Travel Musings

?Por Que Panama?

Panama (April) 2008 Travelogue

"Why Panama?" They ask me, flummoxed. Less flummoxed than when I went to Dubai, but still somewhat flummoxed.

I don't know. Maybe because I wore a hot pink Panama Jack t-shirt in eighth grade. Because David Lee Roth pines for it. Because I fell in love with Canopy Tower back in 2003 when I read about it in Travel + Leisure. Because my sister raved about her family's Panama vacation last year. Who knows what random events influence and determine these decisions?

Of course the weather -- sunny and 80's every day -- factored in. Crossing no time zones is nice. And the cheap prices (a buck a beer, 3-star lodging for less than $100, etc.) didn't hurt. And the people are friendly (although far from effusive). Plus, it's "safe." And pretty, verdant: we haven't seen a speck of green in Chicago for a good seven months now. So that pretty much decided it.

Oh, and: the diversity. Panama, geographically, lacks for little. In the span of a week I will visit a rainforest (Canopy Tower in Gamboa), a metropolis (Panama City), the mountains (Boquete), and an archipelago (Bocas del Toro).

So that's my answer, and I'm sticking to it.

 

The Essentials

2:30 a.m.: Fucking alarm clock!

1:00: p.m.: I arrive in Panama City, the full afternoon stretching before me (worth getting up for).

I charged my flight instead of paying with points this time. At $529 (Continental) vs. 35,000 frequent flyer miles that I'll use another time, cash (and accruing points) seemed like the better way to go. I used Seatguru for the first time to determine the best seat, then reserved it immediately on the Continental website. Nice system.

No line at Customs, but my agent makes me walk around the corner to hand someone $5 for my U.S. Visitor's Pass, which I spaced during my short stop at the gate in Houston. Panama entry is easy for U.S. citizens: no visa needed, and US Dollars are the currency.

I booked an appointment with the Passport Health travel clinic a few weeks ago. I opted for a yeller fever vaccine, although it wasn't required for the areas I intend to visit. However, I had read that Panama may change their yeller fever vaccination requirements at a whim. I'd previously been vaccinated for Hep A & B, tetanus, and typhoid vaccinations, so I purchased only a dose of Cipro for $10 and some Malarone, which I started two days ago. My consultant suggested that I invest in some prophylactic rabies shots (at about $280 each x three: Passport Health is a for-profit entity) but I declined. I'll risk it for $900. That leaves dengue fever, sunburn, and pastiness so I stocked up on deet, spf 50, and fake tan. Oh, and Pringles. Always Pringles.

My driver meets me outside the arrival area: I booked the ride from Tocumen International Airport to Panama Tower ($33) through Golden Frog, a transportation company.

So far, so good.

Canopy Tower: for the Birds

If Panama is the Mecca of Birdwatching, then Canopy Tower is its Grand Mosque.

Canopy Tower is located on the top of Semaphore Hill in Soberania National Park, a 30-minute drive from Panama City. The US Air Force built the structure in 1965 to house radar used in the defense of The Canal. From 1988 to 1995 the building was used to detect airplanes suspected of carrying drugs from South America.

Canopy Tower offers two suites (with private baths), five double rooms (with private baths), and five single rooms (sans private baths). Management typically requires guests to book a minimum of three nights at the property, but they were gracious enough to offer a single room to me for one night for $150, which includes my room, meals, and a bird tour.

A staff member greets our car, gives my oversized luggage (Bagzillo) a double-take, then leads me into the lobby, dragging Bagzillo behind. How...rustic. He hefts Bagzillo up the metal staircase to my single room on the third floor. How...spartan. I follow him out to the corridor, and he points to the communal shower and bathroom for the single rooms, which I had blocked from my mind until now. I pantomime to my host (my Spanish is limited to "bano", "cerveza", "zapatos", and "bolsas": all I needed to know to survive one month in Spain) that I'm missing the key to my room. He gestures back that there are no keys to the rooms.

I plop down on my bed with a huff, chin in hands, and pout. I don't want to share a toilet. I want a key. There's no place for my stuff. I hate Canopy Tower.

Canopy Tower: Fabulous

I reluctantly pull-on my new, egregiously masculine hiking shoes (apparently even remotely feminine hiking shoes don't exist -- at least not in Chicago) and gather with my fellow guests for the daily afternoon guided trek. I join two senior gentlemen from England on a bench in a modified truck bed, our guide at the wheel. We spy irridescent blue morphos and flamboyant toucans (which I recognize -- proudly -- from the cereal box) and we have not yet left the property. Maybe Canopy Tower isn't all that bad.

I desert my group ten minutes into the walk: they go TOO DAMN SLOWLY. Five meters: stop, binoculars, scope. Five meters: stop, binoculars, scope. The birds are pretty and everything, but I have been housebound for the past six months (endless winter of '07-'08), and crammed into planes for the past eight hours, and I need to MOVE.

