Figured this was a good time to bring my post from that day out of the archives. Dedicated to all my London friends who deal with the memory every day.

It all began with my ex-wife Mahi’s summer break from UF in 1995. She had become particularly homesick in the five years she had spent away from Holland since we got married. I decided that I too needed a proper vacation, and figured if we were going to go anywhere, it was going to be Holland. I didn’t even think about an alternative venue. Though we were rather broke at the time, we did have a credit card with plenty of available balance on it. We decided it would be best used on our summer jaunt, we’d figure out how to pay it off later.

I would only agree to make it happen provided we could make a REAL vacation out of it, and not just stay at her parents’ house the whole time. I also insisted we rent a car, because there was no way in the world we would depend on her dad to drive us anywhere. He was by far the most dangerous driver on the planet.

After some further negotiations, and discussion, we decided that renting a car, doing a drive through Holland, Belgium and France would be a good call. We would spend one week in Holland, go on the trip, then come back for a few more days before flying back to the states. It was coming together, and we were excited.

So our trip for late spring/early summer 1995 was on! I was excited to make the plans, reservations, pick hotels and all the not-so-fun stuff associated with planning a proper vacation. Being that I had just gotten out of the travel business the year before after my partnership imploded, it felt good to deal with travel stuff again, it had been awhile. I also found myself getting utterly thrilled about getting out of the damn lame-ass college town we were living in for a few weeks. Living in Gainesville, Florida will do that to you.

In the course of my planning, I called Pop to ask him about the possibility of leaving our car at his apartment complex and having him drive us to the airport in his taxi to save us a few bucks on airport parking fees. When Pop answered his cel phone, he wasn’t his usual peppy self. I asked him how he was doing, and he replied that he wasn’t doing so well. Business had been terrible for the taxis of Orlando. He was in a major slump. There weren’t that many tourists coming now that easter and spring break had passed. Worse, the ones that were coming were mostly renting cars, thus not needing taxis. I can tell he was pretty depressed. Even more than usual when business sucks.

After hearing him whine a little more, I remembered to ask him about the parking/trip to the airport favor. He said no problem, he’d be GLAD to help us save a few bucks while getting out to Europe so we can have a “great time”. I detected the usual sarcasm in his voice, which he’d always do when he thought I was spending money on something he deemed unnecessary. But this time, I also detected a bit of envy. Sounded to me like he wished he can go to Europe too.

Later that evening, after Mahi came home from classes, I hit her with a strange idea. Why don’t we take Pop along on the trip? If I can talk him into shelling out for his airfare, and maybe kicking in a few bucks for the car rental and gas, it would be cheaper for us. But more importantly, it would give him a much-needed vacation. For the last few years, the only “vacation” Pop would ever take was to head down to Brazil every other year or so to visit his family there. The last few times, however, he would just come back a little more bitter or miserable than when he left. Things hadn’t always gone so well while he was there. I thought a European vacation that none of us could even afford would be the solution to his doldrums.

At first she didn’t seem keen on the idea. But she agreed that Pop could use a break. She also figured it would be a good way to keep her dad off her back since Pop would be there to distract him. She also figured it would give her more one-to-one time with her mom. When her dad was bored or miserable, which was pretty often, that kind of time with her mom was hard to come by.

The more we talked about it, the better the plan sounded, she gave a thumbs up. I called Pop the next day with my idea. He immediately dismissed the idea as utterly ludicrous. He didn’t make enough money to pay his rent that month, much less go on a transatlantic jaunt. “No way. impossible.” “You’re crazy for going too, what a dummy.”,”Why are you bothering me with this shit!?” , “Leave me alone, I gotta work!…”. The zingers kept coming, it was clear he wasn’t a fan of the plan.

After his tirade subsided what felt like twenty minutes later, I gingerly reminded him that he did have several grand saved up from when business was good. Maybe tapping into a grand or so of that money wouldn’t kill him?

He laughed for about another twenty minutes. The jagged zingers continued, yet I pressed on. I persuasively argued my points with him: This would be good for him, he needed the break. Business was slow anyway! Turn in the taxi for a couple of weeks, save on the lease fees! I can get him a decent discount on the plane ticket since my agents’ status was still good! He’ll get to see Mahi’s dad (they hit it off four years’ before when he was in Florida for our wedding, bonding over whiskey and cigars). They can relive their whiskey and cigar memories while my father-in-law showed him around Holland. Then, we can jump into the rental car and drive through Belgium and France…

Pop was in the middle of another dismissive rant while I was talking, talking over me, despite my pressing on with my pitch. I didn’t think he was even listening. Yet, his rant came to an abrupt end when he heard the word “France”.

“France? You mean as in Paris?”

“Yeah of course Paris, we love it there, we’ll spend a few days there before heading back to Holland.”

Silence.

Pop stayed silent for a little longer than I was comfortable with. I chimed in, “Why, do you like Paris too?”

“Son, I’ve been to many cities around Europe with your mother. Many times we went to wonderful places, Vienna, Venice, Portofino, Lisboa, Madrid, Geneva, London… but we never made it to Paris. It’s probably the only place in the world i’d still like to see.”

I had always believed that he had gone to Paris at some point in his life, He was even somewhat schooled in French, so it was only a logical assumption.

“Well, here’s your chance to go, are you in?” I retorted dryly.

“Let me think about it a little while, let me check my money situation, I’ll call you back tonight. Gotta go, I got a fare.”

He hung up.

I didn’t have to wait for the call back, I knew he was in. Mahi came home from classes a few minutes after the call was over, and I gave her the news. For better or for worse, Pop was coming along.

So the final plan was for a trip that would last a bit over three weeks. Pop would join us a week later. We’d hit the road, and do a nice 10-day long drive through Belgium and France. Spend a few days of it in Paris. Then drive back to Holland, where we would spend another week, then fly home.

So now the plans were being made in earnest. Everytime I called Pop about a trip-related detail, he’d grumble about the expenses or costs, but at the same time I can tell he was a bit excited about the upcoming trip. It came time for us to leave for Holland, since we were leaving a week earlier than Pop, we would leave our car at his apartment complex parking lot in Orlando, and he would drive us in. He was again bitching and moaning about how bad business was all the way to the airport. We also ended up taking our cat Aretha with us to Holland because it was cheaper and easier to do that than to put her in a kennel for three weeks. This was going to be an interesting trip to say the least.

Pop says goodbye to us at the airport in a rather quick way. He notices that there weren’t too many taxis in line coming in, so he wanted to hurry and get a good position to grab a quick fare from the airport. Through the haste, we can both tell that he’s rather giddy about the fact that the next time he’s going to see us, it’s going to be in Holland.

The first week in Holland goes by quick for us, despite the fact that it’s marred by crappy rainy and cold weather in late May. Aretha doesn’t seem to care about the weather at all and spends most of the time either on the roof of the ex-in-laws’ house, or on their patio. Endless family discussions, debates, squabbling, the usual rivalry banter between my ex-sister-in-law and me ensue during the week. Before we know it, it’s time to go get Pop at Schiphol airport.

The flight’s on time, and we find Pop at the international arrivals area with his bags. The first thing I notice is his arm is in a sling. Turns out he strained a shoulder muscle a couple of days before while loading some overweight luggage into his taxi van, and he’s been in pain ever since. Not a good way to start a vacation, I say to myself…

We get him back to the in-laws’ house, where he’s greeted by everyone. The plan is to stay there that night, then head off for the road trip. He would do his time in Holland when we got back. The road trip adventure would start the next morning.

We set off early in the morning in our rented Peugeot to avoid any rush hour traffic while making our way to Belgium. The first stop would be Antwerp, where we would spend a night. Having our sense of scale rather distorted by the distance between cities in the US, we realize that the drive to Antwerp really doesn’t take that long from the in-laws’ place in Zeeland. We’re there in probably less than two hours, and that’s with traffic. From there, we make our way down to Brussels, where we would spend another day or so. We liked Brussels better than Antwerp. Pop finds he especially likes the beer, and the chocolate. Things are looking up.

