August 29, 2023, Panama. I had intentionally scheduled my return so I could go to Tuesday Market and buy French pastries from Bastien. He also bakes for the pool and cabanas at his wife’s family’s place in Dolega, which I was planning to visit the next day. We chatted briefly, and I bought a Pavlova, a chocolate cheesecake, and a lemon tart. I also had a great conversation with Yari about her trip to Guatemala—she shared some highlights. She’s always so upbeat, and I enjoy catching up with her. She makes and sells tinctures at the market.

I bought a tasty arepa and a piece of chocolate cake from the “hummus lady,” chatted with an artist about his gallery outside town, and then stopped at Buckle Tip for a latte. I ended up eating the Pavlova on the spot—probably a wise move.

Later, I visited María at Hello Travel and shared some of my goodies with her before heading home to put the rest in the fridge. I then set out for a walk up the steep road to Alto Jaramillo, a 2.5-hour round trip. I’d done it once before and remembered how peaceful it felt, heading up into the mountains. The walk was lovely but exhausting. Still, I made it to a line dancing event at Tapout later that evening. It went until 8:30, and then I went home and talked with Cesar for about an hour. I was tired, but it felt like my last chance to talk with him, so I stuck it out.

August 30. I was excited about visiting the pool in Dolega. I really like that town—more Panamanians live there, and it feels more authentic and lush. The pool area had palapas and a large swimming pool, but getting in was a challenge. It had a plastic liner and sloped sharply, so I had to sort of slide in. Still, it was fun hanging out.

There, I met Sarah, a woman from South Africa. She shared her experience growing up white and British in South Africa, and some of the assaults she endured. She was very engaging, and we exchanged numbers. She invited me to dinner Friday night and line dancing on Thursday.

August 31. Brian invited me to eat at Finca Aurora. I’d asked him for a ride to the Pipeline Trail—I was tired of dealing with the bus. We had a nice breakfast, but I made the mistake of drinking two double lattes—something I rarely do. I felt my heart beating double time.

The Pipeline Trail was nice, though not as beautiful as others I’ve hiked. At the end, there was a small waterfall, and I thought I heard howler monkeys. I recorded the sound and also heard some unique bird calls. No quetzals yet. After the trail, I headed toward the Three Cascades Trail.

On the way, I ran into an Indigenous man. When I asked if the dogs nearby bite, he said, “No, but I do,” which creeped me out. There was something in his gaze that made me uncomfortable. I tried to outwalk him, but he was fast—even in rain boots. He crossed the swinging bridge after me, and I started to panic, thinking he might follow me all the way to the trail. I rushed up the hill and was completely winded by the time I reached the entrance. Thankfully, he didn’t follow.

Still, I had to turn back. It was already 4:00, and they don’t let people on the trail after 3. I warned a couple I met on the way down that they might not be allowed to hike and suggested they tell the cashier they’d be back by 5, when they lock the gate.

Most trails in Boquete—and Panama more broadly—are on private land and charge a fee, which is supposed to go toward maintenance. A few, like El Pianista, are public, but I’ve heard of recent dog attacks there, so I’ve avoided it. Ironically, even after paying the entrance fee at Pipeline, I was nearly bitten by a dog on my way back.

I’ve come up with a phrase to describe the dogs in Panama: “Bite first, ask questions later.” Just days earlier, Maria from Hello Travel had been bitten by a supposedly “friendly” neighbor dog—while the owner stood right there.

After leaving the trail, I walked along the river to revisit an Indigenous encampment I’d seen before. They had only plastic tarps for shelter. It was further than I remembered and very wet. When I got near, I saw loose dogs and got scared. I turned back. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Later, I saw a bus with a “Me Ha” sign. I didn’t want to wait forever, so I walked to the top of the hill, where a construction worker offered me a ride. He packed up and then drove like a madman down the hill—hugging blind corners and ignoring lanes. It felt like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. I prayed we’d get to Boquete in one piece. When we arrived, I had to roll down the window and open the door from the outside. I thanked him and headed to Richard’s to eat dinner.

September 1. Today felt like the “Ides of March”. I hadn’t slept—too much caffeine. Maybe two hours at most. I went into the kitchen to make a smoothie and found Richard already up, which was unusual. The night before, he’d thrown out my carrots, cucumber, and the pastries I’d bought at the market. He’s unpredictable and angers easily, so I held my tongue. Still, I was upset—he hadn’t even asked. I hesitated, but eventually asked if he was going to the market and could pick up a cucumber for me.

He acted like he didn’t hear me. I repeated it. Then he looked at his phone, said “Oh my God” in a long, slow drawl, and told me I needed to leave. That was it. All the kind things he’d said over the past week—about my being a good friend, someone who listened and supported him—gone. I was now on his shit list.

I apologized and asked if we could talk it out, all the while realizing how much I’d been appeasing him out of fear. He then claimed I was only paying 75 cents a day, even though I had just given him $50 the day before. I’d also given him $80 during a previous stay, which he denied. I felt completely unappreciated and unseen.

