roll in. Hold off on the sushi to coincide with their pizza. It's Harry's birthday, so we transition to celebrating in earnest. Several hours, many cocktails (them) a few more beers (me) and shots (all) later, we're the only ones left in the place. Glen, our server, invites us to join him, and the some of the other staff at a locals bar afterward.

What?! A local invite? Not just yes, but hell yes! I didn't get back to my place until close to 3 am, and we left early. Our table went through a couple of cases of beer, and an entire bottle of whiskey. Conversation was difficult because of (a) the volume of the music, and (b) only Harry, Wendy, Glen, and Bryan and I spoke any English. But, somehow I got the phone number of someone's tia in my phone who I had said I thought was cute. A tremendously fun, but blurry, night. I realized after the fact that I didn't get a photo with Harry and Wendy. I'm not pleased with myself about that.

Saturday dawned a bit rough. I skipped running, but did walk the beach a few times. John and I chatted about getting out of Coronado. He's a Zonian so he fits pretty comfortably in both local and ex-pat worlds. We make a plan to visit Micah (an American), who with his partner Samantha (Sam), has bought a place in the hills recently. It's about a 30 minute drive on the highway, then winding, steep, not-t0-any-DOT-on-the-planet-code narrow roads culminating in dirt paths that are one car wide with no room to slide past. In other words, awesome.

Micah and Sam are building a spectacular compound that they intend to take mostly off the grid, with wind power. They've got a lovely house, veranda, and are building a observation deck, and casita tucked into the hillside above the pool. They were such gracious and generous hosts, and we spent hours and hours in the pool, on the veranda, on the observation deck, drinking beers and discussing...everything from what constitutes classic rock (apparently the genre include the 1990s now) to the neighbors, to dogs (theirs are Luna and Odin), to travel, to jui jitsu, to wildlife, to weather, to golf, to failures with Multi-Factor Authorization when out of the USA and they only want to continue to send texts to a cell number that doesn't work here and I can't access my account to change it to email. That last one might have just been me.

Another couple, Felix and his wife (sadly, I don't remember her name), showed up and we had a lovely dinner of smoked chicken, rice & beans & chorizo, and cabbage. Cabbage? you think. Yeah. it was seasoned, and wrapped in foil on the grill. It was amazeballs. Felix is the general contractor for the work Micah is having done. He's lived in the states in Ohio for a bit, so his English was great. His wife's English is on par with my Spanish, so we had difficulties talking. All good though.

Darkness has fallen and yeah, it's dark. It's also time for John and I to roll on down to the coast, and it's decided that I would drive at least to the highway. Why me? Good question. I'd quit drinking about four hours earlier, and was sober. John was not as sober. And, apparently, the police regularly set up checkpoints where every driver blows into a portable breathalizer, and if not a local, has to show a passport to prove they are not in the country illegally. Nothing really egregious, but that kind of stop that can elevate the cortisol levels for a gringo like me. Experts at the party put the odds at fifty-fifty that we would encounter one. The advice was to speak English, no Spanish, wear a mask and be stupid. 

I can do that, I think, that's just being me! The chatter about coughing, repeating the word "Covid" and claiming to be on the way to the hospital I dismissed as hyperbole.

So, I, who haven't driven anything since October and haven't driven a stick shift for a couple of years, take the driver's seat in a VW manual transmission, diesel truck for the trip down. Did I mention the road is winding, steep and super-duper narrow? Yeah, and now it's dark. Each car we encounter has their brights on. Swell. The cat crossing the road, a few dogs thinking about it, and the number of people walking sort of along side the road all contributed to the "adventure" of the drive.  

We must have timed it well enough so that the checkpoints and police presence had wrapped up. We did see a few police cars but they were moving off, apparently just finishing and leaving. Back at my apartment, I realized I had misplaced my mask somewhere between having it on my face leaving Micah's and starting the truck. It's either in the dirt outside the gate or somewhere in the truck. I'll get it later. Or not.

Micah and Sam have invited me to come again, and said we would take a side-by-side through the forest on 4x4 tracks. That sounds like a lovely adventure. Maybe I'll get to see the scorpions and snakes they were talking about.

About the only thing the following videos will kill are the people who choose to view them. As ever, choices come with consequences!

On the brighter, and more interesting side than listening to my horrific voice, in the middle of my walk a la tienda this morning, I stopped by a pond, hoping to see a caiman. I haven't seen one since my first visit. Alas, I didn't see one this time either, but I did see a female anhinga hunting and successfully capture a fish and eat it. That was cool. I also saw a purple gallinule. Pretty bird. Some others I've seen (and no photos of any) are osprey hunting over the ocean, kestrels stooping into the forest canopy in chase of prey, black and turkey vultures, and the yellow-headed caracara.

On the downer side, the fruit and veggie stand was closed. Dang. Guess that means I'll make the 4-mile round trip trek again tomorrow to get the fresh pineapple, and gargantuan avocado I'm craving. The walk is no biggie. It's not like I have a job or anything.

The combination of black and light sand makes for interesting patterns along the beach. Nice.

