The Top 8 Ways Living in Panama Can Make You Sexier

Panama consistently appears on lists of top places to live since it rates high as a retirement haven.  But did you know moving to Panama provides all of the elements to make you sexier — to transform you from humdrum to Don Juan?  Yes, our special mix of central geography, developing economy and international culture create the perfect storm for your animal magnetism to spring forth.  Come strut your stuff, feel invigorated and experience a level of sex appeal you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere else.  Here’s how:

1.      Secret Ingredients

Coconut Bathed Skin

Feeling sexy starts with looking good.  Clear skin, shiny eyes, and plump lips are easy to maintain when you feed your body the best stuff on earth.  Luckily, Panama has an abundance of local fruits and vegetables with healthy benefits to supercharge your appearance.  I know, this probably doesn’t sound very sexy, but trust me, it’s important. Your hair, nails, and skin will thank you for receiving daily doses of antioxidants found in Panama’s delicious tropical bounty.

Papaya, available year-round, is great for the skin; it helps get rid of ugly acne and unclogs dirty pores.  And coconut oil, another highly available super-duper food, gives skin a shimmery, irresistible glow when rubbed all over.  A full gallon – which is like a year’s supply – only costs $25 at Mercado de Abastos.  At this price, it’s easy to look younger and more beautiful.  Naturally, you will make people swoon.

2.      The Price of Beauty

Personal Training in Paradise

If you’ve ever had the experience that “it takes a village* — between a stylist, manicurist, masseuse, trainer, acupuncturist – to consistently look and feel good, then you’ll love all of the inexpensive services Panama has to offer.  Hire someone to do all of your cooking and cleaning for $120/week.  For lunch, order delicious, low-calorie French meals prepared by La Petite Diet.  They deliver lunch to homes and offices for just $10/meal.  Create a killer body with an at-home personal trainer for just $30/session.  Living like a celebrity is within your reach.

3.      Sultry Sports

With our without your own personal trainer, finding fun ways to exercise – which increases your stamina and releases feel-good hormones — is easy here.  Within City limits, you can take a dance class at PowerClub, run along the Cinta Costera, ride your bike on the Causeway or hike to the top of Ancon Hill.  Outside of the City, you’ll find plenty of world-class activities – like surfing, diving, and sport-fishing – to keep you engaged and help you attract more admirers.

4.     Ladies Got Back
But, hermanas, please, don’t overdo it with the exercise!  Panamanian men prefer women with curves so you can stop worrying about losing those last 10 pounds.  Yes!  This is true.  Quit spending hours trying to reduce the size of your rump because the more pert and rounded it is, the stronger the sexual signal to men.  Stop asking “Does my butt look big in these jeans?” and start asking, “Does my bootie look big enough?”  Bienvenidos a Panama!

5.      Heat and Greet

Short-Shorts are Always In Fashion

Panama’s favorable, warm weather offers the perfect backdrop for arousal.  Investing in a new wardrobe is inexpensive since you don’t have to buy pricey boots or coats to cover you in cold weather.  Go ahead and shop for sexy new dresses, skirts, trendy shirts and shorts.

Plus, since we don’t fear catching a chill, we’re totally free to show some skin.  Girls on Barlovento’s rooftop bar bring racy short-shorts back in style.  And to keep cool men leave shirts appropriately unbuttoned, which invites peeking in on macho pecs.  In February, when suckers in winter slumberlands are bundled up, complaining about shoveling snow, Panamanians are enjoying Carnival at the beach with friends.  If the choice is between a  parka or a swimsuit or pasty, colorless skin or sun-kissed skin, it’s really no contest on the titillation barometer.

6.     Stress is Out

La Vida Tranquila

It’s safe to say that expats in Panama lead relatively stress-free lifestyles.  Maybe it’s a by-product of Panamanians’ “tranquila” attitude or the ability to slow down from the rat-race most of us leave behind or both.  Whatever the reason, it’s possible to find room and time here to relax, to enjoy yourself and soothe your senses.  Plus, thanks to the positive effects of sunshine, people here are generally happier and smiling makes us sexier.

