Thanks! If you're only interested in Asia, don't read this entry!
Sunday, March 6, 2011 - Panama City, Panamá
It's senior spring break, and I'm not in Cancun, or Punta Cana, or on a cruise. This isn't an 
all-inclusive, drink-til-you-die package, and we certainly won't be running into anyone we know. We're in the beautiful country of Panamá, the thin, thickly forested isthmus that connects North and South America and keeps the Atlantic from reaching the Pacific.
We arrived in the capital and largest city, Panamá (right), on Friday night around 10pm. Eric, Kathie and I made our way through the small airport (it was the "international" one... the one we'll fly from on Monday is even smaller) and met our driver. He gave us the keys to the condo we rented in the city center, and led us to his van, a clean Chrylser or Toyota or something. As we reveled in the warm air and the colorful surroundings, we saw the army of tall, exceptionally skinny apartment towers looming ahead. Of the hundreds of forty and fifty-something story apartment buildings in this city, it seems like about half are under construction. I still don't know if it's because Panamá is growing as an international center of tourism and business, or if it's because five years of real estate projects have ground to a halt due to the financial crisis.
The van ride eventually took us into a leafy neighborhood near the city center, with wide avenues and big churches... it reminds me a little bit of Rome's Aventino. We pulled up in front of a non-descript white tower, about 20 stories tall. The ground floor was home to a few bland looking businesses... I think there was a travel agency and a local bank. The floors above bore a foreboding sign that whispered, in dilapidated looking letters, "Metropolitan Clinic," like something out of a movie starring Anthony Hopkins. A group of middle-aged men stood up off the curb in front of the building and after a brief conversation with our driver, let us into an unlit lobby with an unattended desk and two sketchy looking elevators behind. Checking the itinerary that I'd handwritten myself, I confirmed that our condo was on the 14th floor, and after a scary, mirror-adorned elevator ride, we stepped out into the humidity of the open-air, atrium type middle of the building. There wasn't a person in sight. We remembered, vaguely, that the owner had told us we'd be in unit 14B, so we found a door labeled "14B-1" and proceeded to try each of the 5 keys we'd been given. We couldn't open the wrought-iron fence/door that guarded the main, deadbolted wooden door, so we began questioning ourselves... was it 14, or 13? 12? B or D? Kathie tried to open all the other doors on the deserted floor, and none of us had the cell phone reception to call the owner for clarification. I decided it'd be a good idea to get down on my knees and reach through the gate, arm fully extended, and try to open the interior door with one of the other keys, just to confirm that we were in the right place. As I inserted the keys one at a time and wildly, desperately jiggled them, the door swung open. But it wasn't because I'd found the right key; a sweaty, older man with a mustache and gold chain stared at us. We didn't stick around long enough to hear a response to my disjointed, laughing Spanish as we backed down the hall. After a few more panicked minutes ("what the hell are we going to do?") we found a door without a gate, marked only with the number 14. It worked. Go figure.
The condo has completely discredited my claims 
that we were going to be "backpacking" on this trip. It's far too nice for that word. The living room and leather sectional couch look out over the city center (see the view, right). There are 3 bathrooms, 2 bedrooms, and a full kitchen. For as little as we paid, it's too nice.
After dropping our stuff, we began exploring the neighborhood. There's not a lot going on in the streets immediately surrounding our place; our first stop was el Supermercado Rey, where we bough water, beer, and breakfast foods. Late dinner was at Nico's Cafe, a self-serve diner style place that was open 24 hours and wasn't great.
We called it an early night, around 1:30 or so... I'd been up early on Friday for a Chinese midterm. We got up late on Saturday, around 11. We ate fruit and bread in the room, then headed towards Casco Viejo, the historic, pre-canal center of the city. Casco is an extremely interesting neighborhood, maybe comparable to New Orleans in that it's at times upscale, at times 
decrepit; it's part historical relic, part urban renewal project. Beautiful apartment buildings with decorative metal balcony railings stand next to colorful edifices that, held up by steel support structures, have no building behind. Views down the streets are breathtaking, colorful homes and stores and white church towers leading the eye to the end where the street seems to splash right into the Pacific. We wandered from plaza to plaza, perusing shops and stopping for lunch in a small square. A quick downpour left the streets shimmering in the sunlight that followed, and even the booming voices of a church choir rehearsing one of the truly horrific renditions of the Hallelujah Chorus of all time couldn't detract from the unique and awesome scenery.