In my now two weeks here in Playa Coronado, I've met and made a few friends. Mostly of a non-human nature, but that's seemingly how I roll, anyway. Human interaction is hard, what with expectations, posturing, beliefs, egos and baggage all contributing to the overall difficulty. It's like having to roll a pair of twenties to save your Dungeons and Dragons Chaotic Good Barbarian while she is trapped in a stainless steel room with no doors, because the Dungeon Master got tired and pissy. Rare, very rare, to get the perfect, or even good roll. In a game, no biggie. Pack up the Skittles and Henry Weinhard's and see where things are thirty or forty years on.

Unfortunately, when things go south in real human interactions, as they do both in person or via bits over the Interwebz, the failure carries with it a bit more damage than a long-ago dice roll, and packed-away gaming gear. And for good or ill, I automatically assume I hold the lion's share of the inhibiting elements; failure is on me. It gets tiresome, and the cost to benefit ratio of the effort rises to unsurmountable heights.

However difficult human interaction may be, animal interaction is easy -- a hand out for a dog to sniff, or a cat to rub on, and wild critter encounters are the easiest of all -- spot the critter and try to snap a photo before the beast scampers/scuttles/wings away. It's in that third category I present the results of my interactions this weekend.

A couple of quick hits that don't warrant a full post on their own, but deserving of some bits and electrons anyway. The first one was triggered a bit by a woman I saw in the grocery store today (where I picked up my staples of veggies, coconut water and bread). She was getting more and more frustrated trying to explain IN LOUD AND SLOW ENGLISH to the employee what she wanted. At no time did she attempt even shitty Spanish. It was apparent to me that she had put absolutely no effort at all to learn even a modicum of the native language.

Now, I'm no polyglot, but I fucking try. I have a translator app on my phone that works regardless of signal, so, if worse comes to worst, I can tap out a message and the magic of technology can read it to someone. Did this gormless excuse for a traveler have anything other than SLOW AND LOUD English? Nope. I walked away.

That made me think of some humorously bad Spanish from English phrases, that could, barely, be conceivably uttered. I will plead the 5th if anyone asks if I have done so, without it expressly being for humor.

Good Spanish: hasta luego which means "Until later"
Bad English: hasta lechuga, or hasta la culo. The first means "until lettuce" and the second...I'll leave you to discover.

Good English: I believe in miracles
Bad Spanish: Creo en miercoles, or "I believe in Wednesday." 

Yeah, that ain't gonna fly.

I got charged by a dog yesterday morning while running. He (I assume a he) was in a bush on the side of the road and I was about 2 feet in. As I passed I saw him, and slowed a bit, and he charged out. I did a spin move that would make Barry Sanders or Walter Payton proud, and swatted at him with a backfist. He was going for my calf, but missed, because I'm so damn smooth. At least I think so. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

He ran off across the road and through a gate into a multi-million dollar property. If it was in the States, I'd have called him back to bite me so I could sue, but here? Nah. However, the adrenaline from the encounter gave me a boost for the rest of the run to set a PR on the route. So there's that.

I had a brief moment of...I won't say homesickness but maybe nostalgianess. For a time last night I was really wondering WTF I was doing here -- where I really can't communicate well, I really don't know anyone, and low grade feeling of loneliness is a heartbeat away. Then, I realized, I have a nice place to live, the weather is beautiful, I can talk to my kids pretty much at any time. Fortuitously, the man-cub called while shopping in Costco. (OK, that triggered some memories of rotisserie chicken and huge bags of tortilla chips, but I digress.) We chatted about the book Lifespan and it's author and foods associated with the book and podcast. I felt better. Of course, a NFLX Seinfeld session helped too.

I went to sleep still a bit stressed, but when I woke, and went for a run culminating in a sea swim, I realized it wouldn't be any better for me in the States than it is here, and here is cheaper, there is a beach 200 feet away and a bus ride to the largest shopping mall in Central America is $6. 

The only thing missing is companionship, and that's been missing for five years anyway. Maybe I'll head to Picasso, get a beer and see if either John will show up for a nice chat. It's likely I'll get to pet Dingo or Lucy, and a damn certainty I'll have a beer or two in the tropical warmth and read my book.

Viviendo la vida Panama. Viviendo la vida buena.

Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to be offered a ride to a town about 16 miles away as the crow flies, but about an hour away by car. It's only a short distance but a big difference in climate. El Valle is significantly higher in elevation (about 600 m) than here at the coast, and the rainfall is at probably triple if not more, and it shows in the vegetation and much cooler temperatures. The town is inside an ancient volcanic crater, incredibly fertile and green, with waterfalls and hiking trails on the surrounding cloud forest.

The town itself is a mix of hippies and money; along the main street is a funky hotel or two, the occasional fonda or coffee shop, but on the side roads (well paved, mind you) are haciendas and estates worth millions. I walked the weekly market and picked up some produce for my dinners for the next week: cebollas, carotas y pimientos para mis ensaladas. Tengo lechuga y champiñones. Total cost for enough veggies for three or four meals was about $5. The pineapple pictured was $1.50 and oh, is it good! The guys sawing on violins para propinas probably made their money by folks paying them to stop. They were awful.

We hit up La Casa de Lourdes for lunch. I decided on a cashew chicken with tamarind sauce and green rice dish. And dessert. Pretty damn delicious and decadent. I figured that was my meal for the day, so I went all out. I needed some solids after closing the bar the night before. I probably had more beer that night than I've had in years. I think I woke with still a buzz.

I may hop a bus and come back in the next week or two to do a bit more exploring.