Bye bye.

We'll miss you Panama. Off to America.

Non Sequitur

Wow. That's hairy. A very unwelcome sight at Isla Taboga. Someone get some wax.

Canine Al-Qaeda: Panama

Now, I'm not saying that this dog is a member of Al-Qaeda, but certainly it terrorizes Americans trying to protect freedom from the air-conditioned comfort of Chevrolet Cavaliers. For two nights, on the way to our beloved Panama psychiatry mentors house, our friend Lisa and her unfortunate passangers have been victim to dog terrorism. Somewhere between Costa Del Este and the Texaco Gas Station and Correador Sur, there waits a slack-jawed vessel of auto-destruction.

Friday night while traveling 25mph in Lisa's car:
"Oh yeah, Panama is great. I certainly love all that Panama has to offer, Lisa. You are so lucky to have found suitable employment here in this fine country...Hey, fellow Americans, what is that yonder? It appears to be a rather slack-jawed young dog. Is he walking toward the road? Get out the road! AHH!!!" Add the terrified screams of innocent young Texans as the car swerves to avoid a joyful suicidal terrorist dog running for the front right tires, intent on destroying American freedom. Furthermore, add the staccato halt of Chevrolet's over-active anti-lock brakes.

"Did we hit the dog? Where's the dog? Everyone alright?" Our sweat-moistened brows glowed in the reflection of the high-beam light off of the mongrel's freedom-hating Al-Qaeda coat of a terrorist perro. "Wow, fellow Americans, that was close. Did that dog actively run in front of the tire?" Add the very concerned all-American faces of apple-pie and open spaces.

Monday night while traveling 25mph in Lisa's car on the same street:
"Oh, yeah Panama is still great. I'm certainly still impressed with all that this great country has to offer, Lisa. Hey, fellow Americans, is that the same dog as that previous horrific evening? Hey. HEY! Its doing it again!" Add the terrified screems of innocent young Texans as the car swerves to avoid a joyful suicidal terrorist dog running for the front right tires intent on destroying American freedom. Add, again, the increasingly scary staccato halt of Chevrolet's over-active anti-lock brakes.

"We've better hit that damn suicidal dog." Our sweat moistened brows glowed with anger in the reflection of high-beam light off of the mongrel's freedom-hating Al-Qaeda coat of a terrorist perro. "Wow, fellow Americans, that was close." Add the very concerned all-American faces of apple-pie and open spaces.

Three things. First, we are obliged to call Homeland Security to protect Amurica. Certainly, if we must fan the flames of Iraq, toy with Iran, and chastized North Korea despite only an Afghanistan role in September 11th, surely we can use some of those billions to spend on protection from Panamanian terrorist dogs. Second, in Catholic country, do suicidal dogs go to heaven? At the very least its not evolutionarily beneficial. Third, there is no way that this dog survives the week should Lisa be accosted by its flapping tongue, and death wanton eyes, on the pavement again. There would be minor fender damage, traces of dog hair, and American pride for protecting Freedom.

America: These colors don't run. They run over.

Luego Mi Amigo.

Despite my best efforts, I must return to the United States. Who knew that a four hour flight could hold such amazing possibilities. Truly one of the worlds great modern crossroads, it pains me that I have to leave. However, that being said I thought I would share what it is I look forward to most in Texas.

1. Vasodilation: its been a full month since I've had a pressurized 90 degree ducha. Vaya.
2. Amigos: Clearly its been a while since I've had a hearty conversation about the relation of 1960s desegregation and American politics over some delicious Ethiopian food at Blue Nile. Yuuum. My United Colors of Benetton friends rock. I'm comin' home!
3. Not having to be cognizant of the toilet seat: Living with women is hard. Living with two women is harder. Despite everything smelling like flowers and various tropical fruits, Alauna and Leah aren't bad at all. Though I need to return to Houston to talk about German automobiles, HDTV technology, and even organized commercial sports.

Esté es Panamá

This is Panamá. As we were forming our plans for the afternoon, the lovely Lisa gave us a telephone ring on the way home from her tireless work at the UN. Given her adriot eyewitness skills, and the unusual amount of traffic on Via España, she knew that her camera-happy fellow Americans would soon cherish another 'Esté es Panamá (this is Panama)' moment.

