it was a day that began like any other. I chiseled into my truck, loaded my gear, and began moving things into storage. My feet crunched in the snow sending painful shocks up my legs. Its amazing how much pain and crap you accumulate in 40 plus years of living. Back in the day I’d move in the back of a taxi. Now, though I’ve given most of my stuff away, it takes me all day.

At one PM I sell the condo. A few signatures, handshakes, fingerprint (thanks to the patriot act), and its done. A $60K condo bought twelve years ago sells for $160K. I pay the lawyer, the Realtor, the debt from my divorce, the IRS, the maxed out credit cards, and all my misc, debt. I am left with $120K. It’s enough. Today I am lucky. There is light at the end of the long shaft of divorce. I’ve never had money. Now I do. But I no longer have a home, a wife, a business. I feel just like I did when I was first divorced two years ago; sad, relieved, ashamed.

But I have a new life. I spend my first night in the Orleans Holiday Inn. The hotel is worn, dirty, and even in the off-season, overpriced. Outside it’s windy, bitter cold. Snow begins to fall at two inches an hour. I fire up a blunt and step out into the empty parking lot. Fat flakes drop from the gray sky. With each toke there are new emotions; guilt, excitement, fear. I think about my ex living with another man, the plants I’ve left on the deck to die, and about Nemo (my cat), the friend I have left behind. Then it hits me like a blast of arctic air. What the fuck am I doing? Part of me wants to undo everything I’ve set in motion.

It’s too late. I hike the snowy streets of Orleans, my mind racing, unsettled. I try to anticipate every detail before I leave town. Where should I put the money? Will my computer die in the freezing storage? Where do I leave my truck? How do I pay my bills and taxes after I have gone? Will Nemo survive in his new home? There are a thousand questions. It’s a mindfuck that never seems to end. Until I leave it all behind.

STEP 6: BRAVE NEW WORLD.

I fly out two days later. It’s only when the stewardess arrives with my Seven and Seven that I finally begin to relax. I skim “[tag]The Russian Bride Travel Guide[/tag],” return it to my doomed seatmate. I sleep for the first time in days, and awake to my first tropical evening.

Alex is waiting for me in Tocuman airport. She’s holding a handmade sign. It reads “Bienvenido a Panama.” It’s almost midnight. When I first see her it’s not love at first sight. She’s wearing an old torn jacket and worn jeans. Her shoes are ugly and unstylish. She’s poor. She lives in a two room, bare, concrete home with dirt floors. These are probably her Sunday best. Alex flashes a winning smile. We hug. Her skin smells of vanilla. I can feel her body quiver with excitement and fear. In the taxi she leans in for a kiss. Her heart beats wildly against my chest. I am in awe of her bravery.

STEP 8: MAKE SMALL BUT SIGNIFICANT ROMANTIC GESTURES.

It’s a clear night, warm, like someone has dialed up the thermostat. I can see stars as we roll past the silhouette of palm trees on our way into [tag]Panama City[/tag]. At an intersection we stop with a squeal. I buy Alex a rose from a vendor in the street.

When we arrive at the hotel Alex takes off her jacket and exposes a lime green belly shirt. Her body is tighter than most U.S. girls at 17. Alex is 38. From a torn handbag she produces almost two years worth of letters I’d written. She tells me she printed them out at the local Internet cafe so she could re-read and translate at home. No one’s ever made that kind of effort with me. I can’t help but be charmed. We make love twice that night though I’m worn down form the trip. In the morning we make love again. Once Alex loses the funky clothes her body’s perfect, small breasted, smooth, tight. As a gift she’s shaved her pussy. It tastes almost sweet.

Awakened early the first morning by the elephant-like trumpeting of Diablo Rojo, I throw on my board shorts, ugliest tropical shirt, and climb the stairs to the hotel roof. A warm breeze washes over me from the Bay of Panama. Raptors float in concentric circles on the thermals above. In the distance, fat ships, steam rolling from smoke stacks, wait to transit the canal. I am home.

Each day we eat, we hike, we shop, we fuck. I pick up every tab. The price seems cheap. Far cheaper than living alone on Cape Cod. Panama’s an interesting city. Costa Rica doesn’t grab me by the balls like Panama. It’s Christmas, and the streets are packed with shoppers. Police, some wielding machine guns, mill about to deter thieves. The women are mind-numbingly beautiful. Many catch my eye as I hike about the city. It feels good to be wanted again.

I feel like a fat cat lying in the afternoon sun. I ask myself how much of this is real. How much of this is just a poor woman seeking a better life? How much of this is a depressed man trying to believe in love again? I decide to just go with it. I’m learning Spanish with a hot teacher. I have a beautiful guide, and representative of Panama. And I am happy.

STEP 8: HONESTY.

It seems silly to me; people falling in love long distance. I need contact, time. I’m getting plenty of contact now. My cock’s raw from all the fucking. In Manolos we sit and gaze into each others eyes. It’s interesting what happens when language is useless. Without my lies, sophistry, and clever bullshit, I thought I’d be lost. But I’m found. When we need to actually communicate we scribble notes on the back of dirty placemats and napkins. Alex can’t speak English. Still, she knows enough words from school and from working in the Canal Zone to get by.

It’s true what they say about lost love. Find someone better, hotter, and suddenly it all fades away. I’m not in love, I’m not rich, and I’m traveling to Mal Pais in two weeks. I tell Alex all this over coffee. In my letters I was consistent, attentive, caring. But I’d never used the word love. I couldn’t. I ‘m frozen. Afraid of love. Afraid to trust. Alex understands. Or she says she does. Maybe she’d say anything to make this real.

Alex eats and fucks as if she hasn’t had either in years. Her favorite food is pancakes. Her favorite move is to impale herself on me from above. She orgasms this way every time. In Manolos she breaks off pieces of pancake and feeds the birds that live in the bushes alongside the patio. Hungry children ask us for money. She offers them our food. Soon we’re in a familiar routine. I wake every morning to the grinding of her lithe bronze body. It’s better than any alarm clock. Then we walk to Manolos for more cafe con letche. Without Manolos I’d be a desiccated husk.

We hike the city holding hands. This is a new experience for me. I’ve never held hands with a girl, even when I was a lad. But it feels nice. Alex is an excellent guide. She herds me like an Australian Cattle Dog. With her small hand in mine she steers me from danger; dragging me away from unsafe areas, troubled street people, even dog poo. She nips at the taxi drivers and shopkeepers, if she thinks I’m being ripped off. It ‘s clear from her actions that she cares for me deeply.

While I struggle to accept our sudden intimacy. I can’t ignore that it does exist. A careful examination of my feelings reveals that I’m not in love. But I am intrigued, even a little smitten. I decide to take her with me on a road trip. I’m due to celebrate the new year with friends in Mal Pais Costa Rica. What better way to test a relationship than with the rigors of travel, and the Iriquois gauntlet of friends that lie ahead.

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