So, I’ve just spent three weeks in Panama and Costa Rica, discovering, among other things, that I’m not a beach person (give me an occasional surf beach in Australia, and as many boat trips as you like), I am a volcano person, and I’m in love with the Panama Canal. 
The day before leaving, though there were a lot of things I didn’t do (I feel like I move very slowly when I travel—I’m not someone who likes to dash around as much as possible, but instead I like to stay a place for a week or so and feel it out… so I was moving around a lot for me!) I feel like I did the things I most wanted to: I saw the Panama canal at both ends, I saw lava flow from an active volcano, I visited a 3000 year old archeological site, I saw contemporary art and pre-Columbian artefacts, I swam in the Caribbean, I met some truly excellent people, I visited a church with a magical relic, and I wrote some things. I also took a lot of notes: my journal is in fact almost entirely in note form. So, to make up for the relative lack of communication on my part, notes it must be… Not all of them (that would take you days to read…) but a substantial amount.
The walls of hostels all resemble one another, only with newer or older paint. Bathroom so depressing, compelled to buy flip-flops for the shower.
All shoe stores in Panama City are air-conditioned.
The only man arriving in Panama City already wearing a Panama Hat: camel-coloured pants, white blazer, thick rimmed glasses—resembling the millionaire you assume is a patsy until it turns out Marilyn’s character really does love him.
Watching Indiana Jones in Panama City.
Man passing in a van, saying in a deep growl, “I love you.”
Indecision about where to go. My pleasure at just sitting on a bus, watching things pass.
Not sure if I have set my watch to the right time—could be walking at a different hour.
Hydrography—the cartography of water.
Watching the “Japan Sea,” the “Venice Bridge” and the “Torm Mary” pass through the Gatun locks of the Panama Canal.
Colón—yes a slum. Dangerous? Possibly. More surprised than anything to see me walking around.
Panama Viejo—ruins open among the poor suburb.A stone from the remains of the oldest American Pacific settlement.
Reading Herodotus outside the Artisans’ Market.
Taxi to Albrook terminal: car falling apart, Mike holding his surfboard on the roof the whole way, no suspension.
Bocas del Toro. Sandal nation.
Rained out and playing cards in Boquete. “Claire’s game.”
Hurricane Alma and endless rain. The water off in David when I arrived.
The Interamericana closed between Panamanian border and San José. Diverted to the coast, a traffic jam just past Quepos. One way bridges taking the bulk of Costa Rica’s traffic. 14 hours instead of 7.
I love San José. A weird mix of familiarity and grit, plastic and fading glory, occasional splendour.
Reading Pico Iyer’s Global Souls as wandering around the everywhere-city that, under the surface (how far under the surface?) is really individual.
Meeting a negative Englishman who spent a long time in Australia—returned recently and “frankly” found it “boring.” Doesn’t like San José. He liked Panama City better, but never saw the canal.
While sugar packets are different everywhere, “Equal” and “Splenda” packets are always the same.
Reading about the Mallee Scrub in the tropics—the dirt road to San José all stirred up.
Enamel cups stringed from the rafters as decorations. Made in China.
Jade museum, sign telling me that: the pre-Columbian society used to make “winged hungers” in jade, “representing that way a cult to the brat.”Kelly and Chritina—two girls from Canada, travelling Belize and Costa Rica. The expensive ends.
A gushing girl from America talking about travel “opening up opportunities” and “being on her journey.” Invited to go fire dance in Africa but instead going to become a yoga teacher. The interesting mixed with platitudes. Refused to believe that people drinking too much bottled water having a detrimental effect on dental health.
The odd blankness of the archaeological site.Heavy rain walking 3 kilometres down a pot-holed road. Three hours till next bus. Being taken in by a very kind lady—Maria?—to wait. She showed me her parrot, puppy and chickens. Spoke no English, but showed me her husband’s certificate in English. Communicating in little bits. Meeting Crispian and Christy, Canadians. Crispian a game warden in South Africa for seventeen years, now taking a job in Vietnam, setting up marine national parks. Driving down from Canada since Christmas.
Man from Suriname, wife from the Netherlands, both of Indian ancestry, touring Costa Rica.
Lava lighting up as darkness fell.
Planning days back in DC—saving money, going to galleries, borrowing books from the library.
Jenny from Sweden—afraid of San José, shocked by prostitutes (I saw maybe four in a week), planning to go home and waitress. Wants to open an organic soup restaurant one day. Just soup.
Seeing the city from the hill where the old jail, now the Children’s Museum and National Gallery (and now done up to look like a jumping castle)—back turned. Hardly any signs or brand names evident.
Sign: Hotel English Spoken.
Bar: Nashville South. Saloon doors.
Farmacia Catedral. Cathedral nowhere in sight.
Lottery ticket sellers everywhere.
Mis-writing: coffee shop for culture shock. I wonder what’s on my mind?
*
I’m glad to be “home”. I feel really re-energised—I needed a break, and, indeed, a bit of “culture shock.” Ready to start working for the summer—finish some poems, read some poetics, read books of my own choosing, think some more about Henry James, tutor and teach… As well, of course, as the galleries and shows and movies I want to see, and getting to nearby places like Philadelphia and Baltimore and Harper’s Ferry.