I said I’d let him rest and we could talk later. But I was a wreck. I went to Hello Travel and spent hours there, physically and emotionally exhausted, unsure of what I was going to do. Brian had offered me his couch, but he has a cat, and I wasn’t sure it would be comfortable for either of us.

Later in the day, I let Sarah know what happened and that I no longer had a place to stay. She immediately offered to host me—“for as long as you want,” she said. I was elated.

We met at 5:30 for dinner at Mula’s, a burger joint, and then I went back to Richard’s, packed up (which took about 30 minutes), and headed to Sarah and Peter’s place in Alto Boquete. It was a beautiful home with two sweet dogs and cats. I was so grateful for the kindness—and the stability.

September 2. I spent the morning at Sarah and Paul’s house, talking with Paul. For a moment, I felt like I belonged. He told me about growing up in Switzerland on his family farm, being bullied as a kid, and how easy it was to serve in the military in South Africa after boarding school in Switzerland. I liked him immediately and felt a warm connection.

Sarah planned to go to Tapout for line dancing at 2:00, and I offered to join her. We danced together, and afterward, she went to a theater gala. While walking, I messaged her to ask if I could catch a ride back. Her response was curt, then nonexistent. I started second-guessing myself, wondering if I’d done something wrong. I’d asked earlier if she could pick up frozen strawberries for me at PriceSmart and said I’d reimburse her. That may have been where the awkwardness began.

After one of my favorite hikes—on the dirt road deep in Jaramillo—I met Sarah at The Rock, a fancy gringo restaurant next to a boutique hotel just outside of town. I’d seen tourist police stationed there once when I stopped to use the bathroom. The place is meant for cocktails and pampering—not really my scene.

Sarah wanted to stop by a friend’s house in Valle Escondido. Doug was standing outside with Dodge, his beloved hound. Apparently, he lost his wife a year or so ago, and Sarah has been an emotional support figure—and Dodge’s stand-in mom. I found Doug fascinating. He was a reconnaissance Marine in Vietnam and later did undercover work in China at Henry Kissinger’s request, through a family connection.

He and his wife had lived in Costa Rica, south of Ojochal, with a sweeping view of the Pacific. After her death, he moved to Panama and now overlooks a golf course. His home has been fully remodeled with Sarah and Paul’s help—an expansive kitchen with a Viking stove, a solarium, and a massive deck. He has a giant painting of a blue dog that several celebrities, including Whoopi Goldberg, have tried to buy. He refused. He claims people often talk to the painting. I didn’t stay long enough to see if I would.

Doug offered me an espresso. It was already 5:00 p.m., and I was worried I wouldn’t sleep, but I was too fascinated by his stories to decline. He’s done a lot of diving, owned dive boats, and lived in China, Vietnam, Cambodia, New York, Sausalito, Paris, and most recently, Costa Rica. In New York, he lived in a collective on the Upper East Side and loved it.

He told me he’s done 1,800 parachute jumps as a civilian after the military. I couldn’t imagine how. His life was rich with stories, and I could’ve listened for hours, but Sarah said it was time to eat and needed to leave. On the drive home, she told me she’d once told Doug no woman would want to be with him because he talks too much about himself. I didn’t think he came across as a braggart—just a man with a past.

Back at the house, I made some food. Paul and I chatted more about energy independence and toolmaking—his specialty. He used to work in the steel industry in Switzerland and said the Swiss are great at managing every step of production, from growing cherries to bottling schnapps. That weekend, he’d been cutting I-beams to form an aluminum shield for Doug’s stove exhaust. He said he wished he had a plasma cutter.

September 3. Brian and I had plans to meet Karen at Finca Lérida for brunch. Karen had a conflict, so Brian planned to pick me up at 11:30. Sarah had gone to a friend’s birthday party nearby. When she returned and saw me, she said, “You’re still here? And you’re not going to wear that, are you?” I felt like I was two years old and under a microscope—ironic, since she’s younger than I am. Turns out I had a white spot on my skirt from the flour I’d used for pancakes. Sadly, I had to leave the batter behind. More on that later.

I was nervous about meeting Karen. I’d heard she could be critical, and during our brief encounter Thursday night, she’d seemed standoffish. I tried to be kind, welcoming, and inclusive—let her sit in front and made an effort to engage her during lunch.

I love Finca Lérida. My favorite barista, Hermes, was there. Though my latte was lukewarm, he kindly reheated it, as well as Karen’s hot chocolate. The food was overpriced—I wasn’t impressed by the $12 ration of eggs and hot sauce—but the setting made up for it. We watched birds feast on banana and papaya Hermes had left out. Karen knew a few species, and we had fun photographing them and cooing over their colors.

Karen shared about her life—how she lived in San Francisco until seven years ago, where she made fused glass art. She told me it’s hard to find stained plate glass in Panama. She’d just returned from a mosaic class in Bocas del Toro and a vacation in Santa Catalina. She’s trying to recover from a breakup, but said traveling didn’t help. She speaks decent Spanish and is friends with a local 8-year-old who visits his grandparents next door. She likes hearing roosters at night, but not dogs. She lives near Hotel Central.

