Category Archives: Month Two

Pop quiz while you’re waiting for the conclusion to the maid story…

You’re in a restaurant and decide to excuse yourself and go to the restroom. There are two doors, one for men and one for women, you imagine, but which is which?

Which do you choose?

Eric and I independently decided that the mask must be for women and the nautical themed thing for men, but um…why?  Why these two things.  No tienen nada que ver uno con el otro.  They don’t have anything to do with one another.  Ah, crazy little Panamanian restaurant.

In other “Oh, Panama” news, I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday in Hospital Punta Pacífica.  It’s the really fancy hospital in the city, where all the rich people go (“The Jews!” as my Spanish teacher says), so you’d expect nothing but professionalism, right?  Well, I got into the elevator, and obviously they were refurbishing it or something.  I understand having to put down some cardboard on the floor, but I think I would’ve chosen a different box:

I would translate for you, but I think it is pretty clear.

I would translate for you, but I think it is pretty clear.

As far as new directly related to Diana, Michele, Kevin, Brandan, and a few others goes, they DO play volleyball here, albeit on a court that looks like a basketball court and where they usually play fútbol.  Hey, I’m trying guys.  Come down to visit and I’ll find something.  I’ll even pepper with you if I have to.  Wouldn’t that be worth the trip?  Lots of exercise from chasing the ball!

The "volleyball court"

The “volleyball court”

In other miscellaneous news, I was looking for squash the other day b/c we need to eat more veggies.  I was looking for, you know, little yellow bulbs with the long stem things, right?  Couldn’t find it anywhere.  I had just learned, or rather heard, the word in my Spanish lesson, but I couldn’t remember it, and I really didn’t want to cheat and look it up.  Finally I ran into this guy.  Squash:

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A giant piece (like a big piece of watermelon) of squash!  Weird.  We haven’t cooked it yet.  I’m sure it’ll be great.

Two other pieces of random news:

First, I made it down to our pool for a couple of minutes while Eric was still struggling away with his Spanish lesson, just in time for a larger, wrinkly viejo (old man – seems nicer in another language) to get in the pool for his exercise).  I just laid in the chair thanking God for our good fortune in being in such a beautiful place.  I took pictures.  I took the obligatory selfies, but they all came out horribly b/c I still look sickly.  I read a bit of the Panamanian version of Entertainment Weekly that I bought, but I’ve been reading it in voz alta (out loud) in order to practice my accent.  I also read it with a highlighter in hand (once a lawyer, always a lawyer), so I can highlight the words I don’t understand and go back to learn them later.  I can’t imagine what I would think if I saw someone reading the Enquirer with a highlighter.  I must look like an idiot.  Or maybe like some version of the girl in “Splash!” with Tom Hanks.  Does anyone remember that movie?  Love that movie, although it gave me false hope for learning a new language in 5 days just by watching TV.  Dirty.

If you blow up this picture, you can see our old building to the left of the center of the photo, to the right of our current building. It appears to be touching our current building. It's orange/peach.

If you blow up this picture, you can see our old building just behind the stairs coming out of the pool and the pool chairs, to the immediate right of the columns. It appears to be touching our current building. It’s orange/peach and white.

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The other random news is that Addie continues to suffer in Asheville at the hands of my parents.  She is forced to contend with wild beasts:

However, there is hope!  She recently had a moderately successful escape attempt!  She ran out into the snow a couple of nights ago into what I can only describe as Narnia:

I don't know...it's something about the lamppost and the snow...work with me on this one.

I don’t know…it’s something about the lamppost and the snow…work with me on this one.

…but she came home a mere 15 minutes later with “snow nose.”  She took three laps of water, then lay/laid/lied/sat down on her bed and slept for the rest of the day.  I can’t imagine what snow horrors must have befallen her.  I mean, pobrecita!

Luckily, we’ve been working with my parents, or rather, my parents have been working really hard to try to figure out the logistics of how to get her sent down to us.  I know all the steps, but I can’t help with any of them from here except for the bill-paying, which I’m sure will be appreciated.  Oh, and I’m trying to contact the airport doggie importer lady through our friend Jorge to see if we can get the inside scoop.  But that’s all another post.

Stay warm, Friends!  I hope you all have power!  We have been thinking of you and have loved seeing all of your sweet snow photos!  Oh!  I have to post one more thing.  On February 21 – so Saturday, I guess, at 10:08, I received this picture from my dear friend Becca.

