The title really only makes sense if you sing it to Van Halen’s cover. Great song. But I think I like it because by birth, I am Panamanian. From Panama. Panama-ha. And while, yes, I was born in that country and was given the name “Gonzalez,” (the “Smith” of the little brown people who reside oh-so-South-of-the-Border) I am as American as they come. I immigrated to the States as a toddler. Despite my frequent travel abroad, my culture is American and my language is English. However, I do remain more than proficient in Pig Latin.
Last week I flew back to Panama with my family for a funeral. The trip was very stressful but at times inappropriately funny. Let me ‘splain…
It started on the flight to Panama. The flight attendant asked if there was a “Gonzalez” on board and half the plane raised their hands. It got me thinking, ‘Could we all fit in the back of a pick-up truck and if so, why did I leave my Sombrero at home?’ I think the funniest part about the plane ride was my people’s complete disregard for authority. As we were taxiing on the runway the members of the Gonzalez dynasty got up to move about the cabin. During the last ten seconds of the descent, as the plane was literally landing, someone grabbed his bags from the overhead bin and walked towards the exit. Hermano, Border Control only chases you on the way into the US. T.I.P. This is Panama. You’re all set. You can take your seat.
Stepping off the plane was an endless supply of candidates for TLC’s “What Not to Wear.” In Panama, mid-drifts are appropriate at any age. Grandmothers dress like hookers. The attendant at the rental car kiosk wore an evening gown. If you ever want to feel better about your life there are two places you should visit immediately: the DMV in Detroit (any time), or the Tocumen International Airport (PTY) after 9pm. Good times.
Driving in the middle of the night in Panama is like driving on Martin Luther King Blvd in Compton. Not a good idea, but if you must, keep the doors locked and don’t stop for anything. We made it to our hotel, but not before seeing what should have been 100 kilometers of earth’s most spectacular scenery littered with billboards of women with large phallic symbols in and around their mouths. How does one sell soda in Central America? Easy. Have a woman straddle an over-sized bottle of exploding Coca-Cola. If that doesn’t inspire thirst…
The next morning, true to my training regimen, I went to the hotel’s gym and rode a stationary bike. At 7 AM, the temperature had already risen to a humid 80 degrees. In a room with no air conditioning and only the faint breeze from my bike wheel, I left a puddle of sweat deep enough to swim in around my bicycle. Looking for disinfectant and a rag, I realized there were none of either. That meant that someone else had left the same puddle of sweat on the same bike that I had just ridden. Not wanting to throw up in my mouth, I ran outside, grateful for the Hepatitis B shot I got before going to Africa earlier this year. Dehydrated, I had a brief image of exploding Coca-Cola bottles and decided a hot shower with a Brillo pad and Ajax was more in line with my immediate needs.
I spent the morning poolside, reading Tom Clancy’s latest novel, wondering why I never realized my dream of becoming an international spy. I quickly accredited it to the same reason that Olympic glory eluded me in Vancouver last year. Simply put, my parents failed me.
I wanted to try out my super-spy skills by blending in with the natives. Though these natives happened to be in the land of my birth and therefore looked just like me, Operation PANAMANIAN was a complete disaster. I went to the hotel’s restaurant with my little brother. As we read the menu it was as if both of our IQs dropped by increments of 10 every second. They were in Spanish. Solomente en Espanol. Waitress, you speak no English? Muy bien. I’ll just speak very slowly and very loudly. That should make you understand my order. No? As a last ditch effort, I decided to play charades and mime what I wanted to eat. The look on her face told me that acting out the word “bratwurst” might have been less than appropriate. Come off it, sister. I’ve seen your billboards. The gig is up. Ultimately, the chef showed us some options and we pointed to what we wanted, at which time the wait staff got a nice little chuckle at our expense. Yeah?! Ow’s-hay our-ya ig-pay atin-lay?!
Though my undercover efforts needed serious work, the real anxiety came the day of the funeral. My Na, the woman who in every way that counted was a grandmother to me, passed away. If ever there was a saint in this world, it was she. Na embodied what it meant to love and give and sacrifice… and in such a funny way. She and my mother discussed her funeral arrangements before she passed, and she said, “Nobody’s going to fight. Everybody’s going to be too sad that I’m gone.” I still smile when I think about that.
Na’s funeral was a testament to her life. It was packed with friends, family, church members… and me. Sitting in the second row, directly behind my mother and Na’s grieving widower, I dressed the part: hair in a tight bun, Tiffany pearls, fitted black dress and sling-back peep-toe heels. But that was the extent of my role-play. An elderly woman in the parish led a hymn. It sounded like someone grabbed a cat by its tail and swung it in circles, occasionally banging it against the wall. I laughed out loud. Not too many ways you can out-do that one. But I certainly tried.
During the homily, the priest was going back and forth between Spanish and English. The lull of the priest’s words, the smell of the warm breeze, the somberness of the occasion… it took its toll. My head began to bob up and down, completely out of my control until I woke and found a spool of saliva stretching from my mouth to my lap. This, of course, completed the look of understated elegance I was going for with my tight bun and Tiffany pearls. But true to Na’s word, everyone was too sad to fight. I didn’t get one sideways glance from the priest or my mother’s evil eye of caution that she has perfected these many years. My ill-timed laughter and drool were left unmentioned, if not unnoticed.
I love adventure and I love to travel. But this was one trip I was happy to see end. Not just for the comfort of the freezing cold bike lab at Fraser, or endless supply of disinfectant wipes at my gym; but to escape a reality that I don’t want to think about. If not for my mother’s incredible bravery, inspired in no small part by Na’s help, I would not have grown up in the greatest country in the world. It could have been me on those billboards with a banana shoved halfway down my mouth or worse, wearing an evening gown to work at the airport. But most of all, I wanted the trip to end so I could stop remembering my reason for being there. I wanted to escape the reality of knowing that I will never hear Na’s voice again or take in her scent, or taste her incredible cooking. I have no doubt that she is in heaven, without so much as a layover in purgatory. But from time to time I will pretend that she is healthy and vibrant enjoying sunny 90-degree days in our homeland, Panama. Panama-ha.
