It was the summer of 2017, and I found myself in Panama, eager to practice Spanish and learn to scuba dive. I spent my first week there in Boquete, a small mountain town. Boquete was breathtakingly beautiful, peaceful, and temperate. I toured a coffee farm, rafted a river, and took some classes before packing my bags for my next stop: Bocas del Toro. Boquete had left me with the most positive initial impression of Panama. I loaded a van early on a Sunday to take me on the windiest drive of my life down the mountain.
Once the Caribbean’s turquoise waters stretched out before me, I opened the van door and was greeted by a wall of humid heat. I boarded a tiny boat and was dropped off on a tiny island, where a teacher from the Spanish academy met me. We walked through the unpaved streets to the school, where I hopped on the back of a motorcycle and was delivered to my homestay; with a wave and an “Adios!,” the teacher was off.
My host mother, Alejandra, was there to welcome me. She showed me to my little room, which was separate from the main house. She left me to unpack, but I only sat down on the bed and told my body to breathe. The heat was suffocating, there was no WIFI, there wasn’t a mirror in my entire space, and I wasn’t given any towels. I left my packed bag in the corner; unpacking would confirm that I was indeed staying, and I wasn’t ready to acknowledge that plan. I took myself for a walk, instead, hoping to get a SIM card that would allow me to access data for the purpose of booking a flight back to the States immediately. Trying desperately not to get lost, I hopped from kiosk to kiosk, losing my mind and all hope that internet would be a possibility in this corner of the world. I cried a bit, and one kind soul took pity on me. He installed a SIM card and I was relieved to have a lifeline to my people back home. I retired to my house, was fed a meal I couldn’t eat, and looked at flight change fees. And then, I tried to sleep, using a fan to stop the sweat and drown the loud Reggaeton blasting from various houses in the neighborhood.
Alejandra woke me up early the next morning, as I had classes at 8:00. I threw on a dress, pulled my hair back into a ponytail and skipped all make-up; I had no mirror for applying it, and it wouldn’t last for more than five minutes on my face in the humidity anyway. At the breakfast table, I stirred powdered coffee into hot water, faced a plate full of pancakes, and wondered what I was doing with my life.
Then, a boy opened the front door, shouted a morning greeting at Alejandra, and sat beside me at the table.
“Buenos días!” I said, puzzled. Alejandra had told me about a son, but he didn’t live in Panama. “Quién es?” (“Who are you?”)
I worked out that Alejandra rented another detached room to Luis Gutiérrez, a young man from a mountain city near Boquete. He worked at the regional airport next door. Maybe he can get me a flight out of here, I thought. Before we left the house, off to our respective days’ activities, he added his WhatsApp number to my phone and told me he’d give me a tour of the town in the afternoon.
After class, I walked slowly back to my home, with resistance. I attempted to stomach an enormous portion of rice for lunch. I looked at my phone and searched “Luis” in contacts. He can’t possibly want to spend an afternoon with some sweaty gringa. Maybe he wants to practice English, I reasoned. When should I message him? Should I wait for him to message me?
And then, I felt embarrassed, of myself, realizing that I was behaving as though I had a crush on a man I met for five minutes earlier that morning. Good god, Allie. Get it together. It was clear, even to me at the time, that I was developing dependence on the nearest age-matched human male in the vicinity, given my sensitive emotional state.
Luis was good for his word, and he loaned me his spare bike that afternoon. We cruised to the fruit market, to the docks, by the airport, by the hotels. He explained everything there was to know about Bocas to me, and his Spanish was so easy to understand, and he was so patient. It was the first time since arriving on the island that time didn’t crawl. That I laughed.
We spent nearly every afternoon together over the next three weeks. Luis showed me the botanical gardens and the lagoon. We drank beers on lounge chairs at the hippie beach. We biked all over that island, and then boated to another island when we wanted to explore some more. I told him stories about my new diving adventures. We cooked in the kitchen of the apartment I moved into after a week at Alejandra’s, and we ate on the porch as the sun set. We drank piña coladas and swam off the docks at the seaside bar. He taught me to peel a green mango and add salt to give it flavor. We had lengthy conversations, and I would forget briefly that we did not share a native language. We danced late into the night at the discoteca. And then we kissed on the empty streets as we moseyed home afterward.
On my last night in the country, we curled up on the sofa in my apartment, listening to a storm blow through Bocas, heavy rain tumbling down the tin roof and thunder vibrating the walls. We didn’t speak of my looming departure, but the universe knew.
He helped carry my things to the docks the next afternoon. As the captain ushered me toward the boat, ready to leave, I kissed Luis one last time and he brushed tears from my cheeks. And then, I climbed onto the boat and watched as the boy and the place I knew briefly but intimately became smaller and smaller, and then disappeared altogether. I felt a sadness, but also a rightness; I knew, deep down, that the relationship was not meant to last. Luis was meant to be a beautiful, generous soul who came into my life suddenly, and then left it just as quickly.
