I’m sure there’s something worth saying about the social validity of the nightclub. I’m positive about it. I guess age is turning a corner with me, though, and the way I’ve found myself enjoying these venues is nowhere near the ways I used to all but 5 years ago. I don’t want this to become an introspective piece of indie movie-like proportions, not unlike every quirky situational dramedy of the last ten or so years; what I will tell you is about the different ways people can get their rocks off in the same space/situation and how the most seemingly insignificant differences can change perspectives faster than you can say “coffee and cream.”

At my current age, to say that I’m not a guy that likes going to clubs might be somewhat alienating, depending on which social circle I find myself in. It’s no longer weird for me to admit it, and I don’t know if that has to do with the fact that I’m on my quarter century, I’m not into chasing tail at clubs anymore or the self-realization that shows me just how much I don’t like the circus of the absurd these clubs are. They’ve always been, but you buy into it; part of the appeal of the biggest and brightest nightclub to hit the scene is the promise of unabashed debauchery. That’s all well and good, and I’m sure you can agree with me no matter how you choose to enjoy yourself on weekends.

With that said, I’m a free spirit. I like that I don’t let myself be reigned by labels. I’ve seen many of my friends wrestle with their interpersonal relationships and the protocols they’ve made themselves enforce and laugh. “Suckers,” I say. The thing is that I partake in the label shtick by not having any; the “free spirit” label is alive and kicking, and the sooner I realize it then the sooner I can feel more comfortable with myself. When you’re a free spirit in a club that’s located in a small, overly-catholic country such as Panama, this particular label doesn’t tend to gel well with everyone else who’s trying to follow the more mainstream tags society has made available.

I could get into my personal approach to the “free spirit” tag but I won’t risk it and then receive an interminable amount of angry emails; I’d expect a phone call or two but the e-mail has become an easier scapegoat to speak your mind in regards to deeply personal matters rather than the phone call or, God forbid, meeting up for a cup of coffee. Fact of the matter is that the last time I went to a club as of this writing, I got a wee bit shell-shocked by what I experienced.

If you’ve been lurking around my silly corner of the internet long enough, I can assume that you know I have a pretty high degree of self-regard. Comes with the territory and astrological sign. It also helps me rake up wonderful stories. Anyway, Going into this club was kind of like entering somewhat of a meat market. I immediately appreciated the comfort of having a date or girlfriend to go with me whenever I go to these silly places because for a guy who just wants to go have some fun and meet people the club scene is soul crushing; the only people who really show any interest in talking to you are almost always whores, and when they’re not they’re apparently gay. Nothing wrong with either, but I don’t go to a club to pay a woman to sleep with me or much less sleep with another man for free.

I feel for the gay man though (figuratively) since I bet they have even less of a shot at finding someone interesting to hang out or have a good time with unless they go to the only three gay bars in all of Panama City. If I was gay and a free spirit, I’d move; too many lonely nights with your dick in your hand for me to engage in further sexual masochism.

Anyway, due to the Ferris Bueller factor I’ve been blessed with ever since I was four years old, I ran into a group of very friendly, very attractive girls who were talkative and awesome. I had a lot of fun since they were as free spirited as I am, albeit for a different set of reasons. They wouldn’t be in the country for long, and it gave them the license to do whatever they wanted. I found that brave and incredibly attractive.

I had a conversation with a friend earlier that week and she kept talking about how she wanted to be in a relationship. She argued that having a relationship with someone she met at a hostel, for instance, was downright impossible since the people who stay at hostels or hotels are, if logic serves, transient beings. I’m not ready to refute that fact, but I couldn’t whole-heartedly agree. I’d like to think that I touch people’s lives in some way, whether I’m sleeping with them or not, so much so that they’ll want to contact me the next time they’re in Panama. Hell, with the beautiful minx that is the Internet it doesn’t even have to come to that; we can keep in touch with each other even when we have no desire to (I’m lookin’ at you, Facebook).

Most of the people I’ve been involved with for the past, oh I don’t know, 600 years have mostly been foreigners and, in most cases, they’re not in Panama anymore. I keep in touch with some of them, and all of them can very easily know what I’m up to and talk to me if they want to. Time heals all wounds, as they say. Anyway, I’m sure I made some friends that night, and whether their presence won’t be in Panama I’m sure I can talk to them and go visit them when I can.

