letters from panama – day 3

Greetings!

I’m sitting on the terrace now with a view of the mist caressing the side of the mountains, drinking my morning coffee and awaiting a breakfast of fresh fruit juice (which most likely came from the fruit growing on property), sausage and pastries. I woke around dawn to get a glimpse of the sunrise, and take some pics. Ran into Becky having her morning walk with the dogs, and she showed me around the place a bit. We stalked an iguana that lives on the property, but didn’t catch a glimpse of him, unfortunately. I WAS able to catch some hummingbirds though! And a little later, Monty, the three-toed sloth who hangs out on the property, peeked his head out to say, ‘buenos dias’.

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letters from panama – day 2

Amado Mio -

The last 24 hours here have been quite magical, with a little bit of mayhem thrown in for good measure.

We started the morning by taking a quick walking tour around Casco Viejo. First stop was a small pizza cafe that we’d passed a couple of times the night before. Even though it’s a pizza joint, they serve some pretty good espresso (the owners are Italian), and they also have some fine taste in music. As we sipped our morning brew, funky jazzy renditions of some classic hip-hop tracks played on the stereo system. After pestering the owner, he showed me the CD that was playing – St. Germain…claro!

 

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letters from panama – day 1

Panama is Central America’s other destination. While Costa Rica is the hottest spot among tourists seeking an eco-adventure, its neighbor offers just as many opportunities for an up-close experience with nature plus even more culture, history, and romance. A new world country with tons of old world charm, Panama is only a short trip from home, but is light years away from ordinary.

Though it’s fairly small, the country offers a huge amount of variety – crowded cities, historic ruins, mountains, beaches. In fact, you might call Panama the little isthmus that could. Each region has its own unique cultural flavor and geographic characteristics. On my 4 day / 3 night visit, I got a small taste of all that Panama has to offer by taking a mini-road trip through 3 well-known areas in central Panama: Panama City (Ciudad de Panama), El Valle de Anton, and Gamboa national rainforest.

My experience is shared through a series of fictional letters home to a loved one.

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luckie’s charm

When you walk into Luckie, the first thing you notice is the décor. Taking a cue from its next door neighbor – the Georgia Aquarium – the entrance (a.k.a., The Ocean Foyer) is swathed in subtle blue up- and down- lights, and features a huge saltwater aquarium containing exotic-looking fish. As you scan the rest of the restaurant, you’ll notice that somebody did a helluva feng shui job here. All of the elements are represented: smooth river rocks encased in metal cages, chocolate-hued wood paneling, sturdy sprigs of lucky bamboo coiling out of frosted glass vases, and well-integrated lighting that slowly pulses from amber, to deep ocean blue, to soft magenta. And if all that wasn’t enough for ya: 4 huge flat screens posted above the open-air kitchen each display images of either news, sports, or Beyonce’s wiggling booty.

Soon after the visual effect hits you, the sensory seduction continues with the irresistible smell of a wood-burning oven wafting from the kitchen. Your mouth will instinctively begin to water before you’ve even glanced at the menu.

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noche: beware the monday special

A friend of mine recently hipped me to the Monday all-you-can-eat tapas specials at two of Here to Serve group’s restaurants – Shout and Noche. In general, I’m kind of wary of all-you-can-eat specials, since it’s usually a euphemism for, ‘hey come eat a sh*tload of crappy food for a trifle’. Add to that the fact that I’d just finished reading Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, in which he gives the following warning about ‘Monday specials’:

Never order fish on Mondays, especially if it is a “Special”. By Monday, the fish is already 4 days old. The chef places his fish order on Thursday… he assumes that if he has any left on Sunday he can get rid of it on Sunday and as a “Special” on Monday. So, most likely that tuna you plan to order on Monday night has been hanging out in the restaurant’s reach-in cooler, with the doors opening every few minutes during the dinner rushes, for at least 4 days.

But the lure of a belly full of food for $10 on a night I am usually just too drained to cook, was enough to convince me that I should at least give it a try.

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the scattered, covered, and smothered experience

I used to joke that in order to get a job at the Waffle House you had to be an ex-con. And if you looked close enough, you could actually see the leg chain that shackled the line cook to the base of the grill. Obviously that’s not true, but if you’ve gone into the ‘wrong’ Waffle House after a late night at the club, you know it ain’t completely false, either.