7.     Confidence is In

Sex appeal is about attitude — when you feel sexy you are sexy.  And nothing is more important to feeling sexy than self-confidence.  When self-esteem is low, we underestimate our own allure and overestimate other people’s.  When it’s high, we are captivating and charming.  When you move to Panama, your self-confidence will naturally increased.  Instead of feeling like everyone else back at home, here you’ll be different, not the standard issue of career and educational background, which will make you more attractive.  You’ll be free to take more risks here than back home.  Creating a new life in a new place is challenging.  But each new risk builds confidence and confidence is most certainly sexy.

And, men, thanks to more traditional gender roles, you’re free to *be a man* here — to show how useful and strong you are.  Shed the “identity crisis” that comes with living among serious feminist compatriots and return to your innate biological instincts to provide and protect without having to question and doubt your behavior.  Because gender roles are less progressive here, it’s easier for men to be confident in knowing what to do.  Nobody likes arrogance or machismo.  But everyone likes a self-confident man.

8.      You’re Not in Peoria Anymore

Rooftop Pool at Manray Hotel

Panama City is not Peoria.  Far from it – our international ethnic melting pot is loaded with bars, clubs, restaurants, high-end hotels and other big city temptations to seduce your senses and engage your desires.  Move your hips to salsa at Li Bar, loosen your limbs swaying to Cuban jazz at Vieja Habana, or make eyes with a fellow Latin Lover while dancing through the night on Calle Uruguay.  In Panama, the world is your aphrodisiacal oyster.

Care to join me?

This article is part of an expats blog writing contest which ends March 29, 2013.  If you liked what you read, please leave a like or comment by clicking here.

Gracias!

Driving in Panama — A True Adventure

Nine months ago when I first moved here, I drove like an American.  I remember coming to a complete stop at an intersection near my home and immediately being honked at by the car behind me.  At the time, my reaction was “What the heck!?  Why are they honking?”  Now I have no reaction.  If I reacted every time a car honked at me on the road, I would be a trembling mess.

When Nikki Giovanni said love is the only true adventure, she’d obviously never driven in Panama.  For sure, driving in Panama is an *adventure* — and I use this word as a euphemism for *disaster.*  Between the other drivers, roads under construction, closed avenues, and rubbernecking past the daily car accident, navigating city streets feels like conquering a chaotic obstacle course.  Breaking, swerving and merging all seem to occur simultaneously.  Dodging street vendors and hefty potholes takes special attention.  So does driving behind someone distracted by txting or talking carelessly on the phone with little regard to the road you’re both sharing.

Chalk that up to a regular day.  Heaven forbid you’re caught in special circumstances like a seasonal flooding or that you venture out during “quincena” — one of the two major paydays each month.  Then you might as well surrender all expectations, give up hope in trying to arrive at your destination on time, and carefully start calling to apologize for being late.  Don’t worry.  ”Tranque” as an excuse, although totally overused, is still absolutely acceptable.  Even the best planners — myself included —  get thrown off-schedule by unexpected road closings or the world’s worst gridlock.

Unfortunately, there are a lot of bad drivers here.  Even worse — a number of them are employed as city bus drivers.  In my experience, they are the most dangerous of all.  Unlike little, yellow, tin can taxis, buses are huge and carry lots of people.  But this doesn’t hinder their hack handlers from squeezing, merging and speeding in a way that both manipulates and ignores the traffic around them.  Do not play offense with them; they are bigger and stronger than you and they will win.

If you’re not much of a driver in the States, it’s safe to say you’ll hate driving here.  My advice to you: get a chauffeur.  If you have the means, I highly recommend it.  Personally, I do not have the means; plus, my personality isn’t that of one to be driven.  I like the challenge of finding my way around, getting through, getting away with things, getting by.  If you prefer to drive yourself like I do, then prepare to be surprised.  Every single day I see another driver do something shocking I’ve never seen before.  The day I feel totally confident in anticipating Panamanian driving behavior will be the same day I create my own accident.

And, trust me, accidents do happen.  My brother was in a serious wreck last month and spent several days in the hospital.  About one week ago, a friend of a friend was killed while driving his scooter.  It’s no exaggeration when I say driving in Panama is a matter of life and death.  The result is that I’ve actually slowed down, chilled out and heightened my awareness.  I strive to keep calm and carry on.  When someone cuts me off, I remember that arriving one second sooner is not more important than arriving safely.  In the meantime, I’m searching for a middle finger bobble head.  This will help me keep both hands on the wheel rather than having to lower my window to flip the bird.  Safety first!