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Not 30 minutes later, at 10:43 am on the same day, my friend Ali sent the following photo:

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Almost identical, right?  Meanwhile, my parents had sent these:

Apparently when it snows and you want to show someone far away that it snowed, you take a picture of your back deck.  Cracked me up.  It makes sense though.  I wouldn’t go any further than that, and you can always tell how many inches you got by measuring how much fell on the table on the back deck.  I love it.  Facebook was also covered with these pictures.

Keep ’em coming!  I love seeing them!  I know y’all are sick to death of the snow, but gosh, it makes for beautiful photos and great family/kid pics.  I’m so grateful for WhatsApp, FaceTime, Facebook, blogging, etc.  I don’t feel nearly as far from y’all as I thought I would, although I miss you all dearly!

Empleadas

Today is a strange one.  This morning our first “empleada,” Marta, began work at 8.  Meaning, we now have a cleaning lady.  WHAT?  Why don’t you just clean your own little apartment?!  It’s just the two of you!  You don’t have kids!!  You don’t work full time even!  I know, I know.  It’s part of the culture here.  It’s cheap.  I’m taking it as part of the experience of living here.  It is sure to provide hours (or at least minutes…I already have worries about this lady) of entertainment for y’all.  We always have the windows open and never use air conditioning, so the place is constantly covered with dust and dirt.  There are all kinds of ways I can justify it.  Al fin, it’s just plain nice to have someone do all of this.  Laundry, mop the floors, heck, right now she’s wiping off the outside of the cabinets.  When is the last time you even thought about doing that?!

So this will likely take many more posts to explain, but there’s this whole crazy culture around these cleaning ladies.  There are a billion rules about how to treat them, how much to pay them, what they can eat while they’re working.  You should be nice to them, but not too nice.  You should be authoritative, but not mean.  A few of these rules:

  • The woman of the house is the one who issues the instructions to the empleada.  As we all know, the woman of the house is the one who ALWAYS cares for all household matters, so obviously she is the authority here.  A big change from the workplace in Panamá where a female boss gets no respect, not even from her female employees.  A male boss gets immediate results.
  • You just plain can’t be friends with your empleada.  They will think you are weak and stupid, and they will begin to manipulate you.
  • If you feel sorry for your empleada’s situation and want to help her to get an education, for example, you just can’t…or rather, shouldn’t.  It won’t work.  Period.  My friend from high school who moved here 10 years ago said this is really hard.  She’s the nicest person ever, and she wanted to help a young girl who worked for her by helping her to go to college.  The girl ended up using the money to buy shoes or jeans or something – wasted it all – and ended up exactly where she started.  There are a million stories like this.
  • You have to tell them exactly what food they can eat while they are eating and what food they can’t have.  You generally have to feed them breakfast and lunch when they are working.  One woman told me that her daughters drink Tropicana orange juice, which is $5/carton here.  She tells her empleada that she can’t drink that juice.  She buys cheaper juice for her.
  • You have to tell them exactly how much food they can eat when they are working.  This same woman told me that she told her empleada that she could make a sandwich using the ham in the fridge.  The empleada used ALL the ham.  She ate the whole package.
  • You have to be very literal and very specific about your instructions and about the privileges that you give them.  Another story:  A woman had a live-in nanny/housekeeper for a number of months.  When the woman and her husband went on vacation with the kids for a weekend, they told the nanny she could watch whatever she wanted on tv, including pay-per-view.  I guess it was a few years ago.  🙂  When they came back, they found out that the nanny had just constantly had the tv on with a pay-per-view movie playing.  Not the same one, but different ones, one after another, for the whole weekend.  They had a huge bill.  But the reasoning, so they say, is that the nanny was told that she could do it, so she did exactly as she was told.  No need for common sense to kick in.

People talk about these women as a class, as a singular group.  It sounds awful.  “You have to treat THEM this way.”  “You can’t let THEM have the good juice because they’ll drink the whole $5 bottle in one day!”  “If you let them get away with being late once, they’ll never be on time again.”  I did it in the rules above.  It’s how people talk about them.  It’s the culture.