Still, there’s something about the place that keeps me going back every once in a while. Maybe it’s because they’re as common in Georgia as kudzu or springtime pollen. Perhaps it’s the fact that – good or bad– EVERY trip to the waffle house is an experience (Seriously, have you ever been to a Waffle House and left without an interesting story to tell?). Or it could be that it’s the perfect place to go when I’m missing mama and grandma and want somebody to call me ‘baby’ and ‘sugah’ while they serve me food that I KNOW isn’t good for me but tastes soooo right.

It’s a Saturday and I’ve foregone my usual laziness, instead opting to go out and run some early morning errands. Feeling proud that I’m up, dressed, and finished with most of my to-dos before noon, I decide to reward myself with a little breakfast. Cresting a hill, I spy that familiar sign – two simple words spelled out in garish yellow squares – and I feel an instant twinge of nostalgia. As soon as I ask myself, “Should I…?” my stomach responds with an approving grumble, and my hands comply by turning the steering wheel towards the parking lot.

I’m greeted at the door by one of the waitresses whose name I’m certain is either Flo or Gladys or Shirley or something very similar. I choose an empty seat at the counter and she hands me a menu. I’m instantly absorbed in the familiar quick-order cacophony of jangling silverware and clanking dishes, sizzling food on grill, punctuated by the shrill voices of waitresses hollering out orders in a drawling language only spoken here:

“Pull! One chicken plate! Drop 2 hashbrowns! 1 scattered, covered, and diiiced, 1 scattered, covered, smothered, and chunked!”

Welcome to the House.

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no doubts about ‘doubt’

Most of my elementary and middle school education was obtained at a small Catholic parochial school on Ward Street in the Pleasant Hill neighborhood of Macon. Within the parish complex was the two-story brick schoolhouse, the church, the rectory where the priest lived, and the convent that was the abode of the nuns. Several of the nuns that lived in the convent were also teachers and administrators at the school.

There was Sister Zoe, the school’s principal – a relatively young woman who was part nun and part Berkeley hippie. Occasionally seen without her habit, but rarely without her guitar, Sister Zoe would often strum soothing, folk hymns to us kids, while little cartoon squirrels and birds gathered around to hear her angelic voice.

Sister Ramona was the school’s first grade teacher and also taught the little kids’ Sunday school class before 9:00 Mass. A middle-aged woman with gentle eyes set in a warm and caring face and a perpetual smile, even when she was disciplining she seemed to do it jovially.

There was also Sister Celine, our religion teacher, who was so old that we joked that she probably went to high school with JC himself. For years, she taught us the basics of Catholic catechism, and lovingly crafted handmade items for us – like the little pastel pouches that held our rosary beads. In her tremulous voice, she’d recite a number of prayers, sayings, and religious poems to us over and over, so that we would learn them by heart (to this day I still remember most of James Weldon Johnson’s ‘Creation’).

And then there was Sister Carmelita. Unlike the other nuns at SPC who were of the order of the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament, Sister Carmelita was a Sister of Mercy. An ironic name to say the least, for there was nothing merciful at all about the woman. I think her sole job at the school was to loom hawkish and frightening, always ready to mete out punishment for the smallest infraction. If Sister Carmelita caught you running in the halls on your way to or from recess, her shrill voice would stop you dead in your tracks. “You there. Missy Jane! You stop that horseplay right this instant!” Lingering too long between classes? Talking too loud during lunch in the social hall? Before you knew it, Sister Carmelita would swoop down, grab the offending party by the ears and cart the victim off to be boiled in a vat of hot chrism.

In the newly released screenplay, Doubt, Meryl Streep plays Sister Aloysius Beauvier, the stern, tough as nails principal of St. Nicholas Catholic school in the 1960s Bronx. Within minutes of seeing her on the screen, I sat straight up in my theater chair, eyes wide with shock and whispered unbelievingly, “That’s Sister Carmelita…”.

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year-end clearance

For whatever reason, I’ve got a slew of posts (both finished and in-progress) that I’ve not had the time to post or finish. With the end of the year fast approaching, and with work being slow due to most folks being out on vacation, I’m going to try and finish all the posts I’ve started this year.  If I’m really productive, I may even get around to revealing the new site design I’ve been working on.

Just thought I’d give you a heads-up in case you wondered how I was able to eat at 10 different restaurants, read several books, listen to a bunch of new music, and take mutiple trips in the span of a week or so.

I’m good. But not that good.

stay tuned,

k

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