The city was alive and the weather was good. We found ourselves watching some fun festival activity that included a local beer company using the famed “Mannekin Pis” statue as a way to give out free beer to the thirsty festival-goers. Good timing on our part, great weather, and free Belgian beer. How can you go wrong? After a fun time of sightseeing, dining, and drinking a lot of beer, it was time to move. We continue on to France. We spend the first day driving through the countryside, and staying at a nice, clean and cheap roadside lodge. On our second night in France, we make it to Paris.

Our initial hotel arrangements fell through for some reason. We think it was because we were quoted the wrong rate when reserving over the internet (booking travel by internet was in its infancy back then) and the hotel didn’t want to honor it. But it didn’t matter. We weren’t going to get the rooms we wanted for the rate we wanted. Alternate plans would need to be made, and fast.

The problem was that Paris’ peak tourist season was almost in full swing. Most hotels were filled up or getting there, making the rates rather lofty. We managed to find a decent room close by the center, but it was a bit over our budget. Worse, we can only get one room, so we had to share a room with Pop. This quirk caused quite a trial for obvious reasons. But the real reason would be due to Pop’s incessantly loud snoring. Having shared rooms with him many times in the past, I had forgotten how atrocious his snoring was, until then, that is. It was clear that this situation wasn’t going to work. At least not for long.

We opted to move to a hotel a little more outside of the center so we can have separate rooms. We ended up near St. Denis, which was accessible enough to the City Center via Paris’ metro and trams, but far enough where room rates were fairly affordable. Plus the hotel had free parking for the rental car so we wouldn’t get killed when parking the car around the city. Making the change was our trip’s salvation.

The next few days involved just taking in all of the typical sights of Paris. We went to the Eiffel Tower, Champs d’Elysee, Rue d’ Rivoli among other places. We bought tickets for the convenient ParisBus so it would be easy for us to get around town. We walked along the River Seine, drank lots of wine, ate lots of great cheese, and tried to make the best of Paris on our limited budget. While dinners were farely pricey, we managed to eek out some great French Cuisine at prices we could live with.

We spared no expense, time, money, or otherwise, however, at the Louvre. While most people wanted to just swing by the main attractions like the Mona Lisa and Michaelangelo’s David and get out, we wanted to see the whole museum. It would take us two FULL days. I was actually surprised to see that even during the latter part of the second day that Pop didn’t get “museum’ed out” like even I was starting to. It was refreshingly fun to watch Mahi and him discuss different types of art, and the surrounding history, and other related subjects. We were both actually impressed at how much Pop knew about the subjects and topics. We had many great discussions, and lots of laughs, during those two days at the Louvre.

Yet, there were times when Pop would get a little impatient or grumble about how much money he was spending. A few times, it got downright annoying, and it would turn into an argument over something stupid. Things ended up not always being hunky-dory during the time in Paris. There were quite a few rough spots, oddly enough.

Watching Pop in Paris was a fascinating if not always a pleasant thing to do. At times we can see how happy he was to be walking the streets he had always dreamed about walking on. He would have moments of complete awe at the scenery and the architecture that is unique only to Paris. I remember him almost coming to tears standing outside Notre Dame, though he did his best to try to hide it behind his glasses.

Other times, he would get rather brooding and impatient, and very negative. I tried to figure out why, and it would just somehow make matters worse when I asked why he was being like that.

One particular afternoon, Pop decided on what we considered the rather repulsive idea of having lunch at McDonald’s. In Paris. Our looks back at him more than reflected our utter disdain for his idea. He bitched that he wanted to go to McDonald’s until we finally agreed to go. For awhile there, it felt like Pop reverted to age five to get what he wanted. Our eyes rolled and we cringed at the concept of setting foot in one on such hallowed gastronomic grounds.

When we got there, Pop was thrilled beyond words that he can order a beer or wine with his LeBig Mac Combo meal. For the first five minutes of his lunch, all he could do was marvel at the fact that he was having a cold Kronenbourg in a Mickey D’s with his well-warmed burger. It was almost a religious experience. Mahi and I looked at each other and decided that maybe coming to McD’s in Paris may not have been a bad thing after all. To see it make him this happy was probably worth the horrific dining faux pas we were committing.

Unfortunately, the joy was short-lived. Some unknown random thing was said, triggered an emotional response, and Pop reverted back to his cranky, brooding self. I found myself losing patience.

“What is your problem? A minute ago you were happy, you were enjoying yourself! What now?”

“Tony, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Understand what?” It sounded like he wanted me to probe a little bit. “Explain it to me!” I was almost yelling now.

“My life! If you had asked me 30 years ago if I was going to be driving a taxi to make ends meet, I would have called you crazy. There were so many things I wanted to do, especially for you kids, that I couldn’t do, and now it’s too late.”

Ok, so I didn’t expect his answer to be quite so existential.

“I have been struggling my whole life, broke my back, made so many stupid mistakes, and for what? So I can be stressed, tired and broke at the end of my life? Driving a cab twelve hours a day, six-seven days a week? So I can be distanced from my own children (he had been going through a recent rough spot with my brother at the time)? What was it all for?” He bowed his head down in dramatic self-sorrow.

I found it odd that he was telling us all this with a Big Mac in one hand, and a large cup of sweating beer in the other, in a McDonald’s by the Centre Pompidou. But that’s how it all unfolded.

Though I was a bit annoyed at his self-flagellating, I tried to take the rough edges off.

“Pop, so things didn’t turn out the way you wanted them to. That’s life. It’s still not too late. You still have lots of life to live, and time to do the things you want to do.”

“Nahhh… it’s too late for me. I’m out of time…”, I of course asked him if he found out he was dying or something.

“No, nothing like that… ”

“Then what?”

“I just feel like I wasted all my chances, and that I’m out of time.”

During the tirade, I think I figured him out. His being in Paris was a bit of a reminder of dreams past that never came to be. Somehow, his being there now, spurred some feelings and aspirations he had long associated with Paris. Being here forced him to come to terms with all the failures, real or imagined, that he had incurred through his life. I wasn’t sure why that was, only he can answer that to himself.

Let me repeat that this was all happening in a McDonalds’ over by Centre Pompidou.

“Ok listen, you’re not dying, we’re glad to hear that. You’re still here, and you still have plenty of time to at least do things that you want to do.” I tried to be pragmatic, “And besides, you’ve also been pretty lucky in your life too, you know. Lots of GOOD things have happened to you, maybe you should focus on that a little more?”

Pop just kept shaking his head, dismissing what I was saying, and it was making me a bit angry.

“Your life is not over yet. Look at yourself! You’re in fucking Paris eating a fucking Big Mac and having a fucking BEER!” I might have gotten a little loud during that last part, because the rest of the dining room got a bit quiet.

Pop looked at me a bit surprised, kept his brooding face a little longer, for maybe a minute, but didn’t say anything else. Then, in his classic style, changed the subject. He turned to Mahi and asked her where that particular church she wanted to see next was in relation to where we were. The conversation went that direction, and even though I was still a bit irritated, I let it go.

The rest of the time, Pop seemed to be in somewhat better spirits. His cranky episodes didn’t get quite as bad as they had before the McDonald’s episode. He seemed to be a bit more at ease, and even bitched less about his shoulder pain. A couple of nights later, we were headed back to Holland to spend the remainder of the week there.

That week blasted by with trips to Amsterdam with the whole family, checking out the Delta Project, and seeing lots of sights and people. It was a nice week, particularly since the weather had gotten better since we hit the road. We had fun watching Pop and my ex-father-in-law misunderstand each other completely due to language barriers, only to have the misconstrued discussions end with lit cigars, laughing and more whiskey. Mahi got to have her solo time with her mom, and I even got a day of peace to go to Amsterdam and visit some old friends there. Before long, it was time to get back on the plane, get Aretha back in her pet taxi and checked in, and fly home.