As previously mentioned, the buses (AKA diablos rojos) are less than tip-top American hand-me-downs. As such, it is expected that these buses have a certain level of maintenance issues, however, the above picture is far beyond a broken taillight or a burnt out interior lamp.

As we approached a small lecherous crowd, we passed a hand-waving witness in front of an avid news crew. They parted to make way for four visibly frustrated men who were pushing what is considered some of the most essential elements of a vehicle: the tires and axels. This is obvious to even the most casual of observers. What's not so obvious is how a bus can lose it wheels on a smooth street and not have it make CNN. I haven't seen this sort of auto sans wheels since those unfortunate fourth grade Hot-Wheels incidents, but apparently this level of disrepair is far from uncommon. Oddly enough, no ambulances, no 30-somethings grabbing their necks and promising legal action. Just a number of frustrated motorers in traffic as (not so) usual.

Esté es Panamá afterall.

Non Sequitur

If you can't stand the heat...maybe you shouldn't nest your wasp larvae on an incandescent lightbulb. This is a photo of an unfortunately placed hive in Las Tablas, Panamá. If you look closely the wasps are beating their wings relentlessly to try to cool things down a bit. I like to think of it as a metaphor for recent US military efforts in a historically heated Middle East. Good luck guys.

Dude. Lighten up. Its Just Depression.

So, Leah, Alauna and I are enjoying a lovely conference on the symptoms, psychopathology, and treatment of depression. The president of the Sociedad Penameña de Psiquiatría sponsored us and as such we’ve merrily obliged. Now, I’m not saying that my level of Spanish is anywhere near where it needs to be to understand the nuances of Colombian psychopatholical theory, but I do understand enough to know that one of the presenters was...er...a little bit off.

Well, as someone with a burgeoning interest in psychoanalysis I was excited to hear one of the presenters was going to talk about a more psychodynamic approach to depression. His thoughts? In a nutshell, it is the patient’s fault and religion, which so many Panameños in particular rely upon, is simply a construct of guilt. Alright, now while it provides excellent fodder for thought and discussion with my psychiatry hero Rogelio, it was kind of startling. Not so much because of the verbal content of the talk, but because of the visual accompaniment of the presenters PowerPoint.

The pictures. When one is confronted with slide after slide of pictures of blurry child reflection in broken mirrors, a hanging men in trees at dismal vermillion sunsets, and a cleary 1980s New Yorker on a public graffiti-adorned bathroom floor moments before slitting her wrists one has to wonder two things. Who amasses such a collection of photos, and who’s married to this guy. What a drag.

At the very least, it provided suitable motivation to play close enough attention to navigate the hour talk. It was also clearly entertaining to look across the row to find Rogelio enthusiastically shaking his head in protest to the presentation. Immediately upon its completion we found ourselves benevolently debriefed.

“Remember, if you start blaming the patient for everything you lose everything. I don’t agree at all with this...”

I can’t wait for tomorrow.

Holographic White Jesus

Admittedly, I am no stranger to Catholic-kitsch. Anyone who has visited mi casa is greeted at the door by the fragrance of votive Neustra Dama de Gaudalupe candles and a washroom replete with my favorite quasi-Coptic icons. But I was accosted by a new level of kitsch at the house that the Báez family and we gringos were crashing in, in beautiful Las Tablas.

Upon the oppressively orange walls hung Holographic Jésus. You move your head back and forth and so does the Divine Shepherd.

Now I’ve seen floating baby Jesus, Black Jesus, action figure Jesus, neon Jesus, and a personal favorite Jesus-drives-a-Chevy Jesus, but for the first time, I have witnessed a holographic, pseudo-three dimensional framed representation of Western European Last Supper Jesus. Now, first off as a disclaimer, its clearly historically inaccurate that Jesus of Nazareth would look remotely rubio seeing as those Homeboy is from pre-Arab...Nazareth. As such, I’m never a fan of Scandanavian impressions of the carpenter’s Son. Similarly, the intelligently satirical comic “Boondocks” has cleverly referred to this image of the Son of God as 'White Jesus.' We will referred to this thusly as Holographic White Jesus.

Holographic White Jesus, this is coolest White Jesus I’ve seen to date and am dying to know where I may also purchase the aforementioned depiction of that Temple Rabble-rouser. After much continued discussion between BCM’s finest future psychiatrists, we’ve clearly adopted this as a new mission. Wish us luck.

