That's Right, Dr. Doom, I'm Eating the Strawberries

I had to buy the strawberries. For one, I have a crippling strawberry addiction. I've heard the average American eats eight pounds of berries a year; I, on the other hand, eat eight pounds of berries a month. Of course, I also bring up the average American's consumption of sweet potatoes (5.2 pounds per year) and watermelon (15.1 pounds per year), but that's another story. In short, I'm a fruit beast.

These strawberries were impossible to pass up. It's January. I hadn't seen perfectly ripe strawberries in months. And these looked perfect. Neatly arranged in their little pint box. Calling to me, like plump, red mini-demons.

As a student of global health, I get that there are about a billion ways that ingesting things can bring about misery and death. I don't have an invincibility complex. I totally get that drinking a glass of water can lead to a whole bunch of nasty creatures throwing a fiesta in your liver. But no person, in any profession, can even come close to the extraordinary pessimism of those prophets of doom we call travel doctors.

Every time I leave an appointment with a travel doctor, I'm pretty certain that I'm going to die wherever my travel destination happens to be. Don't even look at animals, they all have rabies. Don't even think about eating salad, or you'll spend your whole vacation in the bathroom. And the water? Forget it. You might as well drink a gallon of bleach and have done with it. There's also my personal favorite: "It's up to you if you want to take the risk of getting Japanese encephalitis." Sometimes they have a point. It is an absolutely horrible idea to drink the water in India. And non-peelable produce can be hazardous. But here's my problem. Have you ever noticed that travel doctors give you the same advice wherever you're going?

Panama City is a very developed place. I admit, I had no idea what to expect when I came here. I was given the same "peel the fruit" and "buy bottled water" advice I got when I went to India. I threw that out the window when my coworkers started recommending that I eat salad and, of all things, sushi while I'm here. I won't be talking about the details of my work on this blog, but sufficed to say, I work at a place that would probably suffer some reputation damage if they advised people to eat poisonous food.

It turns out the travel doctors got one thing right, though by sheer chance. As it happens, you can't drink the water in Panama City right now, because out of season rains have overwhelmed the treatment facilities. By all accounts, this is the first time in decades that it's been unsafe to drink the water. Decades. Consequently, the few shelves in the supermarket dedicated to bottled water are bare. I had to resort to buying seltzer. Seltzer and unpeelable produce.

That's right, Dr. Doom, I'm eating the strawberries.

I Should Have Taken Spanglish

We've all had the teachers who were absolute purists about language. The English teacher who laid eggs every time you confused "may I" and "can I." The French teacher whose face would blanch as she yelled, "Pas de franglais!" And the Spanish teacher who insisted that Spanglish was the ugly, bastard child of the most beautiful language in the world. Over time those ideas rub off on us. OK, maybe just me. When people use "itch" and "scratch" interchangeably, I want to kick them in the shins (not hard, but you get the point). When people won't at least attempt proper pronunciation when speaking French, my teeth grate. And I totally think Spanish is the most beautiful language in the world. It is, after all, my first nerd-tastic love.

Outside the bubble of academia, it doesn't take long to realize that the real world loves hybrids. The Puggle. The Prius. And yes, Spanglish. When I volunteered as a teenager to tutor ESL for elementary school kids, they had a great time making fun of my Spanish: "Nobody says 'tarea.' It's 'un homework.'" In about five minutes, I knew there was something impractical about my vocabulary. It took me a lot longer to understand that relentless mockery was actually a sign of affection. When I traveled in Spain, my friend's family told me it was cute that I said "los boletos" instead of "los tickets." I wasn't sure cute was what I was shooting for in that particular context. And now that I'm in Panama, I'm once again left wishing that I'd taken Spanglish classes somewhere along the way.

I can speak Spanish. I can speak English. But when forced to try and switch between the two: verbal potpourri. If you ever saw the movie Princess Caribou when you were little, that's a bit what I sound like when two languages are trying to leave my mouth at the same time. Unfortunately, at my office, Spanglish is the working language. People far more talented than I are able to alternate paragraphs, sentences, and words, seamlessly moving from one language to the other. I, on the hand, sound like a stroke victim.

To give an example of some typical office Spanglish:
"Estas cifras no son updated, así que tenemos que buscar otras."
"Entonces tenemos cuatro secciones: el strategic planning, el research, los parternships, y los resultados."
"No sé si eso es exactamente lo que necesitamos, pero a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush."

Thankfully, all is not lost. Someone told me today that I don't have much of an accent when I speak, and since the challenge is speaking and not understanding, it's not a hinderance to my work. I'm just hoping that over the course of three months, my Spanglish will be as good as my Spanish.