Once we got back to Gainesville, it was soon time for us to figure out how we were going to pay our now staggering credit card bill. I had started my internet consulting business a few months before the vacation, and it had been slow going. I was going to have to work even harder to stay above water. Mahi managed to score a part-time job at the university which took some of the short-term pressure off. And Pop went back to grumbling about how bad business still was, and how it wasn’t going to change anytime soon. Oddly, we didn’t even talk our usual 2-3 times a week for a solid couple of weeks due to real life setting back in. I didn’t think much of it, because I was pretty busy.

One afternoon though, the phone rang. It was Pop, he was more or less back to his ol’ joking self.

“Hey, it’s Pop! What’s the matter, your phone broken? You can’t call? You forget my phone number? You should put me on speed dial by now. Obviously your phone didn’t get disconnected yet… hehehehe… ”

We joked a little, talked about mundane crap for about ten minutes, with me mostly telling him how I was trying to kick-start business, make some sales calls, get some flyers out, stuff like that. He bitched about business still sucking, but oddly didn’t seem to be all that down about it. Abruptly, my business line lights up, another call I had to take. It was hopefully a good sales callback, I had to jump off…

“Son, before you go, I wanted to… ”

“What Pop? I really gotta take this other call…”

“I just wanted to thank you. I wanted to thank you, for giving me Paris.”

Trying to save the stuff from the roof of the sinking SUV. Leave no clean laundry or comrade's baggage behind! - Thanks Alison for the photo!

Just when I find myself cursing that I haven’t had new blog fodder lately due to life being thrust into a relatively comfy zone of tranquilo-ness, I get thrown a nice little zinger to break the quiet streak, and not a moment too soon.

Last week, I had a nice little convergence of diverse friends in Panama. My Guatemalan friend Mitzy (better known as GCMitzy, a fixture on the Andiamo blog over the years), was in town for a business exploration trip, some research work, and of course to kick ass in some local poker tournaments. Greg, an old friend from Florida, was back in town for his second visit to Andiamo in about six months. This time, he had his girlfriend Lori and Alan, a work colleague, come along for the jaunt.

I had a trip scheduled during the time they were visiting, so it worked out nicely. It was to be a nice trip with some good friends and familiar faces. Oddly enough, also booked on the trip were Frans and Kathy, a Canadian expat couple who live in Chitre. They were coming aboard for their second stint on Andiamo, along with Kathy’s sister and her husband.

It was sure to be a fun if not too-short 3-day trip. But first, we had to all get from Panama City over to San Blas to start the hi-jinks. This involved getting picked up by 4×4′s and driven out to the coast. Thanks to the fact that the road is now at the near-end of a re-construction project, traveling this route is MUCH easier. This versus its previous state as little more than a mud trail. There’s also a brand-spanking new bridge nearly completed that will make crossing the Rio Carti a piece of cake forevermore. It’s so close to completion, you can almost hear the onslaught of tour minibuses and shuttles screaming down the road to use it.

I planned for Greg’s and Frans’ groups to get picked up later than me in the city. I needed to head out there earlier to pick up groceries and help Dino get the boat ready before their arrival. Mitzy would come with me, and the rest would get picked up a couple hours later.

It was a sound plan, typical of what I do when I’m in the city until the morning of any trip. That is, until Mitzy and I didn’t get picked up at the prescribed time of 5 AM. The driver who was organizing pickups failed to look at my entire text message listing the passengers and their pickup points where I mentioned myself needing to be picked up. Due to this “oversight”, we ended up not getting picked up until almost 6:30.

Thanks to my usual luck of the draw, we got picked up by the driver that I most consider to be the “loose cannon” of the squadron of 4×4 drivers I typically use for transport to and from San Blas. For the purpose of this story, he shall be named “Pepo”. Now as I said, Pepo tended to be a bit less of an astute driver than some of the others. He was relatively new to the crew, so I figured I’d give him a chance to get his bearings and get comfortable with the road and develop his driving skills. That said, I find that more than a few times I have had to tell him to slow down a bit on the roadways, and the road-still-in-progress going to Carti.

He also tended to think he can, …ahem… “multi-task” while driving. On at least a couple occasions, he would try to send or read a text message, update his appointment book, call a number on one cel phone while reading the number off another cel phone, stuff like that, all while trying to navigate the winding, careening, hilly roads that comprise this rural part of Panama. While I’m sure there are a few drivers on the planet who are capable of doing all these things somewhat safely while driving, this was clearly not the case when it came to Pepo.

Anyway, Pepo was apparently already having a bad day when he picked us up. He had to come back to the city from a police checkpoint that halfway to San Blas due to the fact that his two dutch passengers, Juul and Madeleine, left their passports at their hostel. All tourists are required by law to have their passports on them at all times, so they were turned back by the police to get them.

Since we were essentially forgotten in the early morning to be picked up by the organizing driver, Pepo got us on his trip BACK to San Blas after retrieving the passports. We made a stop at the usual supermarket where all the drivers congregate in a makeshift office in the parking garage. There was Alison, a cool california transplant like me, waiting for a ride out. So now we were five. I had to get a bunch of groceries for the upcoming trip, So needless to say there would be lots of bags and supplies to load onto the SUV, along with the passengers.

Pepo started to make a fuss about the quantity of baggage and groceries. He didn’t know how he would get all the stuff and us into the car. Mitzy logically suggested that we put some of the bigger bags on the roof and put its roof rack to good use. Pepo dismissed the idea without giving a reason why. Both Mitzy and I pressed him to give a good reason why we couldn’t get a least a couple of the bigger baggage up on the roof. Surely he would have some bungee cords and a tarp in the car to secure them and keep them dry. After all he does this trip at least once a day, six days a week. So it’s only logical that he would be properly equipped.

Apparently, at least as far as Pepo was concerned, we were being unreasonable with this common sense expectation. It turned out that he had neither on hand. At which point we politely reminded them that we were in the parking garage of a major supermarket that surely carried bungee cords or some other type of useful tie apparatus for sale in their hardware department. Pepo did not seem to be interested in making the necessary investment for such equipment that even to the rank amateur would appear integral to his work.

I eventually offered to go down and buy the bungee cords so we can load the roof. About this time, Pepo had grown very impatient with Mitzy and things were getting tense between them. Mitzy never raised her voice to him, but clearly there was displeasure in the air due to his inability to act logically or with any courtesy. In the end, he and another driver found a web strap in his car that would do the trick. So Alison’s backpack, and my bag of fresh laundry would go on the roof. I brought up the question of the possible existence of a tarp to cover it all up in the event of rain, which is usually inevitable in the drive across the mountaintops. But that just seemed to be conveniently ignored. If there were rain coming, I’d have to bring it up again.

So after some ice-breaking Griswold and “I don’t want to go to Walley World anymore!” jokes among the five of us, we were finally Carti-bound. Pepo had his foot on the gas in a way I haven’t seen before. You’d think he was late for a highly sought-after tee time or the hottest date of his life. I mentioned to him a couple of times that he was going a little fast, to which he’d respond with “si, si…” but not slow down in any real way. The Griswold jokes start up again to diffuse the stress brought on Pepo’s crazed driving antics.

When we get off the Interamericana on to the road to Carti, Pepo apparently didn’t think he needed to drive any differently than he had been on the flat paved highway that the Interamericana is mostly comprised of. While the Carti road has been VASTLY improved over the past several months, it is still a work in progress. There are still lots of spots that require extreme care and caution. Pepo seemed to think he had it all under control. However, after a couple more nudges from me that he had to slow down, he finally started to get the hint, though hardly.

