My trip to Panama

Having recently returned from Panama, I can tell you one thing: Sister, they've got the same problems we have right here at home. For instance, everybody who does something that matters speaks Spanish. Having studied the language extensively at New Madrid County High School, I can get around, as my mastery includes not only the words for bathroom and beer, but also extends to pointing, speaking slowly and looking around for someone who speaks English. (Then again, I think that when I was at New Madrid County, I studied French. This may explain why every Panamanian waiter looked puzzled when I spoke, and brought me taco meat on a croissant.)

Still, the Panamanians deal with this problem much more efficiently than we do. For instance, when you're in Panama and you want the custodian to take away a box at the end of the day, you don't have to write "basura" on it like we do here. (Basura is Spanish for "Please throw this away, but not the box next to it which has my sweater in it for when the A/C won't go off.") No, the custodians down there are on top of things like that and don't need direction. Plus all the custodians are already living in a place that speaks Spanish everywhere, which gives them some advantage over the custodian who works in my building. Don't get me started on that guy.

While there I visited the famous Panama Canal, which turns out to be a shortcut between oceans for those lazybones who don't care to sail around South America. We sure could use something like that here! I've thought about it, having studied a little engineering in college, plus I once threw up over the side of my cousin's catamaran. If we built one of these things, we're basically talking about a ditch from Hilton Head to San Diego. By my calculations, this would shave a couple of hours off the fabled Hilton-Head-to-San-Diego trade route, plus it would create a whole bunch of jobs for guys with shovels -- a boon to the stagnant economy in tough times like these. It works for the Panamanians, who are now moving boats around that thing like a 10-year-old in a bathtub.

If there is anything to be learned from our friends in Panama, it is that the thing about not drinking the water is still true, let me tell you. I got hold of some ice my last night there and pretty much flew home in the bathroom. This gave me a little time to reflect on our neighbors to the south, though I was frequently interrupted by people banging on the door and asking (in Spanish, of course) when I was coming out. At least that's what I think they were saying. I know they sounded frantic.

Bottom line on the Panama trip: It would be useful to speak some Spanish. For instance, the plane I got on to come home ended up in Paris. So there you go.

Southeast Missouri native Michael Long is a writer in Washington, D.C., who also teaches speechwriting in the graduate school at Georgetown University. Contact him at Mike@MikeLongOnline.com.