Back at the Big Blue Silo I replace my offending footwear with a pair more feminine, grab my book (Sacred Games: brilliant), and retire to the common area on the top floor. Blissfully supine in my hammock, I read a page, gaze out at the treetops, read another page, and gaze out at the treetops again. At 6:00 the staff sets out beer, wine, and fresh guacamole. I love Canopy Tower!

The other guests trickle in and mingle with one another. I really should be social -- plus, my wine glass is empty -- so I roll out of my coccoon and pull up a chair. Just as we finish our informal introductions a guide breaks the circle, and, as if on cue, everyone whips out their Sheet. But I don't have a Sheet. I longneck at my neighbor's Sheet: column upon column of small-point font. One by one, the guide itemizes the birds listed on the Sheet as the others check-off the birds spotted today. One of the nice men in my trek group stops by to inquire politely about my solo hike. I begin to reply, but I'm quickly SHUSSSSHHHHed by one of the checker-offers. I can't believe I've just been shusssshhhed.

Dinner is pleasant: the food is good and my company amiable, although I have little to contribute to the Blue-Footed Booby vs. Brown Booby debate. The woman seated next to me, in an effort to include me in conversation, inquires as to my favorite bird.

"I'm really not that into birds," I reply.

The room goes silent.

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee

6:15: By the roar of the howler monkey: my second-favorite way to awake. Their guttural bellows slip through my window and echo around my closet of a room.

I climb beyond the common area to the circular rooftop deck, grab a fresh cup of (premium) coffee (all coffee in Panama is premium), snag a chair, pull my knees up under my jacket, and observe birds and birders alike as they make their appearances. The woman of my age from Texas films flocks as she narrates into the microphone. The couple from Cincinnati position a telescope and share their kite sightings with me: my fellow lodgers welcome me -- the interloper among them -- for the most part, although with a tinge of wariness.

I ask the lady who shushed me -- more out of politeness than curiousity -- about the big black birds circling overhead.

"Vultures!?" she clips. I don't think birders like vultures, as a rule-of-thumb. I add vultures to my Mental Sheet. I review my Mental Sheet: toucan: check; vulture: check. Not bad.

I ride with the others to Plantation Trail: they go their way (slowly) and I go mine (briskly), with mutual waving.

I can't figure out the source of the path through the leaves: I encounter the occasional mountain biker, but I doubt that they're conforming to so precise a line. Upon closer inspection: the line moves. I stop. Upon even closer inspection: tiny green leaves flow down the line. I crouch down. Upon even more closer inspection: thousands of ants, marching in a row, carry the leaves, forming a wake among the golden petals as they go.

Panama City at Night

My driver delivers me to La Estancia, the Panama City hotel that I booked online. I chose La Estancia based on its positive reviews from Tripadvisor regulars. My friend Chris and I snagged the two suites for $75 (cash) each, booked directly through the La Estancia website.

La Estancia is nice -- not great, not charming -- but nice. The suites: spacious, the onsite travel agency: convenient, the amenities: more than sufficient, and the location (on the 654-foot Ancon Hill): secluded and (thankfully) far from the hubbub of downtown Panama City.

The climb to the top of Ancon Hill is worth it: I'm rewarded with views of Panama City from multiple perspectives and the expanse of the metropolis.

Chris and I take a cab to Manolo Caracol (La Estancia's agency booked both for us) in the Casca Viejo section of town. Online posters agreed upon several Panama City restaurants -- Limoncello, Madama Chang's, Bistro Ten, and Casablanca especially -- but Manolo Caracol stood out among the recommendations.

Chris and I indulge in a bottle of red, sit back, and surrender to the so-many-courses-we've-lost-count $25 prix fixe menu, served to us -- we think -- by the owner himself. At least he acts like he owns the place. We fight over the corvina (white sea bass) tossed in tasty little seeds and freely share the gritty clams with each other. But the hits outweigh the misses, and we're happy to be at Manolo Caracol this evening.

Once Again Winning Friends and Influencing People

The Panama City regional airport (Marcos A. Gelabert) is a five-minute ride from La Estancia. Chris and I fly Aeroperlas ($88 with tax) to David. I can't recall why I chose Aeroperlas over Air Panama: the safety records of the two airlines are similar, and the flight times and fares for our two intracountry flights are identical between airlines. We intend to rent a car in David and drive to Boquete (45 minutes), which the travel guides refer to as a charming town surrounded by primo hiking, set deep within coffee country.

I chose The Coffee Inn Estate (aka Montana el y Valle) ($130/night) in Boquete because of its (3-star) listing in Frommer's Panama:

The Coffee Estate Inn is owned by a friendly Canadian couple, Jane and Barry, who built their inn to satisfy themselves as travelers -- a simple concept but one that rarely occurs to so many budding hotel owners. Cozy yet spacious accommodations with all the trimmings, gorgeous views of Volcan Baru, and truly personalized service are the hallmarks of The Coffee Estate Inn, which is located 2.5 km from downtown Boquete, on a very steep slope overlooking the lush valley below.

Jane and Barry e-mailed a 30-page information document to us after we confirmed our registrations. Chris took them up on their stated offer to reserve a Thrifty 4x4 vehicle on our behalf.