Hola Ola.

In lieu of another Colecos Dr Báez and her equally adventurous husband Eric, decided on a day trip to Isla Iguana, much to the relief of the woman who maintains my locks. Despite the unfortunate departure of Lisa back to work (for reasons unbeknownst to reasonable men), we were bursting with delight at the prospect of seeing some tropical nature and giving our cameras a good aperture work-out. Oh, we have to leave at 7am? Aye.

“Yeah, we will need to take a ferry to the island.” This was the statement that led me to underestimate our nautical journey to Isla Iguana. While I’m sure the language barrier prevents perfectly fluid exchanges of information, I’m not entirely convinced that ‘ferry’ was not used tacitly avoid any conflict with the less intrepid of our group.

“Huh, where are the ferries?” Alauna adroitly expressed on our arrival to the beach of the mainland facing our destination.

“ There they are. we’ll have to go in one of those.”

Eric pointed slightly hesitantly to the speeding, fiberglass and aluminum vessels whose apparent age and frame seemed all but shattered by the very 'calm' (read very choppy) ocean channel before our eyes. I am not too familiar with watercraft navigation world, but I do know that white-capped waves, and seven people in a boy scout boat seems like a bad idea. I gripped my camera tightly as scenes of an airborne, wave-bound Canon S2IS in a ziplock bag flashed before my eyes. I silently scorned myself for not bringing more of those Rey Supermercado bags.

Drs. Báez, grandma Báez, Leah, Alauna, myself and of course ‘Mio (an awkwardly dense short form of Emelio) climbed one by one in the reasonably stable Benedic Katalina. Fortunately, Mio provided quite the adrenaline experience to distract from the fact that the waves looked bigger than the boat. Though, I still clutched my camera to my chest with all the zeal of an antebellum Belle to her newly returned Southern soldier, the fresh salt air through my locks and the frequent feelings of momentary weightlessness suitably replaced fear with excitement.

After half-an-hour, we arrived on the most beautiful cotton-soft white beach I’ve seen (much in contrast to the equally startling black beach of Santa Clara). An army of tiny hermit crabs felt similarly. They blanketed the beach so well that it appeared to undulate just inside the range of perceptibility. Furthermore, what’s an Isla Iguana without Iguanas? They were far more reluctant to make the acquaintance of gangly homeotherms with prosumer cameras in tow. They preferred the rocks and sand just out of reach. As our adventurous Panameño-American herd filed through the forest to find flora and fauna that normally graces the ‘tropical’ section of Lowe’s greenhouse. On the other side of the island we find another gorgeous beach and small cove eerily similar to San Diego’s verdant coastline. Claro, instead of joining the others, I lathered on more sunscreen and headed for those micro-oceanic environments. The intertidal area of the rocks, if one is pacient and patient enough reveals amazing wildlife secrets. Puffer fish, brilliant blue fish, sheepish octopi, and fish as ‘ugly as sin’ (as my grandmother would say). This was in addition to the countless birds in the sky. One could hardly throw a stone without fear of an Icarus returning most ungracefully to the earth or the sea.
A great day. As we trekked across the island again to the beach of our landing, we were surprised to find that the Pacific’s notoriously wild tides had receded to trap our beloved Benedic Katalina on those soft sands, and exposed a bastion of coral. Clearly, we promptly took a nap under a palm tree for a couple hours and awaited the return of the ocean. Best siesta yet.

Los Carnavales

Bienvenidos a los Carnavales. In the weeks approaching Carnavales, whenever our American medical trio would answer the cordial dinner-party question of “Are you going anywhere for Los Carnavales?” immediately upon answering “Las Tablas” we would be subject to a rapidly melting smile, the sort of short inward breath reserved for those feminine film noire protagonists (just before their murder), or a pause followed by a wide-eyed “Niiiiiiiiice” and an equally hearty slap on the back. Invariably, any of the above would be swiftly accompanied by a euphemistic (and cautionary) praise of Panama’s most renowned pre-Lent celebration.