I can’t imagine being one of these women.  They are treated this way, so they must be forced to behave in a certain way to get by.  I imagine that you get to the point where you have to try to take advantage or manipulate your employer because otherwise you’re going to get treated like a slave.  Or maybe not.  I don’t know.  This is all so foreign to me!  Aren’t there empleadas out there who are honest hard-working people who do a good job and earn the money that they are owed and get along with their employers?  And aren’t there employers who treat their employees well?  Or is the entire system too messed up by all these people who don’t treat each other well and by the stories that everyone tells to ever be decent?

I’m already jaded, and we’ve had an empleada in our employ for a little over an hour!  I’m nervous.  I’m completely on edge.  I’m don’t know if I should be following her from room to room to make sure my stuff is safe.  (Luckily, we didn’t bring much with us, so we don’t have much to take!).  I think carefully about each thing that I say to her and how I say it.  Be nice, but firm.  Say it with authority, but don’t be a jerk.  Set precedent from the very beginning.

I even dressed up.  Since we got here, and especially since I got sick and since I’ve been recovering (yep, still recovering…you don’t want details.  Ever heard of Clostridium difficile or C. Diff.?  Don’t look it up.  TMI.), I’ve been wearing shorts, tank tops, and my rainbows (flip-flops for Eric…I swear, we’ve been together for over three years and he still has no idea what I mean when I say Rainbows.  Yep, STILL means my same flip-flops!  Clearly he didn’t go to Carolina.) every day.  Yes, I look like a Gringa at the grocery store, but guess what?  I’m a Gringa.  They’re gonna know it no matter what I wear or no matter what color I dye my hair.  I’m pale, my Spanish isn’t up to par…there’s no hope.  I’m gonna be comfortable.

But today, I got up super early, showered, and put on a dress and heels, hoping to look like una dama, a lady, a respectable woman that this woman, Marta, should listen to, like, and…well…respect!  I think the height helps my confidence too.  It’s hard to be 5’3″ and confident.  It really is.  I don’t know how my sister does it as a pediatric CT surgeon.  She’s my size, but when she walks into the OR, it is HER OR.  It’s HER surgery.  The patient whose life is on the line is her responsibility, and she has to command respect from everyone working with her.  I try to do it in the courtroom too, but at least I have some distance from the judge.  I don’t have to stand right next to him or her and show exactly how short I am.  It helps.  🙂

One of these days, I’ll have to go into all the politics about how Panamanian empleadas are different from Colombian and Nicaraguan empleadas b/c of changes in immigration laws passed by the last (very corrupt) president of Panama and all the new prejudices and attitudes that each group has towards the other because of all of this.  It’s amazing how involved all of this is.  This ain’t Merry Maids!