After paying our road taxes to the Kuna about two thirds of the way in, Pepo decides it was time to make up for lost time. After some manic driving I can only kindly call “creative”, we get to the banks of the Rio Carti. It takes probably half the time it usually takes. The bridge spanning the Carti River getting built just to the south of us looks encouragingly close to completion. From the looks of it, only a few more girders need to be riveted on, pour the concrete, and it’s essentially a wrap. But today, we would need to cross the river just like every time before. Over the water, across a patch of the river’s shallow gravel bed.

Pepo didn’t even brake or slow down when he proceeded across the river. Less than one third of the way across, I noticed he was a little farther to the right than we usually were when crossing. Just as I started to say to him that he was a little too far to the right of the shallow patch, I felt my side of the front of the car come off the shallow ledge of the riverbed and dive into the water. The passenger fender well was now completely underwater, and I can feel the car sliding down into the deeper water.

Pepo tried to act like he was in control, and that he’d be able to drive out back into the shallow water. After a futile attempt, he tried again, only to feel the whole car tip over even more. By this time, water was coming into the vehicle pretty fast and furious. Juul and Madeleine decided that they wanted out of the car. Now. Pepo tried again to act like he was in control, as if he had undergone some kind of crisis training for this very scenario. The girls didn’t buy it, along with Mitzy, who was all the way in the backseat. They got out via the rear driver side door, taking whatever they can with them. I was now almost waist high in water in my seat, desperately trying to keep my daypack dry. I tried to slide out of the car via the driver’s side. But of course Pepo decided he wanted to stand in the door jamb, still trying to maintain some kind of semblance of control of the situation. After repeating three times in spanish that I was trying to get out, I finally had to yell sternly, “Pepo! Vete! Ya tengo que salir!” He finally got the hint and moved out of my way.

I passed my bag over to one of the girls and asked them to get it over on land. Then I proceeded to try to get the bags off the roof before they got wet. I stood up on top of the driver side rear tire, and proceeded to try to untie the web strap holding the bags onto the rack. As my luck would have it, the knot was on the OTHER side of the rack, out of my reach. I got a bit frustrated, especially since I can feel the car tipping more and more into the deep water. The tire I was standing on, would float up off the riverbed, held in suspension, then gently come back down. The car was now full of water and teetering dangerously into the deeper water. It was about then that I realized that all the groceries were in the back hatch area, and were now mostly under water.

Just in time, another 4×4 was coming from the other way and stopped to help. One of them had a good towing strap. Pepo secured it on the bumper and then to the hitch of the other car. He got in, and started the engine (I was extremely surprised that it started up, considering that the engine was now almost completely underwater). The assisting vehicle drove hard into the shallow area, while Pepo hit the gas on his car, turning the wheels hard left onto the incline to shallow water. I stood on the foot rail of the driver’s side to give some weight ballast to the car as they tried to pull it up. The car tried to find traction in the silty gravel bed. After about 30 seconds, the assisting car made some headway and the front of Pepo’s car popped out of the murky depths. Seconds later, it was back in the shallow area, with water draining out of it in all directions.

We mildly celebrated, as the car drained out, Pepo still tried to act all in control, not realizing just how lucky he was that his car was even able to start in its submerged state. He then went on to tell me how the problem was that the river had “changed” over the past few days because of the bridge construction. I rolled my eyes while he said this, saying with probably too much cynicism for him to grasp, something like… “yes, it was the river’s fault. Damn river… “.

He went on to reaffirm his non-culpability at least three more times the rest of the trip. We were all back in the car, mostly soggy, just glad that the trip was almost over.

We finally arrived to the boat dock where we catch the lanchas out to where Andiamo is anchored. We couldn’t get out of that soggy SUV fast enough. The groceries ended up being drenched for the most part, and some of it ended up getting destroyed, but it could have been worse I suppose. We all found it a bit funny and strange that at no time did Pepo ever apologize for the poor driving, or anything for that matter.

After goodbyes, email exchanges, and promises to share photos, Alison, Juul and Madeleine went on to the island lodge that they would be staying at. Mitzy and I started loading up the lancha with the bags, supplies, and the soggy groceries. About the same time, Greg’s and Frans’ vehicles arrived. So much for us getting there early.

Needless to say, Pepo has been unceremoniously blacklisted from Andiamo’s squadron of drivers. And while I’m sincerely bittersweet about all the new traffic and development that the new road and soon-to-be-completed bridge will bring to these parts, the way I feel right now, it can’t get done soon enough. :/

She based herself in Cartagena while conducting her search. She’s kept a captivating blog about not only her search, but also about her experiences of living in Colombia. I’ve been enthralled by her story since the first time I checked out her blog, and love the way she writes about her experiences (it takes a LOT for me to get hooked on a blog!).

As I wrote back in my post last December about my time in Cartagena, I had the pleasure of meeting Alicia there at a hip little sushi joint while she was out with some friends. It was a great time getting to know her a little and talking to her about her search and just general life in Colombia.

To cut to the chase, her search is over. And wow, WHAT a story! Check out the blog, and all I can say is, there BETTER be a book!

Well done, Alicia!

I thought that now would be a good time as ever to pull this piece I posted 2 years ago today out of archives. Fits the moment better than anythiing I can write from scratch at this particular time.

Xmas eve dinner on the Andiamo...

That’s right, I’ve now spent five, count ‘em FIVE xmas’es aboard Andiamo. On some levels, I find that number staggering. But then again, every holiday aboard has been wholly unique and special in its own way.

This year, the holidays were spent with the Bargons aboard. They were a lively bunch from the Northeast US that blocked Andiamo for a private sail the whole last week of December. We got super lucky with the weather, and dare I say, with the lobster, as can be seen above.

So needless to say, it was a great holiday week. There was great weather, good company, great food and festivities. But yet, I find something to gripe about. I guess I wouldn’t be me if that weren’t the case.

One thing I noticed this time around me in the “real world” as well as my “virtual world” via Facebook, Twitter, and whatnot, is the amount of pressure people put themselves under during the holidays. Why do they do that? Some friends and/or acquaintances of mine actually bitched about the holidays because they couldn’t “afford” them this time around. Or because they were not with someone they wanted to be with or were alone, etc.

But what really sticks in my craw is when I consider the enormous amount of money that gets wasted over these holidays, no doubt. This is in my opinion generally true in most parts of the first world. Maybe the US tempered their holiday binging a bit due to the crappy economy. Here in Panama, as in most of Latin America, it’s FAR more egregious than what I’ve seen in the states.

Why? Because here in Panama, for example, people shop til they drop even though they can’t afford to. Yes, that’s what people back in the states and pretty much anywhere else in the first world do. But here, it’s far more intense simply because people don’t have anywhere near the money or income to finance a worthy holiday celebration in the first place.

Consider that in Panama the average take-home pay is about $350 to $400 per month. Yet, despite these meager average wages, your average Panamanian spends rabid amounts of money on their holiday celebrations. Furthermore, the catholic church, who has long had a stronghold on Latin America, virtually demands their parishioners give even MORE this time of year than usual.

Most poor Latinos have a lot of trouble saving any money. It doesn’t help that they are exploited to the teeth by the exploitative consumerism that surrounds them at every turn. Few of them are willing or able to snap out of the ether effect that is brought on by the holidays. So they simply spend money that they really shouldn’t (or don’t have) so they can “keep up with the Jones’es”. The result, at least in Panama, according to a news report last year, is sobering. The number of disconnections of utilities such as electricity and water, TRIPLED last January over their monthly average after the holidays. Evictions due to non-payment of rent more than DOUBLED last February. All telltale signs that some people have no idea when to call it a day when it comes to holiday spending. For some (mostly the people and companies who profit from this madness), think it’s considered economically healthy for people to squander their hard-earned cash to keep all this insanity alive and going. For me, it’s just stupid and in some cases, just downright tasteless.

But I digress, so to return to the original point of all this. As I said before, some people I talked to whine and moan about how their lives are so lonely or not how they want it. Some will go as far as questioning their self-worth or cry about being alone during the holidays.

