The Deuce Club, 2.27

by Pete Bodo

No, I'm not Jackie-Oh, as you probably already know. I'm taking this over today because I can't seem to find her, and all I've heard is the same rumor as some of the rest of you: something about writing on a bathroom mirror, in bright red lipstick: Going to meet Gilles in St. Barts, hold my mail. . .

Ha. I was originally supposed to fill this space with a report on my vacation in Panama, but I was long-winded (as usual) in my most recent post, and won't be able to get it done until later this evening. But I wanted to provide you with the DC for today at the usual time, so here it is.

This is a picture of Luke, feeding the chickens at La Loma Lodge, where we spent four days in Panama. The dog in the background is Goose, and when I saw first saw him, waiting for us in the dock as the boat pulled up, it almost broke my heart. Goose looks almost exactly like my old girl Lucy, whom we lost about five years ago. The only real difference is the Lucy was black with a white blaze on her chest. Strikingly, Goose has the same smile, the same ticks and habits (a gentle mouthiness, a really firm tail wag that endangers anything standing near it, a tendency to form a "U" up against your leg as you scratch the magic spot where his backbone meets his tail, combined with a loving stare and happy panting).

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Our flight to Panama took about four-and-a-half hours, which is about an hour and change longer than a typical flight to Miami (Some friends were surprised to hear that you can fly direct to Panama City from New York, but there it is). But that little extra time (and the unavoidable hassles of customs and passport control) get you somewhere considerably more exotic than Biscayne Boulevard, or Sea World. Let me say up front that overall we had no real adventures, harrowing or otherwise - if you discount having to drive on some pretty busted-up roads in a rental car on which every ding and pock-mark has been duly noted, with the expectation that you'll pony up should you add to the damage). This was a family vacation, and we carried light sabers (you can see Luke carrying his omni-present green one in the picture, just in case Jobba the Hutt or Boba Fett had designs on mommy), not emergency safety beacons and aluminum space blankets.

Our first stop was El Valle, a small town that grew up inside the cone of an enormous volcano that, post-eruption, became a lake (think Crater Lake). But at some point a wall of the volcano was breached, and all the water rushed out,leaving a rich, fertile green cup surrounded by towering peaks. This was on the Pacific side of Panama, about two hours driving time from Panama City. We eventually hiked the original breach for a few clicks, as a raucous brook still carves its way through the rugged gorge through which the lake was emptied.

Later, we took a horseback ride that we had booked in advance. That was a little surreal, as the operators of the franchise were an elderly crone and her (presumed) grandchildren, as fine an assortment of dirty -faced urchins as you'll find anywhere. Somehow, this crew had managed to cling to the small farm and keep a stable of horses, even though the area around them had become something like an upscale ex-urban community - a tropical Aspen featuring the McHaciendas of Panama City's well-heeled residents, complete with well-paved streets and gardeners with leaf blowers. We more or less blew off the ride about halfway through; the nags were dispirited and I didn't really feel good about clip-clopping along on a strange trail patched together from equal parts dirt wagon track, macadam, and various people's back (and front) yards, alongside parked Range Rovers and Mercedeses.

It was dry but very windy on the Pacific side, which was nice - I'm a fan of big weather and enjoyed lying in bed and listening to the palm fronds rattle and shake.

After two days in El Valle, we returned to Panama City and caught a 40-minute flight to Bocas del Toro, where a boat was waiting to take us to La Loma Jungle Lodge on the small island of Bastimentieos. There are no roads on the island, boats are the only mode of transportation. We were guests of Henry and Margaret, he a Chilean who grew up in Los Angeles and she an English girl from Brighton. They'd just had their first child, Lucho, a few months earlier. Our fellow guests were a pair of young couples, one from London and the other from Chicago (by way of Brooklyn).

The accommodations at the lodge are built on the sides of nearly vertical slopes, and easily mistaken for tree houses, the way they're suspended out in space, with lush foliage all around them. Each one (I believe there are only three besides the main lodge, which sits at the base of the slope on level ground) is hidden from the others, and two have ocean views. Our tree house was a big, square room ("deck" might be a better word) with no walls and a thatched roof;the two beds were enclosed in a fabric box of fine, white, gauzy mosquito netting (although there were few bugs); it was like sleeping outdoors, but with electricity and a spacious bathroom with shower and a sink.