There’s the game of attraction men and women go through all the time, and even for those of us who don’t care much for it there’s a degree of fun that only until now I appreciate. It’s alright, I suppose. I would love it if women who want me had the courage to simply come up and tell me (as it happened that night) but I know it’s the exception to the rule. People like games because we love to feel like we’re in control. No matter who you are, being in control has always been important and it has never been more true than when you’re trying to get it on with someone you like and/or want. No one wants to be the one that gets absorbed. The realization has given me insight into my previous relationships, so much so that I’ve found a new appreciation for every girl I ever went out with.

I’ll leave you to your thoughts on this. I’m not saying that being a free spirit is the way to go; to each their own, but if there’s anything people should get into is to not take themselves too seriously. Panama is a great place to study people and societies because every city is so encapsulated into its own social structure that it’s ridiculously easy to label people. This guy’s a nerd. That girl’s a slut. Those people are zonians. That group of dudes are backpackers, ‘cuz they stink. It’s such a part of the social structure that when you find people who can’t be catalogued like yours truly (a Panamanian who mostly speaks English, likes talking about sex, digs rock shows as much as dacing reggaeton and can adapt to the beach setting as well as cold climates, etc.) it’s like a wrench thrown into the machine. It’s great, though. If a knee-jerk reaction to this whole thing is to simply use and let yourself be used, then I’m all up for it. And the freedom I have to say this and be understood by those who truly matter to me is something I’ll protect until my eyes bleed.

Originally posted 2009-06-01 19:53:15.

First things first: before you learn to love something, you must understand it. For all intents and purposes I looked around online to see if I could find any first-hand accounts or textbook definitions for the “Arepa.” Lo and behold, my personal lord and savior always finds a way to help me when I’m in dire need. From Wikipedia:

The arepa is a flat, unleavened patty made of cornmeal which can be grilled, baked, or fried. The characteristics of the arepa vary from region to region: It may vary by color, flavor, size, thickness, garnish, and also the food it may be stuffed with. Arepa is a native bread made of ground corn, water, and salt which is fried into a pancake-like bread. It is either topped or filled with meat, eggs, tomatoes, salad, cheese, shrimp, or fish.

Originally from the northern Andes countries in South America, the arepa as a traditional South American dish has been around since colonial times. Nowadays though the arepa is much less delicatessen and more of a Fast Food Nation type of deal. The arepa penetrated the late-night meal market in 2006 or so, when a roaring stream of immigrants from Colombia, Venezuela, Costa Rica and other South American countries came to Panama to work, live and love (and work by making a living through “love,” while we’re at it). Since then many small food carts operated by two or three folks at a time would eventually expand the menu for those party people that go bump in the night, offering more than just the standard 3 variations of the $1.50 street taco: hamburgers, hot dogs, falafels, the more-expensive gourmet taco, plantain patties and, of course, the arepa. As a man who likes to understand what he fears in order to overcome it I have dutfiully and with great restraint in my heart sampled each and every one of these fast-food options and, after much consideration, I’ve decided that this delicious pre-colombian invention is hands-down the best.

Now that we’ve established arepa superiority, I had to find the one place that made the best of these… I felt compelled to do so. After some casual searching, I eventually found that on the corner of the Ministry of Economy and Finance in Via España, one of the most important streets in Panama City, there lies a quaint fast food cart, its color red and its tented roof yellow. My first impression of the place was how it always seemed congregated by a ridiculous amount of people. Then my friend Bianca, who was down in Panama for a couple of months couldn’t stop boasting about these damn arepas and how they could cure the Ebola virus and other assorted feats of awesomeness, so I decided to give them a try under the condition that chance would lead me there during a moment of low arepa traffic. One random night my wish came true, so with much anticipation and curiosity I walked over to the food cart feeling pretty much the same way Indiana Jones does before going tomb raiding.