Quite frankly, it’s got to stop. People who otherwise go through the rest of the year ok being alone should be able to endure the holidays alone too. All the hype about holidays is really just that. Hype. These past five years, I’ve had both kinds of “holidays”, spent with significant others and/or friends and some spent alone with just me on the boat. And I’ve come to appreciate both. Maybe it’s because I long ago let go of the “pressure” associated with the holidays. Seems to me that some other people I know can benefit from letting go too. Just how I see it.

So on to the list! As always, in no particular order…

Karen Dominguez – Despite having been off Andiamo for the past few months, her mark continues to be indelibly left aboard. Her help in the previous year and a half has been invaluable, and I find myself thanking my lucky stars for having had spent even the relatively short time with such an amazing, smart, hysterically funny, beautiful, and big-hearted girl. Thank you Karen, for everything you’ve done for me, Lucy and Andiamo, may our paths cross again someday, you are sorely missed.

Sonnie Rosenval of “Anomaly” – Sonnie is this strange, offbeat boat guy I’ve known for years, since our Rio Dulce days. He’s always been quick to offer a helping hand, and particularly was of a big help during some crazy engine downtime Andiamo experienced last spring. He literally dropped everything back in Bocas to hop a plane to Panama City to help me make sense of my engine problems. His help helped Andiamo get back on track in record time. He also was a big help while we were weatherbound in Bocas del Toro earlier this year. So thanks Sonnie, you’re a good man, and I don’t care what anybody else says about you.

Alicia Leoni – a good friend who lives in Miami, and has on multiple occasions been a big help in providing me and Karen with a crash pad while flying in or out. She’s got a big heart and is a true friend. Thanks for everything Ali!

Greg McMullin – a longtime friend back in Florida, who, like Chris has gone above and beyond in helping me out with logistical stuff stateside at the drop of a hat. He recently visited Andiamo after an absence of almost five years, and it was good to have him back. Thanks Greg!

The Cast and Crew of “Julian and Camilla’s World Odyssey” – it was great having them aboard for the shooting of their San Blas segment of their Panama episode. Thanks for the good times, and for giving Andiamo a little dose of immortality . Hope we meet again!

Dino Perez – My crewman, right hand man and loyal, trusted friend. Dino has become an incredibly integral part of Andiamo’s (and Lucy’s) well-being. His contribution to keeping Andiamo going is absolutely immeasurable, and I really have no idea what I’d do without him. He was definitely the right person to come along at the right time. Thank you for everything Dino!

Badly translated in Spanish/traducido en espanol: Dino Perez – Mi tripulante, hombre derecho y amigo leal, confiado en. Dino ha hecho una parte increíblemente integrante de Andiamo (y Lucy tambien). Su contribución a guardar ir de Andiamo es absolutamente inmensurable, y no tengo realmente ninguna idea qué haria sin él. Él era definitivamente la persona adecuada a venir adelante en el momento adecuado. ¡Gracias por todo Dino!

The People of Carti’ Yantupu – It’s pretty amazing to see how at ease and at home I feel with the Kuna people of Dino’s village. Everyone, including the village chief, knows me by first name and treats me like family. Despite some crazy times and experiences we’ve shared, I find myself very much accepted and liked by these warm and caring people. I can’t say how much of an interesting and incredible experience it has been getting to really know them. So thank you!

Translated in Spanish/traducido en espanol: La gente de Carti’ Yantupu – Es bastante asombroso ver cómo en la facilidad y en el país siento con la gente de Kuna de Dino’ aldea de s. Cada uno, incluyendo el jefe de la aldea, me conoce por el nombre y me trata como la familia. A pesar de algunas veces y experiencias locas que nos compartimos, me encuentro mucho aceptado y tenido gusto por esta gente amistosa y que cuida. No puedo expresar cuánto de una experiencia interesante e increíble se ha estado familiarizando con realmente lo. ¡Muchisma Gracias!

And finally….

The Wonderful Andiamo Guests!!!

What can I possibly say about this? When I started doing these trips, no way in the world could I have ever predicted that such great times and great encounters would have come from people who for the most part were mere strangers before ever setting foot aboard. With VERY few exceptions, our onboard guests have been nothing short of phenomenal, fun, caring and adventurous people. I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of new friends I have made, and the incredible connections with people that span the globe! I’ve considered myself lucky for the incredible friends I’ve made over the last five years, no doubt. But this past year, that luck has gone through the frickin roof!

So many thanks to my esteemed Andiamo guests and friends for the great times, the crazy times, the marriage proposals, the babyhead curses, the crazy storm times, brilliant conversations, the great experiences, the adventures, the phenomenal pictures and stories, the fond memories, and what else? May the good times keep coming! Thanks for keeping things beyond fun and interesting for me.

And that’s it for this year! If I missed anybody, I’ll be sure to add them in. Thanks for a great year, and here’s to a phenomenal 2010, Andiamo’s SIXTH YEAR!

And a late entry!

Arturo in Panama City – Arturo is a Colon-born and raised Panamanian who now lives and works in Panama City. Though his shop is in a non-descript garage, smack-dab in Panama City’s WORST neighborhood, he is by far the smartest and most resourceful mechanic/machinist/welder/general-fixit guy I have ever met PERIOD. I’ve thrown so many repair projects at him wondering if the next one would stump him or be over his head, nuh-uh. He has completed each and every project with no problem whatsoever. And always at an incredibly fair price. He is my SOLE go-to fix-it guy in Panama City, and I thank him for coming through for me each and every time. Muchas gracias, Arturo!

Arriving at the dock at Isla Mujeres... *gulp*

Over the past five years, I have had countless opportunities and invitations to head back up Mexico way. Most were for crewing on other boats for deliveries, or even lucrative charter offers. Others were to meet friends traveling there overland that invited me to meet up with them. Each and everytime, virtually automatically, my response was an immediate yet polite “no”. There was no reason or any real desire for me to ever go back to Mexico.

This time around, don’t ask me what happened. I’m still trying to figure it out myself. Early October had been incredibly slow for trips on Andiamo. It’s traditionally one of Panama’s slowest months tourism-wise. But this year’s was far slower than usual. In the meantime, a longtime friend invites me to join her in Mexico while she’s there on vacation the first two weeks of October.

Just like everytime before, my answer was the usual polite and fast “no”. But this time, I was strangely connived into going along with the idea. I found myself reluctantly agreeing to join up with her for 10 days. Moving on to the planning stages, I ask her where in Mexico she plans to visit. That’s when she springs the spine-chilling name of that one dreaded island, Isla… Mujeres.

Of all the places she could have gone in Mexico, she picked the absolute LAST place I could see myself going to. After coming to the grim conclusion that she was just plain evil and sadistic, I found myself trudging onward with my travel plans. Again, not really knowing what was happening.

Me hanging at Picus' my fave ceviche spot on Isla...

Ok, what’s all this about Isla Mujeres? For those of you who don’t know, here’s the short story:

When I bought Andiamo in 2004, I was married. My then-wife and I had been together for over 13 years by that time. We sold our house in LA, business, and everything we owned basically to move aboard her in Miami. The plan was to start outfitting her for what was to be a minimum two-year Caribbean cruise. It was to be the start of a whole new chapter of our lives. A welcome chapter, considering we had been spending most of the last 10 or so years working hard, really hard, to get to the point where we can have some freedom.

After five or so months of hard work, sea trials, and as-you-go repairs, we had made it to Isla Mujeres, Mexico. We were to spend a couple of months there, and then go on to bigger and better things on a Caribbean Adventure. At least that was the plan.

But things didn’t go as planned, unfortunately. A couple of months after getting to Isla Mujeres, things came apart in the worst possible way between us. She left the boat in shambles in Isla Mujeres, while I was away in LA to put my other boat up for sale. and I was left to come back alone to pick up the pieces. The level of pain and despair that I felt during that time was unimaginable. I had gone from the happiest I’d ever been to the saddest I’d ever been up to that time in seconds flat. I was left alone, with the pain of having to deal with the boat, three cats (that ironically, I didn’t even want to take along), and all the emotional devastation that came along with it. It was NOT a good time.