Pero ahora tengo que comer, porque I'm so hungry I could eat a bear.

NOTE: Since the first paragraph of this post could imply that I had stuffy, pompous instructors, I want to clarify that I actually had ridiculously awesome high school Spanish teachers. I used to say back then that the reason I went to school every day was so I could go to Spanish class. The point is not lost on me that without them, I might never have had the opportunity to come here. Or get my last internship in high school. Or get my first job out of college. And in all probability, my first job out of grad school. Man, I hope they don't come to claim my firstborn child or something.

The Weather is Plátanos, and the Birds Go Whoooop

The trip to Panama began with me inventing a new kind of acrobatics, necessitated by the woman sitting next to me, who wouldn't get up to let me into the middle seat. She sat there, smacking her chewing gum, while I precariously dangled my carry-ons and one leg in the air, trying to find the best way to climb over her. I ended up handing all my stuff to the guy in the window, then sort of leaping over her, and hopping on one leg with my ass in her face. It was not dignified. On the other hand, it was more dignified than the blob continuing to masticate her stale gum while she was asleep. How is that even possible?

But other than that, the flights were fine, and I made it to Panama City on time. My bags did too. I managed to find the driver and get into my apartment, so it all went pretty smoothly. My apartment is ridiculously awesome. (And hopefully the minute I type that, a giant cockroach won't jump out and hiss at me.) I even have a bathtub. And an icepick. And a rice cooker. And an interesting vase with some rocks and twirly sticks in it. But the best part is the view:

And this brings me to the weather, which is absolutely bananas (hence the title of the post). Those two pictures were taken about ten minutes apart. All day, the weather gods have had multiple personality disorder. Sunny. Pouring. Sunny. Hellfire of Zeus. Sunny. Raining while sunny. Cloudy. Thankfully, it was still sunny when I went out earlier in search of food. I went to the only place open on Sunday, called El Rey, or The King, a massive supermarket. I had to ask directions from 6 people, because there are about 2 street signs in this neighborhood. I love the name of this supermarket though. "Turn right, and in twenty meters, you will see The King." So I bought food, including a whole pineapple. Pineapples are the armored fortresses of the fruit world, and I'm not sure how to attack mine. Maybe that's what the ice pick is for.

I've just been hanging out at the apartment since then, which shall henceforth be known as "The Gull." I watched Harry Potter 3 dubbed into Spanish. The phrase "No quiero vivir más con los Dursley" was very amusing to me. I don't know why. But I should actually unpack now instead of watching dubbed movies.

Oh, and before I forget, the birds here make a whoooooping noise. It kind of sounds like someone whistling to get your attention. I spent ten minutes looking around like a crazy person before I realized the sound was coming from creatures in the trees. Nothing says you're in the tropics like flying whooooooopers.

Pancakes, Pantaloons, Pangolin, Pangea . . . Panama?

A lot of cool and interesting things start with "pan." So living in Panama for three months should be good too. The evidence is clear. Panther. Panettone. Of course, panic also starts with "pan," and I'm doing a bit of that at the moment too. That's probably unavoidable though when you're about to set off by yourself to a country you've never been to. And at very least it has to better than getting all the immunizations required to go to Panama. A flu shot, yellow fever vaccine, and a Hep B booster all together give you some sore, floppy chicken arms.

The title of my blog comes from the fact that I am disaster-prone, and much to my grandmother's dismay (Hi, Nonna!), the U.S. Passport Agency continues to grant my requests for new passports and additional visa pages. Here are a couple of examples of my previous travel mishaps, both big and small:

• Developing pneumonia in Argentina
• Getting attacked by a monkey in India
• Spending over two days with no bags in Poland
• Being hospitalized in Germany
• Having a monkey rifle through my papers and electronics in the Philippines

Okay, so the last one doesn't count as a disaster, since the only thing the monkey threw across the deck was my notebook, and not the Kindle he'd picked up a few seconds earlier. But the monkeys are still a major source of problems, and once again I will be entering their domain. There are six species in Panama, including the Panamanian Night Monkey, which just sounds terrifying. And monkeys in Latin America have prehensile tails, which I think increases their destructive capacity. Thankfully, I've learned from my past experiences. Monkeys are like the Amish. They don't like to be photographed. Also, they wear mostly earth tones. 

So Saturday I'm off to Panama. I've still got a ton to do before then, including looking up the range of the Panamanian Night Monkey. (Say that in a creepy voice, and you'll see how scary it is.)

(NOTE: For a picture of the Panamanian Night Monkey, which looks like cracked-out bush baby, click here.)