The immigration line is almost nonexistent, surprising given I was one of the last people off the plane. It seems as though most of the passengers are merely transiting through.

I had texted Josue when I landed and he told me to let him know when I’d picked up my bags. He was waiting in a parking lot nearby. He was surprised when I messaged him. Fast, he says.

The drive from the airport is smooth. Passing through the modern northern end of the city Josue makes a comment. Like Miami, he says. I tell him I was just thinking that.

He points out a few landmarks: Poin, with its zipline, the presidential palace, a coffee shop he recommends. At the hotel he helps me with my bags and I ask the bartender at the wine bar next door to help me check in. My host messages me just before, guiding me through the process.

It’s been a bit of an exhausting trip, an early morning wake up call to catch the flight to IAH, a three hour layover before the four hour flight to PTY. I napped off an on on the flights, at the airport. It’s not yet 19h30 when I’m settled into my room and I decide to spend a quiet night in. From the balcony I can see one of the towers of the Metropolitan Cathedral Basilica of Santa Maria the Ancient. A few children play in the street. I eat leftover pizza from an airport pizza stand and Asian treats purchased from a bakery in Austin. I take a shower. I go to sleep.

The next morning I head just outside the touristic area of the old quarter for a haircut. I had asked my host whether it was safe to walk around the area at night. He tells me that two blocks to the west is fine, and anywhere to the east until I reach the ocean. There are tourist cops who patrol the old quarter, but I should be mindful of pickpockets and the usual petty crime that comes with the territory. I ask if I can walk to Mount Ancón. He doesn’t recommend it. He tells me that the city becomes more decrepit to the west.

The city to the west is a little more decrepit, but feels more alive. The first barber I approach is with a customer. His shop is almost literally a hole in the wall. He tells me that he’s heading to lunch after but will be back in an hour. There are a few other barbers nearby, some in open-air pavilions. As I walk down the street a barber looks at me, catches my eye. He makes scissor fingers and I nod. I cross the street and enter his small air-conditioned shop.

The cut is 5$US, but I’m short of change. It’s my first foray into the city and I haven’t properly prepared myself for life on the street. I ask him how much he has and end up tipping him profusely. It’s still a lot less than the 45$US cuts available to me in LA or Austin.

In the afternoon I explore my surroundings, walking first to the Plaza de la Independencia to visit the cathedral. Children play at the end of the street. I’ll see them almost every day, a small community on the corner.

From there I wander east towards the ocean, amused that I can walk east towards the Pacific while in the Americas, due to the way the land bends. The Casco Viejo gives off island vibes; the heat and humidity and the overcast skies combine to slow my movements down in only the way the tropics can.

Back away from the shore I pass some street art as I head to the main street to continue wandering east. Panama City isn’t as decorated as some Central and South American cities, but I’m happy to see some representation as I wander the old quarter.

Reaching the Plazoleta Medio Baluarte I gaze out over the water towards the modern skyscrapers that mark the northern side of the city and out to the Cinta Costera 3, the coastal beltway that loops around the old quarter. I read about how part of the plan was that it would be built by the community it was designed to assist, and how rival gangs worked together to help build it.

I’m looking for the National Theater, but get distracted at the Plazoleta Medio Baluarte by what lies to the south. I follow my curiosity and find myself wandering below the covered Paseo Esteban Huertas and around the walking path to the Monumento al canal de Panama.

From the monument I pause to look back at the shore, the colonial buildings that had surrounded me during my walk, the beach I had emerged onto earlier in the day. A few people practice football drills on the sand, a family watches their child toddle towards the sea.

Continuing along the edge of the promontory I spot a photo shoot happening in a park before the monument, a woman dressed in a gown and tiara, flanked by her parents.

Back on the main streets I walk north to the theater and the Plaza Simón Bolívar. I stop in the Iglesia San Francisco De Asis and then walk around the park. On the northwestern edge I try to continue north but am stopped by police. It turns out that that way lies Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

I walk to the south and peer into the Parish of San Felipe de Neri with its impressive nativity before winding my way to the Plaza Herrera where I dine at La Fishería Seafood. I order a ceviche and the waitress suggests a trio instead so that I can sample them all. I am amenable. It’s my first Panamanian meal.

The restaurant is only blocks away from my hotel. In all, the Casco Viejo is a compact place, and I’ll get to know it well over the next two weeks. Today, I am happy with my wanderings. I’ve seen much without having intended to see much at all, and have my bearings. 🇵🇦