Do you remember when Christopher Nolan’s “The Dark Knight” was close to hitting theaters back in August, 2008? There was a lot of buzz surrounding the movie, a great deal of it about Heath Ledger’s revolutionary performance as The Joker but despite that the other parts that composed the movie were making just as much buzz? It got to the point where you couldn’t turn on the TV, open the newspaper, go online or walk down the street without hearing something in regards to the movie. Some people became a little cynical about this, claiming the movie would suffer from being overhyped and ultimately shot in the chest at the box office. Then, “The Dark Knight” started screening, and the most incredible thing happened: it jumped into a speeding train headed straight to Cultural Phenomena, no stops. Suddenly everyone dressed up as Ledger’s Joker on Halloween, the movie turned into the 2nd highest-grossing film of all time and, speaking of “all time” its now regarded as one of the best films… of all time. Not bad for a comic book movie. If Jack Nicholson wasn’t an immortal vampire, he’d be turning over on his grave. Instead, he turns over inside his casket during the daylight hours.

I bring “The Dark Knight” into the fray because, just like these arepas, the movie not only met the monumental hype surrounding it; the movie surpassed any previous word of mouth going for it. And just like the flick, it holds up like your first time every time. I can’t even begin to explain it. The whole arepa joint has a lot going against it: it’s next to a ghetto-ass club that used to be alright but now too many rappers go to it; hell, I think it’d even be better for them if it was right next to the club’s terrace but it actually takes up 3 parking spots right on the street corner, in front of the Ministry of Economy and Finance office. I’m pretty sure somebody is upset about it, or at least should be. The place doesn’t have much lighting, and there’s a waiting period that’s unparalleled… going to the Arepa Joint in Via España is at least a 20-minute affair. This is not due to lack of order; in fact, the place has one of the most foolproof bill-and-delivery setups I’ve ever seen in an independent fast food establishment. You get there, take your number and wait for it to be called out. Colombian Arepa Man (C.A.M, or CAM) will come up to you with a little invoice booklet, a pen, and a smile that, quite frankly, only a mother could appreciate. He’ll take your order, and then give you a copy of your invoice with the same number you had when you first triggered this sequence of events. You then wait some more, until you’re called again by the arepa-making CAMs who are burning charcoal, prepping the corn patties and assembling the food from 8pm til at least 3am from Tuesday to Saturday. Once your number is called again, it’s the point of no return. Sure, you’ve probably waited 20-30 minutes for it and are wondering why you even took my advice to begin with but then, and only then, is when the magic starts.

A fairly uninterested arepa worker will build your stuffed arepa from the ground up. With a display of eternal sorrow and regret in his/her face this person will fill your corn patty with a layer of beef, deep-fried pork rinds and then chicken, each interlaced with a layer made up of two sauces which to this day I can’t, for the life of me, decipher what they are. The arepa worker will then wrap this stuffed arepa in aluminum foil, give you a sole napkin (which is kind of like taking a plastic knife to World War III) and let you be on your way as he/she returns to the quagmire of defeat and corn that imprisons his/her damned-ass soul. With this shitty picture I’ve painted for you, I imagined you’re surprised how one can still maintain any hope that the $2.50 this meal is worth can even match up to the standards the hype has set for it. It looks suspiciously delicious, but you’re not trusting. Never judge a book by its cover, so they say. Having already paid and, I suppose, with the arepa in hour hands there’s no other thing to do but to bite the arepa bullet and hope for the best.

Love. Love is all there is. Not meat. Not chicharrones or chicken or crazy-ass sauces. It’s love.

In my personal experience, I’m still post-coital 45 minutes after the fact. It’s like I have a case of arepa Tourette’s because I randomly spew out praise for the meal that’s making its way to my poop shoot. “Fuck, that was de-li-cious.” “If they asked me ‘Robert, we need you to kill a man.’ and I asked ‘What’s in it for me?’ and the ninja clan said ‘We’ll get you an arepa from the Arepa Joint you like… but the person who makes it will actually be happy.’ If that happened then I’m afraid y’all will know how I can just kill a man. For an arepa.” “If a burglar came to my car and I was eating an arepa when he tried to mug me, then I’m afraid I’ll either be without a car or a life, because I don’t think I could drop this arepa.” You get the idea. I could whisper sweet lullabies to my arepa for hours. Very few things can make me feel as good as these arepas do, and I’m sure that none of them are as cheap or easy to get without contracting any diseases. I did mention they have their Health License, right?