Sunday, April 2, 2017
Boobs and butts. That's what I remember about Panama City. Yes, I know that speaks more to my perversions than to the city, but that's what stands out. First world priorities, I could say, pander to the baser drives, given that food, shelter, clothes, and community are likely met in at least a minimum form. In front of our hotel, for example, was a crouching, buxom, wonderfully big-butted steel sculpture figure of a female, head up, buns open for all the world to see. I had to wonder. Then, in the men's bathroom, there were wall-sized murals of beautiful breasts all covered in body paint. The men's stall was like a private room, door and all, with a larger than life woman swimming along the wall. Mirrors were everywhere. Then there were the women walking the streets. Plastic surgeons must make a good living in Panama. Augmentation stuck out, so to speak. The advertising for blue jeans featured monster female protrusions. It was a spectacle to which I was not immune, sad to say. Good thing I was with people who reined me in, helped me stay focused on the trip, on getting to our destinations on time, packing food, being a bit responsible. Left to my own devices, I might still be there, broke and spent. Such is the life of an addict, a sucker for sensation, the delights of living in this ephemeral body, still hungry for the light that dims a bit more with each passing day.