I am a New Yorker dazed by the desert sun. I am a wanderer without a home. My
friend tells me, “Everyone who ends up in the desert is running from something.”
I see palm trees taller than houses, parking lots touched by the bloody candy rays
of perfect sunsets.…
Leaving Manhattan behind for the mystery of the desert is exhilarating.
Growing up in a 1990’s downtown New York that was vibrantly full of character and danger inspired me from a young age.
Now, I no longer feel the gritty, creative thrum from the sidewalks of my childhood which have been scrubbed clean and developed into condos, bank branches and chain stores.…
I take a bus alone from Panama City into the jungle. One one-way ticket. My friend Guadalupe, a retired Spanish journalist who has been my tropical partner-in-crime for three months has returned to Spain, leaving me with a kiss on each cheek and a warning to stay safe.…
Small towns always have secrets. And Pedasi, Panamá is no exception. Guadalupe, the retired Spanish journalist who pretends to be my aunt knows where all the bodies are buried. Sometimes literally. Her investigative instincts are still strong.
She tells me of the rich, old Frenchman who owns a hotel in the hills made entirely of bamboo and who has a penchant for underage prostitutes.…
The woman pretending to be my aunt tells me those are sex hotels on the side of the highway. They’re called “Tu y Yo” and “Paraiso Real.” I note the prices, marked on a sign outside: Seventeen American dollars for three hours/Thirty-five dollars for “Toda La Noche.”…