There were other painful aspects to all this that just added insult to injury. Stuff that no decent person should have to go through. It was bad enough that my marriage had imploded, I didn’t need it to be rubbed in my face on an almost daily basis. I could not leave fast enough. Thanks to the kind help of a lot of people I made it out. With the help of my crewmember Raf, a Belgian backpacker who happened to be at the right place at the right time, and another crewmember, I finally sailed out of Isla Mujeres in November 2004, vowing never to return.

Jump back to the present, five years later, almost to the day. I’m landing at Cancun airport. My friend, who had arrived the previous day, is awaiting my arrival to bring me to the hotel. I was on Mexican ground, and felt pretty numb about it. The next morning, after breakfast, we make our way to the ferry port. This is where we would catch the fast ferry to Isla Mujeres. I oddly remembered being in and out of that ferry dock so many times all those years ago. I cringed a little. It helped that they had built a large parking garage in front of the dock. It didn’t look the same.

Ah... cold Sol's on the beach

The weather was beautiful and sunny. There is a nice breeze blowing from the northeast. The waters clear and blue, although a bit less than I had become accustomed to sailing in San Blas. Less than 30 minutes after leaving Cancun’s Puerto Juarez, we’re tied up and docked at Isla Mujeres. Coming into that bay and getting to the dock, I felt a strange, chilly sensation come over me. It was surreal, I didn’t know what to expect next. Though I was fairly ok, I admit that I was a bit uneasy.

After getting a hotel room lined up, we set off to check out the island. Tourism had been EXTREMELY slow in Mexico as well. The shitty economy and the swine flu hysteria had taken its toll. People dependent on tourism were hurting badly. Prices were so low I couldn’t believe it. The island, however, was rather quite nice, and there have been lots of improvements since I was last there. After having two major hurricanes pound the island in 2005, the island had been rebuilt and improved. Streets were nice and cobblestoned with storm drainage put in. Flooding used to be a big problem during heavy rains. Homes and buildings were rebuilt, rehabbed, painted pastel colors and brought back from the dead after the devastation. Despite the repairs and improvements, you can still see lingering signs of the hurricanes’ wrath everywhere. Gutted buildings, roofless houses, and other remnants were still easy to spot.

Despite the rough times, the people were still friendly and outgoing. I had forgotten that most Mexicans are genuinely pleasant, helpful, and happy people. It was a welcoming contrast to what I’d seen in many places in Central America over the last few years. The next three days were all about swimming, lounging, having great food, more lounging, having beers on the beach, relaxing, more great food, and exploring the island. I got to revisit all my old haunts where the food was especially good and cheap. One in particular, Picus, a waterfront cocteleria, looked almost exactly the way it did back when I was eating ceviches there on an almost daily basis. In some cases, I was glad to see some things stayed the same.

We rented a golfcart one day and drove everywhere with it. We got to see some of the nicer parts of the island. Even some that I didn’t get to see the last time I was there. The beaches were clean, and the water was cool and inviting. Only problem was that the whole beach was mobbed by vendors who were trying to get you to stay on their part of the beach, rent beach chairs, and use their showers, all for one “low price”. That got old fast. Beer prices on the beach were staggeringly expensive just like I remembered, but still cheap in town.

There was a lot of my talking about old memories, and even some funny ones that somehow managed to seep through despite all the other crap. I was able to recount the many crazy nights at the Poc-Na Hostel and its beach bar, with Steffen, Freddy (two fellow sailors I met while there, German and Dutch, respectively), Raf, my Belgian crewguy, and some other people who ended up becoming great friends like Steffenie, a South African backpacker, and Jodi, a regular Isla visitor from Minnesota. All of whom are still my friends to this day. I remembered how I was able to get through that really dark time on the island because of the great people who were around me. They kept me fed, moving, and entertained. I didn’t forget how lucky I was to have that. I don’t even want to imagine what things would have been like had I been going it alone during those darkest of days.

After four rather pleasant days and nights, we were headed back to Cancun to catch a bus to Valladolid. The worst was over as far as I was concerned. I had dealt with my Isla Mujeres demons, and was now ready to re-discover some other places in Mexico. Once we got to Valladolid, I found myself barely remembering any of it. I must have been a real zombie when I was out here before. Valladolid was a charming colonial town with wide streets, beautiful old architecture, and had a nice buzz to it. We checked into a nice older hotel right by the central plaza, across the street from the town’s cathedral. The hotel was a nice deal too, and the rooms were ok. Only problem was, everything was so damn itchy. We decided that it wasn’t bedbugs, but rather some harsh detergent that the hotel uses to wash the sheets. That was annoying.

Valladolid and its clear streets and pastel buildings

feeding myself to the feathered snake... Chichen Itza

Our bikes on the desolate beach... Tulum

The next day, we moved to a hotel in town that was a MUCH better deal, had great rooms and a great restaurant. The owner was Italian, and it showed in the food. Very, very nice. My travel mate could not stop going on about how much she loved her pasta dish. I found Tulum’s town to be much more pleasant than it was last time I was there, and the people just as friendly. We rented bikes and biked over to a beach after visiting the ruins, and then found a nice quiet beach to hang out at for the rest of the day. I had forgotten how “tranquilo” Tulum was. We would spend three days there. It would be easy to spend three more weeks.

One of Tulum's oceanfront ruins...

The trip was almost over for me. We had to head back to Cancun. I was going to catch my flight the next day. My travel-mate on the other hand, was going to stay another two days before heading off. We got lucky and found a really nice Eco-hotel in downtown Cancun right by the bus terminal. My last day was spent hanging out by a pool nestled by trees, with new-agey music playing. That night, we went down to the main drag of downtown Cancun to get some good seafood, tacos, and a few beers.

While we were there, I remembered walking around these streets many nights back then. I was spending a lot of time in downtown Cancun (well away from the cheesy tourist traps in the Hotel Zone) while I had the boat docked in a marina there (to get away from what was happening in Isla Mujeres). I spent a lot of nights just wandering those streets, almost aimlessly. I’d find myself picking out a bar somewhere along the strip where I can get a few beers, eat a few tacos ala pastor, and just try to forget things long enough to get back to the boat. I just wanted to get through one more day of whatever it was I was going through at the time.

That evening, my travel mate asked me if I was glad I came. Besides being glad to see her and spend some long-overdue quality time, the answer was clearly yes. I strangely needed to come back, though I suspect I had to wait this long to do so. Maybe that’s why it wasn’t such a fuss this time, and I was able to actually go through with it. Coming back gave me new memories, rekindled my old good feelings for the country, and even opening doors to some interesting new prospects for the future.

It was nice to have Mexico back in my “world” again. In color.

A favorite pic of Mom...

So today is Mom’s birthday, she would have been 82. I find it rather odd that I let myself schedule a sailing trip to start today of all days. Maybe I should have put today aside, but I didn’t. Maybe that’s part of the milestones becoming less off-putting than previous years. Or maybe there was another reason I don’t know about yet.

It’s not from forgetting her birthday or anything like that. I have been thinking about my mom quite a bit lately, and not just because it was getting close to her birthday. I found myself feeling guilty. Guilty because I had promised myself I’d write a piece about a strange or funny experience I shared with her on the anniversary of her death back in July. Much like what I did with Pop on his birthday. Though I had tons of material and memories to pick from, I found myself just not being inspired to write about any of them, as I was with Pop. Which I found both strange and frustrating.

What I did find myself doing, oddly, was replaying in my head a pivotal if not brief conversation that I had with her a long time ago. One that I now think had a strong hand in sending me in the rather unorthodox direction that I ended up going with life, for better or for worse.