Our gracious and apparently intrepid pediatric neurologist attending, Doctor Báez, signaled no such concern when she gleefully invited us to stay with her and family in Las Tablas, Panamá for Los Carnavales. Las Tablas is the seat of Panamanian culture; it is roughly the equivalent to America’s heartland without the acerbic aftertaste of Bush’s political follies or the threat of an endless ennui. Like many countries and cities that have effortlessly mixed Catholic tradition with enjoyable albeit pagan practices, this small town and the rest the country, in the four days before Ash Wednesday, celebrate tirelessly.

So, Saturday we met with Doctor Báez at her San Fernando office with bags, sunscreen, and the unspeakably cheap and water-ready Albrook Mall attire in hand for the four-hour journey to Panamá’s south. Similar to most developing countries and France, time is clearly just under conceptual here. Therefore, our first stop was Santa Clara, the gorgeous beach here about an hour from the city. I’m always amazed at this country’s diversity. Not just the thoroughly blended shades of Afro, Euro, and Indian that make race an impossible task, but at the diversity of landscape. This area is home to the architecturally clever beach house of Doctor Báez and her family. The beaches are a dazzling and brilliant black & the air is cool and virgin. If I am able to work out moving to Panamá in the future, this is certainly a place to play weekend warrior. But, I digress. On to Las Tablas.

As we’ve said before, the country of Panamá is just a big small town. So it isn’t any surprise that the cities empty to descend on the towns to celebrate with family and friends. The central square swells to a river of brown like the mouth of the Mississippi. And its hot. In terms of temperature of course. So, Panameños being the equally skillful and merry people they are, have invented… Colecos. Colecos is the sort of event that makes lingual slips between embarazado and embarazada irrelevant.

Colecos as a massive outdoor party has three main ingredients. The first, the people. Mothers, hedonists, septuagenarians, and apparently drag queens collide and are packed under the oppressive 90-degree sun. Second is the music. The deafening pulse of reggaeton bewitches the ordinarily pious to gyrate in ways that would make your grandmother giggle. The inexhaustible supply of alcohol is used further facilitate the above. Sounds pretty straight forward, eh? Well then there’s the water.

For those readers that have had first-hand experience with Colecos, you’ve probably paused to yield to your first Colecos memories while letting out a small, knowing chuckle. For the rest, think of those elementary school summers when your water guns, slip-and-slides, and an adroitly and nefariously managed garden-hose served as the only neighborhood weapon against the heat besides your grandmother’s lemonade. Now only add full-pressure water hoses and thousands of people and we can begin to comprehend it. Thankfully the music is suitable distraction from the fact that everyone…everyone, is being the subject an absolute soaking from all directions and from anyone. It kind of blurs the line between water terrorism and benevolence. I haven’t been this soaked since I was caught on my bike in one of those Texas thunderstorms. All of my remaining attention was spent on trying to keep up with Dr. Báez. Her enthusiasm for Colecos forbade her from remaining sessile and betrayed her age. I’m not saying that she’s old, of course not, but I’d like to think myself and three other 20-year-olds would be able to navigate the crowd with the same dexterity and determination as a neurologist…a pediatric neurologist…whose been practicing for 30 years. In any case, Colecos surrenders to the late afternoon need for a siesta and the second celebration of the day begins at night.

Calle Arriba and Calle Abajo are roughly translated into uptown (wealthy) and downtown (regular). Along these lines Las Tablas (and most other towns) divide to elect queens, construct floats, and fashion horribly personal attacks on the opposing queen in the form of song. Amazing. Around 11pm we found ourselves (dangerously) close to fireworks to mark the beginning of the parade. First, Calle Arriba. A huge, garish float turned the corner to meet the town square and a huge expectant crowd. A cacophony of colecos song counterpointed the beautiful array of glorious plumes of decadence married to the soft turns of the Calle Arriba court. The joy and the intractable kinetic energy raced through the crowd only to burgeon with the second float with garnished with the beguilingly adorned dark-haired queen, Ms. Renata Alexandra Díaz Núñez. The whole process is repeated with the equally enjoyable Calle Abajo, Ms. Sara de Carmen Bello Herrera, and her court. For the remainder of the evening (until well into the small morning hours) the two courts circle each other in the square with the tireless chants, lingually Spanish-Caribbean flavor of their respective anthems for that year.

Thoroughly enjoyable. Equally tiring. Multiply by four. The quintessential Carnaval experience.