After lunch, I said goodbye and went walking on the trails. It was a clear, beautiful day. I walked to the cloud forest where I heard a toucan, visited the waterfall, and explored two other trails on the property. It’s a beautiful area. I even ventured up into the upper coffee farm along a road that seemed to lead to an Indigenous camp—but turned back, afraid of stray dogs.

The rain started as I entered the forest, and by the time I returned, I was soaked. Families were enjoying hot chocolate and cake. I had a slice and some cocoa, though the cake was bland. I wrote my blog and asked Brian to pick me up, which he did around 6:30.

Back at Sarah and Paul’s, I packed for our Las Lajas trip the next day. The mood at their house was cold. Paul barely spoke. I’d sensed something was off. The night before, I’d even sent a message asking if I was doing anything that bothered them. No reply. That night, Paul seemed warmer, but still distant. From the kitchen, he moved to the living room, put on headphones, and stared at his computer. Sarah went to her room, and I was left alone. I felt awkward and increasingly unwelcome.

Before bed, I asked Paul what he was looking at. He shared a sentence or two—at least he was still civil. In the middle of the night, I spoke a message into my phone, then froze when I realized my sliding door was open. I hoped I hadn’t woken them. I’d already started walking on eggshells the day before. That evening, I had offered to contribute toward utilities even though I was staying only six days. Sarah declined. I’d also told Paul I’d help with any projects. He agreed. But all that would change the next day.

September 4. I was about to leave for Las Lajas when I received the message:

“Good morning. We would like you to find somewhere else to stay from tomorrow and be packed and gone by 6 p.m.”

From “Stay as long as you like” to that—after only two days—it was a shock. I had sensed something was wrong but didn’t know what. I responded with an apology and asked what I had done, but she only read the message and didn’t reply.

The beach trip became a day of emotional processing. I felt awful—shame, self-blame, and a whirlwind of questions. What had I said? What had I done?

Brian’s response was: “Let it go.” But I couldn’t. I didn’t need advice—I needed empathy. We arrived at Las Lajas by 12:30. The hotel offered to upgrade us to an ocean-view room, but it only had one bed, and I had agreed to go only if I had my own. We switched back to the original room. I took a long walk on the beach, which helped.

Later, I called María from Hello Travel and told her what happened—with Richard and with Sarah. She knows them both. Richard added fuel to the fire. He said Sarah had asked why he’d asked me to leave, then retracted his invitation for me to return, blaming my presence for his confusion. He texted:

“Maybe you should ask yourself why people are doing this? Did you ever consider that it might be a problem of some sort with you… Goodbye, Lisa.”

This came just days after he apologized and said it wasn’t about me, that I was welcome to return in November. Such a sharp turn.

Still, Las Lajas was stunning—long beach, huge tides. I tried surfing for the first time. Even though I went to college in Santa Cruz, I never learned. Bibbit had offered once, but we never went out. Brian lent me his board, but I was nervous—the waves were powerful. I didn’t have the upper body strength and couldn’t figure out how to get up.

I walked again along the beach. María sent kind messages. The hotel was simple but peaceful, with palapas and a calming atmosphere. That night, we had thin-crust pizza in town. I was surprised by how affluent the area looked—probably because of the Boquete expat influence.

September 5. I woke early and went for a long walk south along the beach. I passed an Indigenous woman in a bright pink dress with a matching parasol. I complimented her colors. She said she needed money for ear surgery and had problems with her knees and feet. Her family was poor and couldn’t help. She asked if I had money. I was only carrying cards and told her so. She seemed deflated and kept walking.

I reached a river that looked too deep to cross. On the way back, I met an Italian man who said it’s only passable at low tide. A local man and his daughter waved at me and we chatted about the U.S. impact on Panama. He said the roads and banks have improved, but theft and insecurity have worsened. He grows some of his own food.

Back at the hotel, I ordered eggs around 11:30, then packed. I took a quick dip and body-surfed, then walked north along the beach. When I returned, I had a long talk with Peter Nowell about what happened with Richard and Sarah. The waves were getting huge, and I thought about surfing again but was afraid. I’ve had a few scary experiences being tossed upside-down in the surf.

We finally left at 3:00, reluctantly. Sarah had given me a 6:00 p.m. deadline, and I worried she’d lock up my things, including my passport. It rained hard in Gualaca—a beautiful deluge that reminded me of Austria.

We reached Sarah’s at 5:30. I braced for confrontation but there was none. I thanked them politely. Paul accepted a gentle touch on the arm. Sarah had packed my food. I didn’t ask for the beans or pancake batter I’d made. Let sleeping dogs lie.

Back in Boquete, I realized I’d forgotten my phone charger. She left it hanging on the gate in a bag. No contact. I wasn’t surprised. It was 6:30. I unpacked at Brian’s and cleaned his place to feel more at home. Since his elderly cat has urinary issues, I stored my things in the utility room. The fold-out couch turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. I slept well and felt deeply relieved—and grateful.