Saturday

I dont know how many parks are in this area so I am sitting here. I am on the corner of two of the most familiar streets to me here in Panama City. Alongside runs the Internet Street, 3 blocks of Pan territoral satellite stations. In between are watch shoppes, hole in the wall food stations, variety stores and all that. Alls upported by the non-Panamanian shoppers rolling out fo the the two massive hotels just across from here. The Veneto and the Hotel Panama are the two monoliths, like two cruise ships permanentlly docked.

It is 7.30 am on a Saturday morning and it was easier to reacht ht spot I am now at. The via Espania was empty today. Everyone leaves on the weekend, at leas all of the Panamanians. The tourists leave too except they start from here. This part of town is Belle Vista, the financcial capital of Panama. The Frankfurt of a little Germany.

A stiff wind blows through the streets this morning. It pushes and prevents an even faster speed of everything to anything that moves. It is a minute impact in a place that is concretely established and firm in its resolution. I looked for a part but was unable to find one. There are not many I can see. Streets, alleys and roads and the only free space that allows a vantage point of solace siin the balconys and the windows which line the verticle space above all the action below. These windows dont let me see in. Their hotel samness abounds. I see pleated curtains and slight differences in their openness.

The taxis are cheap here. One dollar per person within this part of town. Why walk far, the sidewalks are dangerous and the traffic signs are not obeyed. The pedestrian traffic is not encouraged here, the population inside air conditioning is. That is when I realize I am entering a store, when I feel that wall of air strike me. My sweat crystallizes on impact and leaves me with a salty imperceptible glaze.

There is money here in Panama but it is impossible to see. The traces are hidden from the common world. of light, blood and memory. Under the guise of tourism and poverty is a real Panama. It is speculating wealth that keeps this Isthmus afloat, money hidden behind walls like people and possessions, that cannot be seen because it is most protected when it is invisible.

The poorest city in Panama is Colon, which houses a gated metropolis named the Free Zone. Its infintessimal concreteness wants me to write poetry there. But such a freedom could not survive there.