Los Carnavales 2007

Vaya! We're going to Los Carnavales! Again serendipity has smiled in our direction once again. Our beloved pediatric neurology attending Dra Báez has graciously offered to host us in the quintessential Carnavales town of Las Tablas, Panamá (about four hours southwest of Panamá City). We will be meeting her shortly, but before we head of for what has completely shut down and emptied the city, I thought I'd at least share lest I never return. Adios!

Non Sequiturs

Here is a photo of a young Kuna boy playing with the dog of an expat couple in the gorgeous and of course gentrifying Casco Viejo neighborhood of la Cuidad de Panamá.

Our dear Houstonian friend Lisa introduced Leah and I to one of the few restaurants that serve truly Panamanian fare. As with all globalized society I was pleasantly surprised to find the following at the bottom of my glass. For those that cannot read upside down and inside out, it reads "Houston, TX U.S.A Made in China." Imma need my glasses not to be that well traveled.

Rules of Engagement

As I sit here in the balmy breeze (courtesy of our incredibly handy Vornado fan) I cannot help but reflect on the things I've learned about Panama these last couple of weeks. As the generous nature of the Panameños has rubbed off on its most avid pupil, I would like to share the following three grand realizations as a public service announcement for others.

1. Horn honking means 'hello' or 'hey buddy I am currently in your presence.' The normally mild mannered and gracious Panameño promptly transforms into demi-demons on the road but do not confuse them with the uber-demons, the buses. The average diver Honks, lewdly accosts streetside Panamanian women with showers of light and inappropriate banter, cut off other members of traffic, all while sublimely making veritable new lanes of traffic. But meet them in a party and you would swear they were overflowing with more warmth than your grandmothers' minutes-old chocolate chip cookies.

2. For every person you meet, you will come to know 10 more by reputation. In hushed tones, you will discover their last 2 years of personal history, establish their place of work or level connection, and inevitably be subject to the same within minutes. It's a rarity that you meet someone and not have to employ the unique pleasure of feigning ignorance of their history. Furthermore, everything you do or say, inevitably will be discussed at length by at least a chain of 3 people before it finds its way back to you. Therefore, discretion is a must. Sprawling Panama City is for all intents and purposes a small town of 2 million.

3. Psychiatrists here live in a dream-world. Malpractice insurance? What's that? Threat of lawsuit? I hope they enjoy red tape. With an extremely low overhead (i.e. an office and money for a morning mocha) you can have an amazing practice of your choosing. Its quite common for people to work in the public hospitals in the morning and see super-private patients in the afternoon (private of course being a bit of a misnomer here in Panamá). This is all at an absurdly leisurely pace with literally hours for lunch and gossip. With all this there are the obvious caveats of having to know Spanish intimately or be forced to treat solely English-speaking expats. There is also, of course, having to deal with the torrential rainy season. But these seem like milquetoast concerns as compared to the biggest cavea: the two-year internship requirement. For anyone to receive a license to practice in Panama, one must undergo a two-year internship in the wilderness. Think performing appendectomies, repairing fourth degree obstetrics tears, all whilst earning just enough to survive in the jungle and call home in tears. So, while one may easily entertain purchasing a condo here for future respites on the ocean, one should hesitate to consider practicing here.

How a Bus Become a Diablo

Los Diablos Rojos (the Red Devils). This is the name given to those ubiquitous roca* vehicles of congestion and destruction. Panama is replete with them. By replete, I mean that city streets explode with the sound of their surely mistuned engines, pedestrians fear for their lungs on sight of their notoriously nefarious sooty clouds of exhaust, and passengers perilously cram into what little humid space remains inside.

These are the los diablos rojos. As our friend Nando shuttled us across the city for lunch at the...ahem...Rotary Club, we found ourselves discussing these, the very fabric of Panamanian transportation. Nando, a native Panamanian with a Nebraska accent courtesy of an American medical education, explained the process of how a bus becomes a Diablo. Apparently, some incredibly clever (as Panamanians have recently been known to be) businessmen decided to begin the import of old American School buses. No no no. Not those new airconditioned buses at the peak of American emissions standards. Rather, the old school buses that you and your parents passed notes on, on the way to school (somewhere between the age of Dennis the Menace and Menace to Society).

