I thought that my earlier entry regarding Panama would be sufficient for a blog like this, but I've changed my mind. I want to articulate why visiting a nice foreign country like Panama makes me want to go home even more.

A port call in Panama has all the right ingredients to make an awesome port call. First, let's start with the money. Unlike some other countries, Panama does not use some strange colorful currency with an exchange rate that is difficult to keep track of when you are drunk. Panama uses nice, green, American currency, meaning that when you leave you're not left with a bunch of worthless play money.

Unlike Costa Rica, where we select the lamest, most backwater city we can find (Golfito), in Panama we actually visit the capital. This is especially sweet becasue it means that there is more than one bar in the entire town for everyone to get wasted at. And believe me, when you've spent 30 days within 378 feet of the same 170 people, you're going to want to get away. It's may be lot of fun watching your shipmates drunkenly discuss their pent up tension and anger with each other using the time honored fist-to-the-face method. Unfortunately, sometimes you wake up with assorted bruises and a vague recollection of doing/saying things you really shouldn't have. Fast forward several weeks and you find yourself standing in front of an old man with far too many ribbons and gold bars. He explains to you that because of your actions he's obligated to take some of your money and make your life suck for a little while. That doesn't seem quite fair -- if you're going to be punished for something it would at least be nice to remember it.

Finally, Panama has nice hotels. You can't understand how important this is until you've lived in a room the size of your bathroom with three other men.

What I don't like about Panama is all the people who are trying to make money off of you. I don't mind the occasional taxi driver who takes advantage of your inebriated state to charge a little extra (this is mostly because I don't remember this ever happening). What I do mind is being bombarded and crowded by venders, whores, and taxi drivers everywhere I go. Before I went to Panama, I'd never had a prostitute grab at me on the street. The cab drivers are the worst. I arrived in Panama with one goal: get piss drunk and urinate all over myself Sam Nelson style (okay, scratch the whole urine thing). The last thing I want to deal with while stumbling back to my hotel room is a dozen cab drivers offering me "poosay." Fortunately, one of my fellow officers stumbled upon an ingenious strategy to be left alone: tell them you don't want pussy, you want dick. Works every time.