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.