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.