Panamania

My dearest faithful readers, I have returned after a short and sweaty stint in Central America which provided the perfect antidote to my post-graduation unemployment anxiety.  The island of Bocas del Toro felt somewhat like a college town itself (maybe because of the size, maybe because of the amount of alcohol consumed).  

The place is virtually teeming with travelers from all walks of life and ends of the earth - we made friends from Israel, the U.K., and obviously America.  I snorkled and watched dolphins off the coast of Isla Bastimentos (a fifteen-minute boat ride from Bocas), played with starfish, developed a sixth sense for seeking out air-conditioned locales, slept in many a hammock, got eaten alive by mosquitos, danced the night away on a floating dock, had the wackiest mani-pedi of my life for a grand total of $8, and cooked dinner for the former owner of famous L.A. restaurant The Factory (not only did Larry help convince Colin Powell to endorse Obama, he also spent a night in jail with Martin Luther King, Jr.  Seriously.  We made him pasta). 

But by far the recommendation of highest order goes to the hostel where we laid our bags, relaxed, and allowed the stress of the past few months to peel away faster than our rapidly burning skin.  I would go back to Bocas just for Mondo Taitu.  The evidence that this sentiment is shared by all who spend the night is in the walls plastered with scrawled declarations of love and inspiration, in the family dinners that occur five nights a week in the common area, and in the sense of community that encourages backpackers who are "just passing through" to stay for weeks, months and even years on end.  

So now I'm back to reality, back to New York's bustling brew of culture and noise, but my perspective is slightly altered.  Maybe I'm just passing through, or maybe I'm here to stay.