I’ll set the stage:

About 20 years ago, I found myself at a crossroad. My life had not been going the way I would have liked it to the past couple years since I’d gotten out of the navy. Things hadn’t worked out the way I had hoped. My relationship with a very serious girlfriend had failed, my business had failed, and I found myself getting financially desperate and rather hopeless. Everything was bleak. No decent job prospects outside of bartending and waitering in Orlando. I was deep in debt, and had a house I could no longer afford to keep, and was teetering on the brink of foreclosure. Going back to college, which maybe I was ready to do at that time, seemed a pipe dream for me.

All I can see in my future was more struggling, mediocrity, and little hope for freedom or happiness. I needed to take drastic measures. I decided that I would put the house up for sale in order to beat foreclosure. Luckily, I found a buyer who was ready to do a quick closing. Despite the fact that I was deep in the hole with my mortgage, credit cards and badly thought out loans, I still managed to eek out a few thousand dollars profit after all was said and done.

Wow, a few grand and no obligations or commitments. A big change from my situation just a week before. When did this ever happen to me in the past? Never to be sure. I realized yet again that you could change the direction of your life with just one decision. Now, I stand with the power to change even more with the next few decisions I would make. Or, on the other hand, I would do nothing of the sort, play it safe or stupid, and things would stay the way they are. The money would get spent on pointless shit, put into a doomed business, or invested badly. Whatever the case, it would soon be gone with just a few decisions, and I’d be back at square one.

I considered my options, what should I do with this small cache of opportunity? I could go back to school, or invest it in a new business, do something to get back on my feet and prosperous again. I could and should do something logical with it. Yet, despite all the “logical” options that banged around my head, all I can really think of doing with it was none other than getting a plane ticket to somewhere new and exotic. Somewhere I can start anew, and even pursue my lifelong passions of traveling the world, and learning how to sail the seas. Things I have wanted most of my life.

I saw myself going to somewhere in the Caribbean, somewhere I can work and figure out how to get on boats. After some more pondering, the Virgin Islands were starting to make some sense to me.

After thinking long and hard about it, I decided that this was something I should pursue, and now was the time. There was also fear, anxiety, and pressure at play. On top of that, I felt like my window of opportunity to “escape” was closing on me fast. Clint, my roommate at the time the house was sold, and I had moved into a temporary apartment while looking for another place somewhere around Daytona, even possibly a house to buy and fix-up while we were living in it.

I knew that if I signed a lease, sales contract, or something like that, that I would be stuck. It would be that much harder for me to leave. Despite the fact that it would probably be unfair to my friend and roommate to bolt, I had to do it or at least attempt to do it now. Right now.

Not yet really knowing how to wrap my head around this whole concept, I consulted with my parents. I first talked to Pop. He was diplomatic and sympathetic to my talking to him about my dreams, probably for the first time ever. Despite the passion and desire he saw in me, he thought that I should at the very least use the money to get back into school somewhere in Florida. He’d always wanted me to get an MBA, and maybe this was how I can start back on that path. Besides, he had just moved back to Florida from Chicago so he can be near Nick and me. He didn’t push, but did basically tell me he thought I should stick around and keep trying to make something of myself, at whatever the cost.

A couple of days later, I called my mom, she was living in New Jersey at the time running her jewelry business. Things had been strained between us the past few months, but I still felt like I should call her about this particular matter. I told her about everything that was going on in my head. Particularly about how hard it was for me to come up with any kind of plan or scenario that would be right for me other than to just go to the Virgin Islands. She listened rather intently, which was pretty rare of her. She usually loved dominating our phone conversations with nonsense and even gossip about everybody. Usually people I didn’t give a rat’s ass about.

After I was done telling her my thoughts. She didn’t hesitate to respond. She said, “Tony, if you think you should go. You should go, just go. Vai!” I found myself a bit surprised at hearing her say this. I fully expected her to give me a speech about how I should be practical, get serious and focus on getting my life in gear and making money, and on and on ala Pop. That’s pretty much what she’d always said to me before in different ways and different conversations. This time, she just said I should go.

When I audibly sounded confused by what she said, even wondering if there was a catch, or a “but”, she took back control of the discussion. “Hey! Tony, what do you think I did? When I was about your age, I and Zia Maria both finished school to become teachers. As soon as I graduated, I just decided to leave Italy. I told everyone I was going to Brazil and teach there. Everybody thought I was crazy.” I was surprised by this, we’d never really talked about the circumstances regarding her shipping off to Brazil before.

“My mama cried for three days, Tony, begging me not to leave. My papa threatened to never talk to me again if I left. My brother and sisters made fun of me and thought I was crazy for wanting to go so far away at such a young age to a place with no family. My parents talked Zia Maria (her younger sister) into going with me so I wouldn’t be alone. They also told her to talk me into coming back while we were there. She went back in less than a year. But I didn’t. Something inside told me that I had to go. You should go too, maybe it’s your time, your destiny. You won’t know if you don’t go.”

This was quite an eye-opening revelation to me. It made things somehow make more sense. She helped make it look pretty clear that it was my time, time for me to go. Thanks to her giving me inspiration, and somehow making it “ok”, I bought that plane ticket to St. Thomas. Then I said goodbye to my family, pets, and friends. That one decision made all the difference, changed the course of everything and is probably why I’m doing what I’m doing today.

Sure, albeit a little later due to getting spontaneously married and having my plans derailed for more than a decade. . Luckily, I found my way back before it was too late.

So on this particular birthday, I just want to say how grateful I am to my mom. Who, despite everything that went wrong with her and between us over my life (and there was a lot, believe me), came through for me when I needed her to the most.

Next morning, my room phone rings, and it’s Pam. She says that it’s about 7, and they were going to come down in a few after getting ready. I groggily acknowledge and hang up. In my half-dazed sleepy stupor, I caught a glance at my cel phone laying close to my head on the bed. I notice that it says that it’s only TEN AFTER SIX!!! What the??? I call Pam back and curtly tell her that it’s only about six, we still have an hour! She shamelessly responds to that saying that they didn’t have a clock, and she just assumed it was close to seven! They had been using Bethany’s Itouch as the alarm clock and it was obviously no longer in her possession. I grunt and hang up, thinking that I have some snooze time.

Twenty minutes later, they’re at my door, dressed and ready to go. I’m standing at the door with my sleeping shorts and bedhead, wondering what the hell these guys are doing to me. What did I do to deserve this??? I need some more sleep! They say they’ll wait with me in the room, while I get ready. Great, now there’s NO snooze time.

I jump in the shower, now that my extra sleepy-time has been sadistically stolen from me. After I’m ready against my own freewill, I call over to the police station to have them pick us up like they said they would the night before. The officer who answers says that they’re not quite ready for us and that we should call them in two more hours. I tell them that’s no good because they have to be at the airport at noon, and two hours from now is 10 AM, which is just cutting it too close. We need to get the passport from them now, just like the lieutenant promised the night before. He puts me on hold, comes back on the line and tells me ok, call back in one hour.

I curse myself as I got off the cel phone. I KNEW I should have been more of a jerk about getting the passport back last night. Knowing what I know about how things work (or don’t work) in Latin America, I really was afraid that this was going to happen. I tell Pam that we’ll go get breakfast, get a cab and just go directly to the police station. That’s the only way I can see us getting the passport back, to be there demanding it.

After breakfast, we jump in a cab and head to Casco Viejo. We get to the tourist police station just a little before nine. The desk sergeant sees us coming to the door, and walks out to meet us. We tell him why we’re there, and we need the passport. Now. He shrugs and says that the passport isn’t there anymore, but they took it over to the courthouse office place where Pam and Bethany filed the original report. They’re the only ones who can release it.

I’m looking at the cop rather flabbergasted, reiterating to him that we were PROMISED by the lieutenant last night that we would have the passport back by 8AM, an HOUR AGO. I then asked him what was the status of the “investigation” and where was the suspect? He said that they released him the night before, and they didn’t think they were going to get anything else back. Now things were getting a little tense.