Flashback one week prior to our trip: I have only a confirmation number for our Thrifty reservation booked through Jane and Barry: no official Thrifty paperwork to provide to the agency if, upon arrival, a problem exists. So, anal-retentive traveler that I am, I double-check our reservation on the Thrifty website. No reservation. I call Thrifty. No reservation. So I e-mail our future hosts, politely requesting a copy of our Thrifty reservation documentation.

That e-mail: that's what started It All.

Needlessly

Flashback continued:

Jane and Barry reply to my e-mail (now retitled THRIFTY VEHICLE IS CONFIRMED) below (whittled down some):

The Thrifty vehicle for Chris is confirmed!... We are expecting you to arrive at our inn about 2:00 PM. Please see below our message to Chris (and copying you) with the Thrifty reservation confirmation number. Please confirm that you have received this message...

But I still posses only a confirmation number: nothing from Thrifty to use as back-up if we arrive and no car is reserved, or the price has changed, or...So I call Thrifty in David and ask them to email a copy of the receipt to me.

"No email," they reply.

They request my fax number -- which I state a dozen times -- repeatedly reminding them not to forget the country code.

I hang up and email Chris, betting him a bottle of wine that I'll never receive the fax.

An hour or so passes and Jane and Barry e-mail us, stating that they had received a call from Thrifty: my fax didn't go through so they (Thrifty) need my e-mail address (???). Jane and Barry ask:

Why are you needlessly complicating our reservation process with Thrifty?

I hold my index finger for a day and respond with an explanation. Shortly thereafter I receive a copy of the Thifty reservation from Jane and Barry with the following message attached:

If Chris had requested a written confirmation from the rental company, we would have asked for it at the time we made the reservation and sent it on to him. So, this afternoon, we had Thrifty fax the written confirmation, have scanned it and are sending it as an attachment to this message to both you and Chris. Please note that Intermarketing Inc. is the franchise holder of Thrifty in Panama. Please note as well that the header for the fax comes from Thifty Car Rental in David.

Crap! We are in Big Trouble with our hosts and we haven't even arrived yet!

Coffee Estate Inn

Our extra-wide (formerly cargo?) plane lands smoothly in David: Chris heads to Thrifty and I beeline to the single Aeroperlas desk, hoping to change our return flight to Panama City from the 10:00 to the 5:00. (Amazingly) Aeroperlas honors our request at no additional charge, Bagzillo (whose excess weight cost me an extra $20 at check-in) awaits me, and Thrifty delivers our car curbside. What an efficient little airport.

We perform multiple wrong turns, finally locating the turn-off to Boquete -- basically through trial and error. Once we (finally) catch-on to the fact that the road signs are a festive yellow 'n green, and posted above the stoplights, we're golden.

The Coffee Estate Inn's directions are perfect down to the one-tenth of a kilometer: we arrive at the electric gate and announce ourselves. Barry answers and we enter with some trepidation. He and June, and Chris and I, square off, shake hands awkwardly, and we follow them inside. Barry graciously offers us a pour of their homemade coffee liqueur and takes the time to review some local maps with us.

Jane takes over from here. The grounds are immaculately tended and gorgeous: lush with plants, flowers, and birds. Our villas (with views overlooking the valley and extending to the mountains beyond) are immaculate and no detail has been overlooked: a provision of estate-grown coffee beans roasted just-this-morning, tiny loaves of home-baked banana bread, fresh flower arrangements, and starched linens turned down just-so. Five stars.

"The last time that we had people here like you," our host comments, eyeing us, "it was a woman from New York and her bodyguard." And our orientation begins.

Stupid Chris

Our schooling begins and ends in the combined kitchen/living room.

Jane demonstrates the toaster oven, tv, wine coaster, room safe, and coffee bean grinder. She pulls out the french press.

"You're familiar with a french press?" she states/asks.

Blank looks...

Jane freezes, recovers, moves on to the traditional coffee machine.

"You're familiar with a coffee machine?" she states/asks.

I nod vigorously, hoping to redeem myself. Chris shakes his head.

"So what do you do for coffee?" she inquires.

"I go to Starbuck's."

...

...

...

Jane removes the mini-machine from the cupboard.

"Oh," says Chris, "just like in hotels."

"This IS a hotel," she corrects. First, he doesn't request the Thrifty reservation in writing, now this. Stupid *Chris!

Thirty minutes later, at the end of the tour, Jane asks if we have any questions.

"Can we get porn on this tv?" I ask. So tempted, so tempted, so tempted. But I wimp out and say nothing.

We stop in front of the door prior to exiting, and Jane informs us that we must keep the door locked. A reasonable request...Then she hands me the keys, and instructs me to practice locking the door.

"Are you serious?"

She nods. She's serious.

I lock the door, unlock the door, and robotically return the keys. Jane hands them to (Stupid) Chris, who takes his turn.

We move to the outside doorstep. We stand here. We stand longer still. Jane holds out the keys to me and looks me in the eyes: she wants me to practice locking the door from outside! But my hands refuse to move from my sides.

*He has a Wharton MBA