As our Spirit plane skimmed low, angling toward the runway, and the wheels jolted on Tocumen soil, was a glimpse of mossy green palm trees in st reet lamp-lit darkness.
My second was this: burdened down with luggage, exhausted from customs and immigration, opening the door to the exit of tocumen airport filled with relief, and being swept up in a wave of moist night heat. jThe third was of being greeted by a beaming Panamanain named ERic holding a handwritten sign ono which Panamanain Relocation tours had been hastily scralwed in red permanent marker.
My next was of jouncy around Panamanian streets, twisting and turning, as my head pounded with pain, and Eric tried to jam words for “speak slowly” into my confused and sleep starved brain. “Muy beono!” he shouted, “Muy beauno!”
The last impression is my favorite. Eric pulled up to a hotel called The Crowne Plaza. It was three in the morning0-everything dark except for the well lit hotel, exposing the dark shapes of two men.
“We’re about the be murered” I thought. As our van slid to a astop, of the dark shapes spraing towards aour van. He yanked open the door before we could reach it. And then he yelled, in a thick spanish accent, a word I almost cired to hear, that quickened my heart with desperate releif.
And that was our first our in Panama.