Day 3: Carnival Panama City.
it’s early afternoon, cool, and my head throbs. Did I get my ass kicked last night? I’m not sure. There’s no blood or bruising. Just crusty sore eyes and a ringing in my ears. Though it’s day I can already hear music in the breeze. The palms seem to dance. And I can see [tag]semi-naked partyers[/tag], walking home to Curundu and Calidonia, wet from the tanker trucks.
A woman 
across the street skins green plantains not far from a banner claiming “Omar Vive.” I’ve downed a few cold ones with Bush supporters so pride for a long dead dictator won’t stop me from buying several cold Panama (.50) here tonight. That is, if i can survive the day. In a few hours it will begin again; the marchers (yawn), freakishly loud music (ears will bleed), unidentified meats grilled on open flames (sublime), frenetic dancing (hot), [tag]beautiful women[/tag], oversized coolers stuffed with cold Balboa, Panama, Atlas (and I wonder why my head hurts), kids wielding water pistols, balloons, confetti, pickpockets, and of course, the [tag]fireworks[/tag].
[tag]Carnival[/tag]’s centered on Via Espania about a block away from where I’m seated. And as I drink my cafe con letche, at my favorite restaurant Manolos, I watch a green bird hunt for scraps of pancito on the concrete floor. My order arrives; huevos revueltos con cebolla, tomate y tortillas de maiz, my standard post drunk meal. And it is here that I will try to regroup.
