I descended from the $9.00 air-conditioned, music-infused, plush-reclining-seat, 4 1/2 hour bus ride from Panama City to Las Tablas into a street where none of the taxi drivers gave me a second look or a honk if I looked away. I walked down the street to a local market, grateful to feel the strain of the pack. My phone rang; my host was calling to make sure that I had arrived in Las Tablas and could find her house which had no number: turn left at the Banco Nacional, go 3 blocks, turn right. It was the orange house next door to the house with many chairs. They, the neighbors, would have the key to let me in since my host was working.
After settling in, I decided to hit the market three doors down for a few more items. There I met Gene, who runs the English as a Second Language School across the street from the market. We joked around before getting down to the serious discussion of ESL methodology, delighting us both in the sharing of arcane knowledge that would bore the average citizen. He invited me to come by the following morning, and we parted ways.
I watched a sandlot baseball game where the pitcher had a bucket full of bottle caps that he would wing in to the batter who held a semi-smooth stick. No umpire, no balls, 3 strikes, and lots of catcalls when the batter swung and missed. I talked with the furniture repairer next door who was hammering brads into leather upholstery. I talked with the owner of the store and her daughter. I greeted all who walked past my open door. I breathed in the fresh air from the ocean that swam across the porch of the orange house with no number next to the house with many chairs.
No comments:
Post a Comment