This is a special blog posting that I trust will give the reader a better feel for what it is like to live in a foreign country. Yes, I do love it here in Panama and will admit that some times I get almost evangelical when extolling the virtues of my new home. But, one is confronted with cultural differences that you just have to learn to accept, or tolerate, or maybe ignore. It also helps to keep your sense of humor. Read on.
Fast Food In Panama?
As I have discussed on several occasions, there are some things about living in Panama that take some getting used to. And admittedly, some things that, try as you will, I don’t believe you ever can fully adjust to. A classic example is the very idea of ‘fast food’ in Panama, and in any Latin American culture for that matter.
I was in the neighborhood Friday afternoon and decided it would be a good idea to duck in the David McDonalds for a chicken sandwich (the only thing I have eaten in Mickey D’s for years). As soon as I got in the door, I knew it was trouble. The lines at the registers were about six deep – maybe not a ‘long’ line or a big deal in Lubbock or Wichita, but we are not …..…. It did not make me feel any better when, after a quick scan of the goings-on, it appeared that it was the first day for all of the employees – the first day of training! But, as luck would have it, at that precise moment it began to pour outside.
So I just smiled and braced myself and, sure enough, when the lady who was next in line stepped to the counter to order, it was obviously the first time it occurred to her that she had some choices to make, or that she might want to consider the menu selections. Equally predictable, that was about the time her three kids, who had been ‘stored’ in a booth, showed up and we had to go through the Happy Meal choices – three times, you can’t expect kids to ‘listen up’ for a single recitation. But, finally – no wait, now the cashier comes out with the handful of gift selections that go with the Happy Meals, which requires another round of head scratching. Finally – NO WAIT, we have to pay also? Where did we put our wallet? No not here, maybe??? Grrrrr….
The next person in line was a repeat (Is this S.O.B. scripted?), with the exception that there were four kids and the additional problem of a husband who did not chose to walk across the room, but had impressed his 10-year old who was shuttling back and forth that there would be dire consequences if Dad’s order was not right.
That scenario was repeated again (Iguess it’s not a script - it’s required) with the third lady, except at the 11th hour her precocious 8-year old had to march everyone to the other side of the store where the display of the Happy Meal gifts clearly displayed two items that were not offered by the clerk. A big discussion was then finally resolved when a management type of some variety was called in to mediate (it seemed like he must have come from Costa Rica and not merely the back room). Of course, then he husband did have to be called over because after considerable digging around it turned out she did not have enough money.
When I finally stepped up and ordered the cashier was obviously caught off guard by that bold and impetuous move, and said, in amazement, something like “You want to order?” I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “No, I want to shoot myself”, opting instead to make a wisecrack, assuming that he wouldn’t understand. (Sure enough, my reference to ‘eating my last meal’ meant nothing to him.). When he made mentioned the ‘jubilado’ (senior’s discount) - which I knew required finding a manager who punched in a code, triggering a different receipt that requires my signature …blah…and a fingerprint ..blah… and a blood sample, blah…and - I feigned indignation that someone would assume that a 30-year old was a jubilado (thereby forfeiting the $1 discount) and escaped.
Escaped to discover there was no place, NO PLACE, to sit down. This forced me for the first time to take a look at the two big glass rooms on the front that I had always just ignored thinking that they were kiddie’s rooms. Well, they are. The bigger of the two rooms is one of those places that the little ones can climb around, screaming on playground equipment in between bites. However, the second (smaller) room was practically deserted and appeared to be a room where harried moms can escape, and maybe take a youngster too small to live through the play room experience. I made a bee-line to a table at the front and parked looking at the street with my back to the room. Finally, phew!
But when I got up to leave and turned around I discover the room was filling up fast with moms and little girls. And based on the big cake on the table, and the party hats being passed out, I had inadvertently crashed Maria’s 6th birthday party. As I made my way to the exit (the escape hatch) the ladies were most gracious – well as gracious as you would expect from ladies looking at me as if I were the infamous guy in an old raincoat hanging around the grade school playground. I got out of there before the ‘Morals Police’ arrived.
As luck would have it, the driver of the cab I hailed is someone I know. Raul says, “What the hell are you doing in there on Friday afternoon”? I ask him what he meant by that statement. He explained that no one, no man at least, would go in McDonalds on Friday. “It’s tardes de ninos!” I say, “Kids’ Afternoon, you kidding me? Shut up and take me to the closest bar!”
My regular blog posting will be up on Thursday of this week.
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