We walked down the hill upon which Casco sits, passed what we think was the Panamanian presidential manor, and made the decision to, against better judgment, make a left and head up a dark crowded alleyway that bustled with activity. The local population was mostly of African descent (Panama is extremely diverse because of the diversity of laborers that came to work on the canal in the early 20th century). We were stared at (almost like in China!) as we made our way through the crowd. Eventually, the path opened up onto a large avenue, packed to the brim with shoppers, merchants, and people just out for a Saturday stroll. To our left was a large, tree-filled square with a tall, domed stage in the center. Men sat and played dominoes while teenagers sat and looked at their cell phones. After about 14 hours of wondering where we'd find the Panamanian masses, the million locals that call Panama City home, we'd finally found them.
We walked down the large avenue, not talking, just observing and soaking in the scene: indigenous women in colorful outfits, dads with children on their shoulders, teenage boys blasting reggaeton from boom boxes. After a half hour or so we veered off down a side street and saw a small alley, more of a little gravel parking lot, off to the side near the elevated highway. The set-up is difficult to describe, but we'd found an open-air barber shop. Imagine a massive shipping crate, or the back of a semi-truck, sitting next
to the exterior wall of another building. The "crate" was missing one of its long sides, so it sat open to the humid air. Daddy Yankee reggae music BLASTED from massive stereo speakers that flanked both sides of the shop. Eric's thick Asian hair needed a cut, so we waited outside until one of the six barbers working signaled for Eric to come over. $3 bought a faux-hawk haircut, and Kathie and I sat 10 meters away where I could snipe photos of Eric and the Latinos, who were struggling with his poofy Korean hair.
From there, we walked through the working class neighborhood and back down to the seaside Avenida Balboa. Lonely Planet had strongly recommended a certain seafood restaurant, located in the second floor of a large fish market building (it had, interestingly, been a gift from Japan). There, we enjoyed drinks and ceviche, felt the cool sea breeze, and took in the view of the city's towers, as the sounds of 100 or so drummers warming up for the Carnaval festivities drifted through the open windows.
We read online that Panama City's Carnaval celebrations were some of the best and wildest in the world, and after what ensued in the evening that was to come, we probably wouldn't refute 
that statement. With the sun still high in the sky, we walked down Balboa sipping beers (Atlas & Balboa brands, both USD$1 each) and enjoying the atmosphere. A long series of vendors, all under their own tents, sat or danced with friends and family, each blasting its own soundtrack of reggaeton or salsa or Shakira. We wound up at a large stage where a band pumped out some salsa hits and some interesting, seemingly drunken characters made their way over to dance with us. Eric aggressively pursued and eventually caught an extremely thin Carnaval t-shirt that had been thrown from the stage. We wandered for several hours, enjoying the clear day and not-too-hot temperature. As the sun set, we noticed more and more children holding Super Soaker waterguns, massive bags of hole-punch sized confetti, and cans of some concoction that appeared to be half silly string, half shaving cream. Eventually, we got hit. Hard.
At first, it was innocent enough. Little kids, mostly girls, would walk over and with a mischievous look, throw a handful of confetti on our faces and in our hair. We thought this funny enough, especially as we watched the kids throw at each other. Eric and I liked the fact that Kathie was getting hit more than either of us, so we paid $1 each for 2 cans of the foamy spray, and began terrorizing the unarmed Kathie. More and more kids joined our little battle, throwing confetti and shooting us with water guns. They would usually continue 
until you jokingly started running towards them, spraying some of the foam. Kathie was coming under some serious fire, with confetti lodging itself in seemingly every body cavity and piece of clothing. Eventually, Eric and I ran out of foam, and like ants to a dropped Cheez-It, the kids swarmed. There were too many to chase away; we were trapped. Our laughter enabled the kids to throw massive handfuls of confetti in our open mouths, so we began running away pretty quickly, spitting out paper dots and choking on the fumes of the spray. Soaking wet and shedding what seemed 
like millions of paper dots, we hid in a crowd of families as darkness closed in and everyone positioned themselves for the parade. We ate kabobs and watched the loud procession of drum groups and massive, girl-covered floats. As the parade wound down we walked back through the festivities once again, and as we tried to decide whether we should stick around for a bit longer or head back to the condo to clean up, we came under some serious water gun fire and headed towards the taxis.
Our cab driver was one massive gentleman who drove like he was auditioning for the next Fast & Furious movie. He blasted "We No Speak Americano" at a volume level that I wasn't aware cars could reach. He even asked us to roll down our windows so we could dance along with him as he sped through an area with a bunch of pedestrians. We obliged.
We took a long nap, and after a snack at the McDonald's down the street, headed back towards Avenida Balboa. The party had grown, and the street held enough confetti that it could easily have been mistaken for snow. We drank and danced in the "Atlas Party Zone," which featured teenage girls that had climbed on a stage and performed a series of dance moves that would, quite simply, not be acceptable in the US. We stuck around until about 3, when strange men wouldn't stop asking Kathie to dance with them and I may or may not have been tricked into buying a group of potentially underage girls beer. I don't know. After a well-executed, half-jogging escape, we made our way back home and crashed.
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