The cop tells us all we have to do is go to the other office, and they will have some paperwork ready for Pam and Bethany to sign, and they’ll get the passport back. He tells us that they don’t have the “authority” to just give the passport back, it has to be done through proper channels. I told him that I found it VERY difficult to believe that the lieutenant didn’t tell us anything about this process the night before. So we then ask if there’s a car that can take us there so we don’t have to do another taxi ride. He shakes his head, saying that there are no cars available, and we’ll have to taxi it out there. This just keeps getting better.

After we get the taxi, we head to the offices where Pam and Bethany filed the report. We noticed that there was a group of demonstrators huddled outside the main entrance. Apparently workers at the courthouse want higher pay, and they were organizing to get it. We sneak through the group of workers, who are now clapping and chanting “UNIDAD! UNIDAD!”. There was a tv crew there, and we saw the footage on TV later that morning at the next police station we went to (wait for it).

Once inside the building, I found a receptionist and told her the situation. We handed her the copy of the report, and told her we needed to get the recovered passport back asap. She went over to an office in the back, and comes out a few minutes later to tell us that the passport is not in their office. Rather, it’s with the police who arrested the fat-oaf-extortionist guy and transferred him to the police station by Panama Viejo, where the crime allegedly occurred. It was not even 9:30 and I was already out of patience. I told her what the tourist police told us, and that we needed to get this passport back RIGHT NOW. She disappeared again, I think she was just trying to hide from us at that point.

Meanwhile, Pam recognized the lady who served as the translator while they wrote up the police report the day before. She asked her if she can help. She was on her way to an important meeting, but took a few minutes to find out what was going on. She found her supervisor, who supposedly knew the situation and told us we were in good hands with him. He told us that he had been told by the police that they had gotten the whole purse, and they were holding it where the suspect was being held. This was very confusing, because the cop at the tourist police told us exactly opposite. That they didn’t get anything else back, and that they released the guy! In short, we had to go there and he would arrange it. He lined up a car and driver, and off we went to the other police station, with him along to see how he can help.

Along the way, he told us that he had nothing but bad experiences with the tourist police. He said that they do absolutely nothing right, they’re poorly trained, and get paid less than regular police. It was odd, because it seemed like they were friendly enough, but I can see how they can be viewed as useless. Especially if they don’t even know if a suspect is in custody or not.

We arrive at the other police station in a part of Panama City called Parque LaFevre. We get there thinking that this whole thing will take a short time and we’ll be out of there. That’s what we were hoping at least. We get to the office where the translator supervisor leads us and tells us to have a seat. Pam immediately chimes in saying that they need to get to the airport by 12 if they are going to make their flight. I already told her that if her flight left at 3pm, she really doesn’t have to get there until 1-1:30 pm to check in. It’s a little later, but that’s not much consolation.

After an hour and a half of sitting in this waiting room, watching bad Mexican and Colombian soap operas, and news footage of the demonstration we just walked through an hour before, we go over and ask the translator guy what was up. Why is this taking so long??? He shrugs and says that they’re just waiting for the police to bring the stuff over from the tourist police office in Casco Viejo. HUH?? We were just there, and they told us that they didn’t have the passport anymore! They said it was transferred to the courthouse office, and then this guy said it was at the other police station we were at right now. This was beyond insane. Where is the passport? Does anybody really know? All we can do is wait, he said. He was definitely trying to help but just didn’t know what else to do.

Pam and Bethany are getting restless. She calls the airline to find out what the situation will be if they miss their flight. Maybe they can get on a later flight? The airline tells her that all the flights are booked until three days later. And, to add insult to injury, they would have to pay penalties of at least $300 per person. Pam is in tears, and saying that they just have to get on their flight at 3pm. Bethany’s a wreck at this point too, probably wondering why the hell she even came to Panama in the first place.

It’s now just before noon, and it’s just too close to the time they can safely check in, and nothing is happening. I decide it’s time to call the US Embassy. Luckily, I had a guest onboard not that long ago who works at the embassy, so I called for her. Monica, who works in the State Department, was very gracious and transferred me right through to the right office. After telling the embassy official about the situation, she said that under no circumstances were they supposed to hold the passport without notifying the embassy first. And even then, the embassy has the right to tell them to give the passport back. She said she’d get on the phone with the police right away and call me back.

In the meantime, I called the tourist police again, and told them that they really screwed up with this passport situation. They needed to fix this now. And we needed to know WHERE THE DAMN PASSPORT REALLY WAS! The officer said it was in an envelope sitting on his desk. I thought I was going to have a stroke right then and there. They still haven’t left to deliver it to us??? I told him in no uncertain terms and in the best spanish I can must that they need to get the passport back to us RIGHT FUCKING NOW. The officer answered back that they were taking care of it, and they would have it there right away. I didn’t sound too convinced, but I suspect that he officer at least knew that I was really pissed.

Two minutes after I hang up with the tourist police officer whose eardrum I just blew a hole in, my cel goes off. It’s the embassy official. She said that she was successful in finding out who had the passport and that they were expediting the passport in a squad car to the police station where we were at as we spoke. It was getting close to 1pm, so Pam and I made the plan that I would go get their bags at the hotel, and meet them back at the police station. They would wait there to receive the passport, sign whatever they need to sign in order to save time. I told Pam to call me every few minutes and keep me apprised of what is happening while I’m gone.

I run out to the street grab a cab, and I’m on my way to the hotel in Calidonia. The driver does good time and I’m there a hair before 1pm. I ask the driver if he can run me right back to the police station after I get the bags from the hotel, to which he says no. So I pay him, run out to the street and try to land another cab.

In Panama City, the cab drivers will only take you if you’re going somewhere THEY want to go. If they don’t feel like driving to a part of town that you want to go to, or have to deal with traffic, you’re screwed. I’ve never been anywhere else in the world where cab drivers pull this shit. But they ALL do it in Panama City.

After four or five tries to get someone to take me back to the police station, I decide that it’s better that I just go straight to the airport. I’m assuming Pam will call me and I’ll just tell her I’m on the way to the airport. The very next taxi I hail down is more than glad to take me to the airport, considering it’s a juicy fare. I tell him to wait, I run up and grab their bags out of the room. I’m off to Tocumen International. Airport, the time is now about 1:10pm.

On the way to the airport, I found myself cussing at my cel phone. Why isn’t Pam calling me?? Did they even get the passport yet?? I need to tell her I’m heading to the airport so if they did, they can just hightail it there. The minutes felt like HOURS during this time.

Finally, about 1:25, the cel rings, it’s Pam. I tell her I’m on the way to the airport with their bags, just to go straight there. And hurry up! She says they’re on their way. I get to the airport, run to the airline counter to tell the airline agent what is happening, and that two more passengers were on their way. It was now about 1:45, and he basically said if they got there any later than 2pm, he wouldn’t be able to do anything to get them on the flight.

Again, minutes seemed like hours. Where the hell were they?? I call the phone number from where Pam called me at the police station to find out what the hell was going on. She tells me that they had left about 15 minutes earlier and should be there shortly. Minutes were going by meanwhile.

Pam and Bethany come scrambling into the terminal with literally no time to spare. By my watch, it’s 1:58pm. They go to the counter to check in the bags and get their boarding passes. The agent I talked to basically does a “whew, just in time” gesture to me as they’re being checked in.

After they get their boarding passes, Pam starts running for the gates. I slow her down and remind her that they don’t need to hurry anymore. They’re on the flight. They made it. Despite this, Pam and Bethany start beelining to the security checkpoint, almost without saying goodbye. I remind them I can’t go through the checkpoint, so we say our goodbyes and I see them off. The whole thing was FINALLY over.

On the way to getting a cab back to town, I realized that I will have just spent over $30 on cabs getting Pam’s luggage to the airport. Not to mention all the other cab rides in town, while chasing this damn passport. Oooh, she owes me big.