I’ll let you know how the rest of the day goes…

Big trip to the big mall

*Written on Thursday, February 19.*
Yesterday was probably the most productive day I’ve had yet this year.  Carnival was over, so everything slowly opened back up around noon.  It was high time for Eric and I to schedule wifi installation, open a bank account, and buy some necessities for the new apartment like more dishes, towels, and kitchen supplies.  Although I still had/have not completely recovered, we had to make the trip to Albrook Mall, the biggest mall in Panama City, and in my mind, the world.  It’s huge.  See?
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Our new place is still just a few blocks from metro, so we hopped on and rode the few stops to the mall.  Luckily, the cable place was right in the middle of the food court – you know, right by the carousel – so it was easy to find and shockingly empty.  Within about 20 minutes of talking to a very nice woman and giving her a copy of our apartment lease (strange, right?), we had an appointment scheduled for the cable company to come out within 48 hours to install the Internets.  I’m trying not to get my hopes up too high for the actual installation to happen on time and go smoothly, but I was really grateful that the first step wasn’t painful.  Amazing.
We next went to the bank.  Now, as you know from older posts, this is not the first attempt at getting a bank account.  We researched this heavily before we left the US, and everyone told us it was nearly impossible to open an account as an Estadounidense (American…but as I might have mentioned before, some people down here don’t love us using that term b/c this whole hemisphere is full of “Americans”!  North Americans, Central Americans, South Americans…why does the USA get to claim it?  We don’t have another word for it in English though, do we?).  Eric boldly tried a few different banks while I was sick and worked really hard to overcome the language barrier.  Unfortunately, each bank has a slightly different set of requirements for opening an account, and he was never able to make it happen.  I can’t tell you how proud I was of him for trying without me, but as he said, it needed to be done and I was too sick to make it happen.  You do what you have to do.
So this time we were trying a bank that has several more convenient locations – both of ATMs and branches – than did the banks we’d been told to try.  We walked in and it was a complete madhouse.  Maybe 40 customers in a tiny location.  The line system was not immediately discernible, other than for the main counter.  After asking the security guard where to go, we stood in line by an empty desk for several minutes waiting for someone to appear to help us.  Eventually Eric’s passport info was taken and we were told to have a seat…when one became available.  By this time, I was feeling a little weak and my still-water logged cankles needed relief, so Eric was gracious in staking out and giving me a seat.
We were asked to fill out an application while we waited, and in doing so we gave them home (US and Panamá) and work addresses, personal and bank references, passport info, marital status, eye color (well, maybe not that), and every phone number we’ve ever had.  We had also finally come prepared with the appropriate reference letters – one from Bank of America saying that Eric has been a customer for over 3 years, listing the date he opened his account and balances from several dates, and the other from Red Hat (Eric’s work) saying that he was receiving steady income.
After another 45 min or so of waiting and boxing out when a new old lady would come in and try to skip ahead of us in “line,” we were finally called to a desk to speak to a bank employee.  She had to call Bank of America to verify that the letter we had was legit.  She asked for Eric’s passport, driver’s license, and debit card from BoA.  She asked for his former employer.  She asked for two references in the US, but for some reason only wanted the phone number of one and the address of the other.  She asked for two references in Panamá.  She asked for his beneficiary.  She asked how we decided to move to Panama and when we first visited the country.  Social security number, pants size, favorite color, and on and on.  In short, if you are reading this, Banistmo bank of Panamá probably knows you and your family, and may have custody of your first born.  Sorry about that.  We really needed to open this account.
The good news is that after two hours of figuring out the waiting system, waiting, filling out paperwork, and generally trying to convince this woman that we had more than $500 to our names, we had a bank account!  No waiting for weeks as we had been told we would have to do.  We made a deposit – with a US check, no less – and our account was ready to go!  I can’t tell you how exciting it was.
I was exhausted when we left the bank, but since we’d been sitting for most of that time, I still had some energy left to shop for new apartment necessities.  We managed to find a set of dishes, silverware, spatula (which is surprisingly hard to find down here!  We can’t figure that one out.  How do they flip pancakes?  What do they do about scrambled eggs?!), hot pads, glasses, hand towels, and measuring cups all in one store.  It was at that point we decided that a cab ride was in order.  Once the lady put nearly all of the heavy things mentioned above in one bag and handed it to Eric, we decided metro was no longer a feasible option.
The cab ride home was worth the cost.  We haggled a bit with the very old man driver (I wanted to use the word octogenarian b/c it’s a great word, but would’ve call myself pretentious for using it) who couldn’t talk – an interesting ordeal in and of itself – then hopped in.  This guy was perhaps the best cab driver I’ve had since I’ve been here.  He was hilarious.  Again, he had no voice, for one reason or another, but he was very animated and clearly enjoyed what he did.  About halfway home, we came to a point where the left turn is blocked, and you are supposed to go down the road a ways, do a U-turn, then make the right hand turn.  He was not having any of this.  He stopped short of the blocked off part of the road and floored it around the barrier.  It was a great move, and he knew it!  He made this hand signal that was part snap and part shaking off his hand like it was wet***…hard to describe, but just precious…and cracked up.  He was so proud of himself!  He then made a bunch of hand motions indicating that he would have had to go all the way around, but he totally pulled off cheating the system.  So cute.
We were just a few blocks from home when the cab slowed.  I looked around, positive that he couldn’t be slowing to let another car out in front of him b/c that just plain doesn’t happen here, but couldn’t figure out what he was doing.  Suddenly, he did the snapping motion again, laughed, and sped up.  After he let us out, Eric explained to me that he had been checking out a lady on the sidewalk!  Too funny.
All in all, a very successful trip.  Hardly any Panama-isms had befallen us and slowed us down; we had actually accomplished that which we had set out to do!  Incredible.
***Eric just came into the room and explained to me that a better way to describe the hand motion was part snap and part what you do to pack a can of dip or chew.  Wow.  So proud of that boy.  Then again, I’m guessing that at least half of you completely understand the motion now.