On previous Central America jaunts, we'd tramped around quite a bit, but La Loma proved an ideal place for what I would call a "relaxacation." There are hiking trails, including one challenging one, and we made excursions by boat to various small beaches on the windward side, and up a wild mangrove "creek" (where we saw a five-foot alligator well-hidden in the mangrove roots along shore, indolently waiting for one of the sloths to plop into the water from the canopy that arched over the canal). But mostly, the days revolved around three fine meals (I think I had at least a dozen vegetables and fruits I'd never even knew existed) prepared by Henry and his native helpers. We had plenty of time for lounging around the tree house, napping or reading between meals. I'm not very good at that kind of thing, though, so I was often a little restless. But my wife, Lisa, was a little under the weather so it did her good.

Henry and Margaret are into sustainable, ecologically sound farming, which made me suspect that their annoyance quotient as eco-Puritans could be really high. But Henry is an old-school type Renaissance man with surprisingly wide knowledge of many things. They're a delightful, cosmopolitan couple, and while they support their way of life (and that of a small staff) with tourism, I felt that they're genuinely social and were entertaining rather than merely providing a service. The meals were exquisite, and lovingly prepared, using most ingredients grown right there. Henry and Margaret grow a dizzying array of foodstuffs, from cocoa beans to star fruit and yucca. Each night, Henry made an exotic concoction featuring rum and some combination of fruit.

It was a great trip for Luke, partly because of the warmth showered on him by our hosts and fellow guests (Paul, a software-writer from Chicago, turned out to be a big Stars Wars guy, which may have taken his girlfriend, Helen, by surprise). In fact, by the second of our four-plus days, Luke made a breakthrough. For the first time in his life, he decided he wanted to go off on his own - down to the lodge, to "hang out" with people besides his parents. That day, I watched him descend the 75 yards of very steep, natural steps, and make his way along the elevated wooden boardwalk to the lodge, which was barely visible about 300 yards away and below us among the trees.

At seven every morning,Kelly, Henry's right-hand man, would bring us a tray with a thermos of coffee and freshly baked muffins or rolls, plus orange juice for Luke. On the third morning of our stay, I brought in the coffee and noticed that Henry had forgotten to send up the usual small, plastic container of milk. I groaned. Neither Lisa nor I felt much like descending all the way to the lodge to get milk, but then I hit upon a bright idea - let's send Luke!

I expected he might get distracted and forget to come back, or drop the milk. He's performed small chores before (which usually required re-performance by an adult), but this was something like a real errand. He left and returned immediately, carefully holding the milk as he climbed the stairs. I felt a twinge of melancholy watching him; I realized I was witnessing a warning shot fired across my bow, reminding me that while he's just six, he's already growing up and there's a reason dozens of people have counseled me to enjoy these times, because they vanish for good, and faster than you'd think.

I got over that, though, and was soon plotting ways I might induce him to mow the lawn, paint the picnic table, or put the chains on the tractor.

It rained almost continuously for one day; dense, gray sheets of the kind you rarely get outside the tropics. The rest of the time it was mostly sunny with the occasional shower.

We flew back to Panama City on Saturday afternoon, with an 8:30 pm Sunday night flight out. We wanted to see the locks of the Panama canal, and perhaps a few other sights. We got lucky. Reuben, the cabbie who took us from the airport to our hotel, was a prince. We hit it off so well that the next morning we engaged him for the entire day (total cost: 80 bucks, but I happily added a hefty tip). Reuben drove us all over the place, explained a great many things about his city and country, and generally made it a great, memorable day. I took his card, so if you're ever going to Panama, give me a call.. .

Also, here's a PSA from Master Ace:

GVGirl wanted me to let TW know that Talk About Tennis will be having a gathering next week at noon(CST) before the Davis Cup tie (in Birmingham) begins for a quick meet and greet. Even though I won’t see any matches, I will be at the meet and greet on Friday. Plans are to meet at the BJCC ( Birmingham-Jefferson Civic Center ) sign.

This is a good DC for discussing your winter blues, and any vacation you may have taken recently, or plan on taking soon. I'll be back to sub out the post with a more detailed description of the trip later.