There is a disorienting quality to being in Panama City on Saturday morning and in Seattle by early evening– in more ways than the 40 degree temperature shift. The transition from Spanish is gradual. On the Tocumen to Houston leg, all the announcements are bi-lingual, Spanish first and then English. Between Houston and Seattle, it’s all English. There’s no visual similarity at all between high rise Panama City and high tech Seattle. And my open loft apartment with the stunning views of Puget Sound is the farthest thing in the world from Buenaventura or the village.
David and Lily dropped Sally and me off at the airport — David’s wife Arline and their daughter Ghiselita were in the back. After leaving us they were on their way to pick up the Hondurans for a day’s outing to Panama Viejo, the archeological remains of the old Panama City founded in 1519 and the oldest European settlement on the Pacific Coast of the Americas.
Ana and Mileybus were at the airport to say good-bye, then they were going by bus to the hospital to be there for Minga’s Saturday dialysis.
You can’t see my feet, but I have socks on for the first time in two weeks. The long sleeve black cotton shirt isn’t exactly Panama wear either, although those are still my light tropical pants.
Having to make my own breakfast on Sunday would be quite the culture shock after Gloria’s faithful ministrations, but fortunately I don’t have to. Sara is in town, and she and I are meeting up at a favorite place.
Getting back in the swing.