this wasn’t a good idea,” I say.
“What wasn’t?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean going to find your father?”
I think I mean all of it: taking a leave of absence from school, lying to my mother, coming to Panama, talking to Danilo, getting on the bus, and yes, going to find my father. But what I say again is, “I don’t know.”
Danilo straightens and focuses his brown eyes on mine. “Miraflores,” he says. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Well, I keep meaning it. I just don’t think I’m ready yet.”
Danilo doesn’t say anything at first. “Where do you want to go?” he finally asks.
I brush my knuckles over my lips. “Back to the hotel?”
He shakes his head. “You can’t spend your whole time in Panamá in the hotel.”
“I’m not. I’m on the bus right now.”
“But we haven’t gotten anywhere yet. No. We have to go somewhere.”
I know where we are before he tells me. Panamá La Vieja. Old Panama. The vestiges of what the city used to be. Danilo acts surprised when I say it. I tell him I read about it in my guidebook.
“We call it Panamá Viejo,” he says. Then with considerable amusement he asks, “What else do they tell you in that guidebook?”
I shrug, feeling embarrassed, offended, something.
We walk across the soft, patchy grass to a small collection of ruins: crumbling stone half-walls no more than two feet high, weathered and blackened; windows without roofs; rooms without floors; buildings that are skeletons without flesh. Weeds sprout in between the rocks. Stones are hidden beneath matted grass. At the edge of the bones of the ancient city is a three-story-tall stone bell tower, still fairly intact.
Danilo says, “It was part of the cathedral.”
I follow him inside the hollow tower and stand on the grass floor. Faint sunlight runs through the tall rectangular window openings and scatters down on us as we gaze up, our hands cupped like visors over our eyes. The smell is musty and warm.
“What do you think?” Danilo asks. His voice echoes a bit.
“It’s nice,” I say. I’m trying to come up with a reason why he brought me here, of all places.
Danilo takes a few steps and runs his palm along one of the walls, covered with gnarled moss. “I think it’s fucked up.”
“What?” I drop my hand and look at him.
“This place. It’s fucked up. There were pirates who came here and torched it.” He turns to me. “Did your guidebook tell you that?”
“Who? They did what?”
Danilo cups a hand over one eye and pumps his other arm as if he’s doing a jig. “They set it on fire.”
I can’t help laughing at his pantomime. “Pirates?” I say in English.
“Isn’t that what I said? ¿Piratas? ”
“Henry Morgan, right?”
“That’s the dude who fucked everything up.”
“But I thought I read . . . I thought when he was attacked, this was a Spanish city.”
“So? It was here, wasn’t it?”
“But it belonged to Spain.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It was still here. It belonged to us, even if the name of here wasn’t Panamá at the time.”
“The boundaries of a place are always changing,” I say. He stares at me, puzzled. I’m not sure I used the right word in Spanish for “boundaries.” “I mean that you can’t say a place belongs to a country just because of the land it’s on. A long time ago this land was Spain’s, so the city would have belonged to Spain. Now the land is Panamá’s, so the city belongs to Panamá. In a thousand years it could be China’s, so it would belong to China.”
He looks unconvinced.
“I’m saying it’s all political. They’re just different names for the same place. The land doesn’t belong to anyone. It only belongs to itself.”
Maybe my Spanish is shaky, because he still looks perplexed. But then he says, “Geography is an illusion? Is that what you mean?”
Exactly. I tried to explain the same concept to
“What wasn’t?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean going to find your father?”
I think I mean all of it: taking a leave of absence from school, lying to my mother, coming to Panama, talking to Danilo, getting on the bus, and yes, going to find my father. But what I say again is, “I don’t know.”
Danilo straightens and focuses his brown eyes on mine. “Miraflores,” he says. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Well, I keep meaning it. I just don’t think I’m ready yet.”
Danilo doesn’t say anything at first. “Where do you want to go?” he finally asks.
I brush my knuckles over my lips. “Back to the hotel?”
He shakes his head. “You can’t spend your whole time in Panamá in the hotel.”
“I’m not. I’m on the bus right now.”
“But we haven’t gotten anywhere yet. No. We have to go somewhere.”
I know where we are before he tells me. Panamá La Vieja. Old Panama. The vestiges of what the city used to be. Danilo acts surprised when I say it. I tell him I read about it in my guidebook.
“We call it Panamá Viejo,” he says. Then with considerable amusement he asks, “What else do they tell you in that guidebook?”
I shrug, feeling embarrassed, offended, something.
We walk across the soft, patchy grass to a small collection of ruins: crumbling stone half-walls no more than two feet high, weathered and blackened; windows without roofs; rooms without floors; buildings that are skeletons without flesh. Weeds sprout in between the rocks. Stones are hidden beneath matted grass. At the edge of the bones of the ancient city is a three-story-tall stone bell tower, still fairly intact.
Danilo says, “It was part of the cathedral.”
I follow him inside the hollow tower and stand on the grass floor. Faint sunlight runs through the tall rectangular window openings and scatters down on us as we gaze up, our hands cupped like visors over our eyes. The smell is musty and warm.
“What do you think?” Danilo asks. His voice echoes a bit.
“It’s nice,” I say. I’m trying to come up with a reason why he brought me here, of all places.
Danilo takes a few steps and runs his palm along one of the walls, covered with gnarled moss. “I think it’s fucked up.”
“What?” I drop my hand and look at him.
“This place. It’s fucked up. There were pirates who came here and torched it.” He turns to me. “Did your guidebook tell you that?”
“Who? They did what?”
Danilo cups a hand over one eye and pumps his other arm as if he’s doing a jig. “They set it on fire.”
I can’t help laughing at his pantomime. “Pirates?” I say in English.
“Isn’t that what I said? ¿Piratas? ”
“Henry Morgan, right?”
“That’s the dude who fucked everything up.”
“But I thought I read . . . I thought when he was attacked, this was a Spanish city.”
“So? It was here, wasn’t it?”
“But it belonged to Spain.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It was still here. It belonged to us, even if the name of here wasn’t Panamá at the time.”
“The boundaries of a place are always changing,” I say. He stares at me, puzzled. I’m not sure I used the right word in Spanish for “boundaries.” “I mean that you can’t say a place belongs to a country just because of the land it’s on. A long time ago this land was Spain’s, so the city would have belonged to Spain. Now the land is Panamá’s, so the city belongs to Panamá. In a thousand years it could be China’s, so it would belong to China.”
He looks unconvinced.
“I’m saying it’s all political. They’re just different names for the same place. The land doesn’t belong to anyone. It only belongs to itself.”
Maybe my Spanish is shaky, because he still looks perplexed. But then he says, “Geography is an illusion? Is that what you mean?”
Exactly. I tried to explain the same concept to
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