Why Panamanians Love Larry

One of the nice things about being retired is that one has the leisure, now and then, to ruminate on troublesome questions. I've been ruminating on one thing since we arrived here: Why do all Panamanians, without exception thus far, adore Larry?

Now, I don't think I'm unpopular. In fact, I've made a fair number of Panamanian friends--even good friends. But my popularity in no way compares to Larry's. The faces of the townspeople light up when they see him, whether here at the house, downtown, or on the road. Horns toot, hands flutter, and there're shouts of "Lahreee, Lahreee." He just may be the most popular gringo hereabouts. They connect to him somehow.

Not surprisingly, Edwin provided the first clue when he observed, one day during lunch, "Larry's not like other gringos." It's been my observation that "other gringos," even in their retirement, are pretty goal-driven. They set about a task purposefully and take pride in executing it properly and punctually. In addition to setting up their own households and struggling with cultural differences, expats in Boquete have organized food drives, created a cultural center, started reading programs for children, developed and staffed an association for the handicapped, put on plays, held fundraisers for the local orphanage, spayed or neutered every animal they can get their hands on, improved school facilities, outfitted local sports teams, and on and on. While it wouldn't be fair to say that these efforts are not appreciated, the locals pretty clearly don't understand what all the fuss is about.

For the most part, Panamanians tend to live day to day, with little forethought. This goes a long way toward explaining many of the society's ills, but it also makes for a population of generally happy-go-lucky people. They're helpful to others, but they have neither the temperament nor the resources for much organized effort. So there's a disconnect between the gringo mindset and the Panamanian mindset. And this, in turn, makes relationships somewhat uneasy. While Panamanians are unfailingly affable and gracious towards us extranjeros, they clearly don't understand us and find us to be in many ways foolish. They envy our money and worldliness, but believe us too meticulous for our own good. Foreigners, although they rarely will admit it, see Panamanians as innocents, in need of help and direction so as to improve their lot in life.

Larry is simply more Panamanian by temperament than he is gringo. He takes retirement seriously and curently has relatively little ambition other than improving his golf game. He lives pretty much day-to-day, and likes people for what they are rather than for he would have them be. When his Panamanian friend Michelle was fired from her job by the jealous wife of the business owner, Larry took her out to lunch to commiserate. When he's on the way home from the supermarket and sees Chollo, our garbageman, out in front of his house, Larry stops to chat and offer him a cold beer. He made a friend for life of Gabriel, one of our more well-to-do neighborhood residents, when he noticed a Gator tag on the front of his vehicle and simply dropped in to inquire about it. (Gabriel and his son both attended the University of Florida, it turns out.) And when Yessika, who delivers our propane tanks, confided that she was planning a vacation to Mexico, Larry slipped her a twenty to help with expenses.

And confide they do. Larry can't speak a word of Spanish, but he manages lengthy conversations with everyone, and they tell him things they'd never tell me or any other gringo. When Eduardo, a member of the local police force, lamented to Larry that his wife was in town for the day and didn't know anyone, Larry brought her and their baby home to spend the day with us. George, our electrician/plumber/facilitator, just drops in from time to time to chat with Larry and seek his advice about business matters. Members of the construction crew on our house run him down in the street to pass the time of day. Larry's just one of 'em.

Edwin's comment about Larry not being like other gringos arose out of an incident which had been related to Edwin by a Panamanian witness to the event. Larry had been at the Accel service station buying a phone card when one of the younger employees, Fernando, surreptitiously moved outside and took a six pack of beer from the car, making sure Larry saw him as he stepped around the corner to hide. There ensued a chase two or three times around the station and a mock battle over the beer, right on the main road through Boquete. One doesn't play jokes on gringos, Edwin explained, and gringos don't playfully chase Panamanians around. But, as Edwin says, Larry's not like any other gringo, and the Panamanians love him for it.

(Cats love him, too, as evidenced by the attached picture. Caught cat-napping.)

Back to School

I'm now two weeks into my Spanish classes and busy as the proverbial beaver. There're only three of us in the class, so it's pretty intense. Three days a week, two hours a day--three hours this week to make up for the national day of mourning last week in honor of a former Presidente who died. And lots of homework. Our teacher is a young Panamanian (19 is my guess), Gustavo Quintero, who is competent, well-prepared, and a real delight. He's the only Panamanian I've encountered who has freckles. His dedication and good humor makes exercising my aging brain for up to four hours a day a little easier. I'm not sure what level the school assigned me to, based on both a written and an oral test, but it seems to be perfect: review of lots of stuff I knew but either had forgotten or wasn't using, and lots of new stuff. I'm a bit ahead of my two classmates, but not much. It's just enough to make me study with fervor to stay ahead.

Our friend Doc has been sick for two weeks with a cold that made its way into his chest. Because he seemed to getting worse rather than better, he finally gave in to our imprecations to see a doctor, and his visits to the Boquete clinic have given rise to some enviable blogs. Since I have little to report other than the intricacies of Spanish reflexive verbs, I offer Doc's most recent blog in my stead. It's entitled "Clandestine Clinic."

Fine, thanks. Still coughing up amphibians, but other than that, feeling better.

Doctora Ana Lopez is a sweet young thing, albeit formal and matter-of-fact. After stethoscoping me here and there while telling me to breathe deeply so I could show off the roiling and rumbling ruckus in my lower lungs, she sentenced me to a three day affair with her nurse starting that very day. Off we scampered to our own private room where, after I had rolled up my sleeves in the classic let's get to work gesture, Nurse I-Don't-Know-Her-Name smiled and indicated that bare arms won't do. What she wanted, she told me in Spanish, was that I should drop trou and climb up on the examining table so that she could do her thing. Alrighty then, I thought, but being both shy and coy, I suggested in English that she go first. To clarify, I said, "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours." She stood there grinning but not moving, so I took the initiative and climbed up on the white paper covered hard as rock cot-like table and scooched my jeans down about half moon. The needle she then stuck in my left cheek bore some chemical that could accurately be called liquid fire. Yikes, I thought, what lousy foreplay! These medical types are a bunch of freaks. But before I could voice my complaints, Nurse Now-Smiling-Hugely said "Listo," and I could tell that even though it had been a little painful for me, it had been good for her. A satisfied woman is a joy to behold.

We made plans to get together and do it all over the next day. By the third day though (today), the magic was gone. The shine, the glow, the very luster of our naughty affair had dulled to a matter of ordinary routine. When I pulled up my jeans at the end of the session, I turned to my smiling, needle-wielding intimate and told her we just couldn't go on. It was hasta la vista and ciao baby for me and her. I had to get down the road. I'll say this for her. She took it well. Her smile never wavered. It still lit up the room like a power surge even though behind the shine I could see the hurt settling in. She'll be all right, I thought. She's a tough one. She'll survive. Someday another pale pink rounded rump will find its way to her table and she'll happily plunge her needle to the hilt in the cheek of her choice. When she does, I thought, I hope for just moment, she'll think of me.

Actually, Doc made it out of the house last night to join a few of us for a dinner here celebrating Larry's and Charly's birthdays. Knowing that I was occupied with my scholarly pursuits, Maryellen made the lasagna and salad. I picked up the bread and birthday cake from a relatively new French bakery across town. We convened at 5:00, and I was showing everyone out the door at 8:00. We blamed Doc's health, but, truth be told, we were all ready for bed (except for Larry, who was deep into the Florida/LSU game). Retirement is exhausting, I tell you.