First, one must purchase a cupón from the less than transparent government or one of a handful of persons who hold a monopoly on the remaining. After an exorbitant fee one can then begin to purchase and operate a bus. Second, you rent the bus to a driver with the following terms:

1. Congratulations! You, the hired bus driver, may paint the bus to your liking in any naco* style of your choosing! Que chevere!* This includes pastoral scenes of Northern Scotland, the latest B-level Panamanian pop star, or perhaps a memorial to your cousin Tito's death four years ago, but only if these differing styles are employed simultaneously. The aforementioned includes superfluous blue or red neon lights and Bible verses.


2. Congratulations! Furthermore, as operator of the aforementioned bus, it is your privilege to pay me, the owner, $80-$100 a day regardless of your passenger load or what you pay the person who takes the cash for rides. And yes, to preempt any questions, we are aware that you will in all likelihood have to drive 18 hours a day to break even.
   
3. As a bus driver you will also have the unique ability to pay for all the likely repairs that are necessary for your rented vehicle. Should you have a problem with it, "¡Adios!*"

Keep in mind, that a person is likely to own 20 or more buses at a time. Our next obvious question as a law abiding American with little experience with blatant disregard for even the remotest appearance of ethical trustworthiness is how come no one has just paid the drivers what they are worth, provided better buses, and thus encouraged suitable competition.

Nando's big pearly smile widened and belly quivered as he said, "Éste es Panamá (this is Panama)." He explained that the government and cupón monopoly basically vet potential buyers before to make sure that they don't hold dreams of rocking the boat. All this being said, one such individual tried this in the past.

They had gleaming, spotless, air conditioned buses, well-paid bus drivers, well-organized routes, and reliable service. They were out of business in months. Drivers of the battle-tested diablos rojos inexplicably began to find themselves in accidents with these model new buses. Cupón availability dwindled, and the buses were no more. Nando would later explained a word alcahuetería. Given England's relatively lackluster experience with flagrant unscrupulousness, he had to traslate as follows; its basically someone who knows that someone is lying to him or her but allows that other party to continue without protest for whatever reason. Kinda makes you wonder why such words are necessary, or better yet why the British Empire didn't find them so. In any case, "Éste es Panamá." I'll just be sure to stay out of the way of the buses.

*Que chevere - Panamanian slang for 'how cool'
*Roca - Panamanian slang for ghettofabulous
*Cupón - numbered permission license from the government
*Naco - Mexican slang for fashionably tacky; see Ugg Boots

Feliz Día de San Valentín

Happy Valentine's Day. This is a photo I took of a very amorous appearing cactus at Torrey Pines in San Diego, California courtesy of a very coquettish Mother Nature.

Go Tell It on the Mountain

The other day I climbed a mountain. Literally. Well literally at least a small mountain. The three amigos, Alauna, Leah and myself of course have found ourselves the very fortunate subjects of some incredible Panamanian largess. Last week, we were invited to present a paper at a Psychiatry Journal Club here in Panamá at the gastronomically celebritated restaurant, El Cortijo. As we were in various stages of wiping the remains of our plates to our palettes, we three future psychiatrists collectively gasped and widened eyes in the direction of our new aquaintance (and future teacher and colleague) the sparkly-eyed Rogelio. Now, we weren't witness to an egregious use of dinnerware, flatulance, or a Kim Jong-Il. We were witness to an invitation. At least two of us had awkwardly unbroken smiles when former BCM Psychiatry resident and current Panamá psychoanalytic psychiatrist invited Leah, Alauna, and myself to go on a short hike in a week*. For a variety of reasons of course, first off, Leah and I share an attraction for things green, rocky, and sympathomimetic (excluded of course Ralph Nader) but moreso did our hearts quicken when we explained that this hiking trip would be with Rogelio's best friend Brian. Brian happens to own an ecotourism company, Extreme Panama, in this verdant waist of the Americas and is a trained biologist. Guess what, he speaks English too. A few days later, were off to Parque Nacional Altos de Campana pictured above.

Now for those experienced hikers out there (and if you are reading this chances are you may not be), this was moderate. Would my mother (fifty something year old former cheerleader) had made it? Only if there were promises of Teddy Pendergrass and BlueBell at the other end. Unfortunately, for Alauna, her stomach received no such promises and her body, en league with her stomach, deeply protested its forced exertion that afternoon. Despite my conscious empathy, I truly could not suppress glee for being there. With months of interviewing, and weeks in the hospitals here, it was invigorating to be really physical again. As we climbed perilous paths, brushed aside palms, and swatted would-be vectors of Dengue Fever, we talked about the plants, politics, and pppppsychiatry (I know so much for alliteration). Though I'm not a heavy sweater, it was nice to at least get a bit misty. Or at least it was the humidity.

