5:21PM. Store in Isla Colon where reggae rocks zucchini
Authenticity has a smell.
And Isla Colon smells like a real place. I can’t put a finger on it but it’s a smell you don’t find on the streets of gated communities in Scottsdale or Fort Lauderdale.
It’s the smell of burnt rubber from the sudden breaking of vehicles to make way for errant pedestarians, the aroma of deep fried- cholestrol laden-but absolutely delicious food being cooked in a corner kiosk. It’s the smell of freshly cut watermelons being sold on a cart.
At my annual medical check before this trip, I was diagnosed with Vitamin D deficiency. Apparently, sitting at my desk in Manhattan had taken a toll on my immune system. Here very close to the equator. I’ve been hoping I’d get a natural dose of my prescription.
But the weather here has been moodier than a 2 year old without a nap.
9 degrees north of the equator and the hot air hits you like a blast from a 425-degree oven but then just as suddenly the clouds throw a tantrum and lash rain.
Clearly Panama Tourism struggles with this too because they never seem to commit to anything in their brochures.
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