Rogelio, our trail host, is the sort of individual that in an undulating sea of kinetically ceaseless banter, can spark a brilliant breath of fresh effervescent air. Think Obama '08. As is true with the gracious nature of Panameños, the formality of "attending physician" evaporates as quickly as ones sweat on this mountain. His friend Brian, equally as enjoyable provides the sort of details of our environment that made the journey singular. In any case, I'm a fan of both (I must mention that Rogelio has the slickest psychiatry office and couch and has thus been placed in the category of 'my psych hero'). And thus we bounded on toward the precipice as we past innumerable wild examples of the "exotic" houseplants that graces my desk.

So, à la Rio de Janeiro, at the top was a giant religious symbol. No, not a slim and toned, Buddha, but a concrete 10 foot cross (goodness knows who had the misfortune of carrying the concrete up to this place). As I crawled atop the rocky foundation of this cross, I was rewarded with an amazing view and thought I would share. It was a breathtaking view of Panamá bay, the ships awaiting their turn across the continent, and gently muscular mountains that dove their green shoulders into the sun-kissed Pacific. Gorgeous. Much worth the journey and its accompanying garnish of great conversation and company. Well, that is with the unfortunate exception of our severely dehydrated compatriot pictured at center (look for the scowl of not enough Gatorade).

In any case, I'm having a wonderful time, wish I could stay forever, and am still surviving the taxis here. Given the protests from my friend Ribka, I will try to update more regularly. But who could blame me? I'm busy climbing mountains.

*For the quick witted individuals out there, Alauna was currently
recovering from her colonization by some nasty GI bugs that tethered her to the
nearest bathroom relentlessly. With the addition of ciprofloxacin may her
bacteria rest in peace.

"Gracias Por No Fumar"-- La Muerte

Not that I imagine that the rates of cardiovascular disease, lung cancer, or even post-club drycleaning bills would plummet, but something like this would certainly give you pause before a smoke. Panamá, like the UK, US, and Canada has had the clairvoyance to put a warning to would-be cancer-stick users, that "Smoking produces cardiovascular disease." More shocking however, is the sight of patient being resuscitated. This can be interpreted as follows:

Indulgence in smoking results in rapid, anonymous, quasi-sterile death.

In any case, saw this at the lovely Italian restaurant Jimmy's. Of note, although the owners of said restaurant are Greek, the name of the restaurant, Jimmy's, is English, despite the food being Italian. Add raised eyebrow of culturally-precise cuisine dilettante here.

Amor y Guerra.

High-top fades, the 'war on terror,' and purchase of B-level 80s pop. They all sounded perfectly reasonable at the time of their debut, but are largely indefensible later. Such is the case, with our taxi ride.

Now. Having been quite familiar to taxi rides in Egypt, China, and (shiver) India, I can say that I've developed a pretty hardy taxi-stomach for those seasoned and seemingly life-forsaking, taxi drivers. We future psiquiatras were ebulliently chatting it up on the Via España as we waved down a taxi catch a presentation on bio-feedback in spinal injury rehabilitation, we were (as apparently is common in Panamá) by a young woman passenger already occupying the front seat of a very shiny maroon Nissan. Despite my initial impulses to flag down another less occupied taxi, we were running late and what's the harm? Right?

Testosterone.

As any young virile male knows, the presence of a beautiful, attractive female in the presence of manual labor, war, or the bench presses ignites young volitile hubris of the male to...well...stupidness. The warm exchange of glances between the young male taxi driver and his petite amie, and the stiff press of his foot on the pedal were intimately linked. As such, Alauna, Leah, and myself found ourselves clutching doors and widening our eyes in absolute horror as we bolted past fresh red lights, careened around blind corners, and flew with all the grace and speed of Enron dodging pedestrians and incontinence.

Hombre was trying to impress his novia.

We arrived 12 minutes later to the Marriott dizzily deshevled. They say all is fair in love and war, but I just prefer not to be in the battle. In any case, the above (very blurry) picture is of our...memorable...sojourn through la Cuidad de Panamá.