In Panama You Are the Sky

You are the sky. Everything else – it’s just the weather. ~Pema Chödrön

Hands down, my favorite thing about living in Panama is the weather.  Of course it helps that I love, love, love the heat and totally prefer to sweat than shiver with cold.  For 12 years I lived in San Francisco and, truth be told, I never got used to the chilly dampness there.  I wore jackets year-round — heavy ones, like for skiing — and fell in love with my Bikram yoga studio because the heat greeted me like a bear hug.

If you’ve never visited San Francisco, it’s hard to imagine how chilly it can be considering it’s not only in California but also surrounded by warm areas like Oakland, Marin and the Palo Alto.  Tourists regularly arrive in shorts and leave sporting $10 sweatshirts purchased in a desperate, trembling moment visiting Fisherman’s Wharf.  Walking over the Golden Gate Bridge requires a windbreaker.

Here in Panama, numb fingertips, goosebumps and daily scarf wrapping are no longer part of my experience.  My new challenge is to keep cool which means I wear sundresses and flip-flops most days and keep the sun off my face with a wide-brim hat.  SPF is my new BFF.  I look forward to going to the beach, swimming in my gym’s outdoor pool and enjoying the delicious breeze on nightly walks with my dogs.  While friends complain about shoveling snow from their sidewalks in February, I plan a day trip to the San Blas islands.

Weather in Panama varies by location but basically we have two seasons — the dry season and the rainy season.  The dry season lasts from December through May with temperatures between 80 and 90 degrees; our summer is winter in the United States, Canada and Europe — perfect for snowbirds.  Mountain areas such as Boquete are cooler and windier and the Caribbean side of the country is more humid and rainy than the Pacific.  The driest part of Panama is the Azuero Peninsula, where Mom and I attended the pollera festival, on the south coast.  The hottest part of the country is around David, close to the Costa Rican border.

The rainy season lasts from May to November.  Temperatures are about 10 degrees lower and we get rain most days — but usually just for a bit, like in Hawaii.  At 1:00 pm I might think an evening bike ride will be canceled only to be pleasantly surprised by 6:00 pm that streets are dry and bikeable.  Due to ample rain, vegetation here is lush.  Trees and plants thrive.  Panama never goes on Daily Savings Time as all days are the same length and we never gets hurricanes which is awesome.

Mom loves the blue sky.  Each morning she gazes out her bedroom window and thanks the Universe for another beautiful day.  Sometimes I walk in during her blue sky meditation and she shares her grateful thoughts with me.  When affirming what is good here in Panama, warm weather and blue skies certainly are certainly at the top of my list – and Billy’s, too.  Here he is sunbathing on the terrace.  The heat is on, amigos.  Come join us.

How to Be Younger Next Year

For most of my adult life, I’ve been a fan of health and fitness.  I started running at Stanford my sophomore year, completing the 4-mile loop with increasing levels of stamina, and went on to participate in 5 full marathons in San Francisco, Honolulu and Los Angeles.  Living in chilly San Francisco over the past few years, I became a huge fan of Bikram yoga; I loved the heat and the incredible all-body workout so much that I willing put up with and took classes from*yoga nazi* Darius, owner of Funky Door (more like Funky Odor) as regularly as my schedule allowed.

Now that I live in Panama with aging parents — Mom is 72 and Dad is 91 — I am even more tuned-in to the importance of staying healthy.  Yes, I’m still terribly concerned with my figure, with being *as cute as I can be* and with staying in shape.  But I’m also newly motivated to be healthy and strong in order to enjoy the extended quality of life fitness offers.

About 10 years ago, Dad stopped exercising while living with Mom in Gardernerville, Nevada.  Since I wasn’t there, I’m not sure what happened exactly, why he decided to give up taking care of himself through exercise.  Mom encouraged him to continue his nightly walks, but being a somewhat stubborn individual, he chose not to listen.

He also stopped engaging himself in projects, stopped stimulating his mind.  For many years in St. Louis, Dad owned and managed apartment buildings which he was always busy fixing and renting.  After moving to Gardenerville, he no longer had his business to keep him occupied.  He also didn’t have any hobbies.  Dad didn’t play golf or tennis or go out with buddies to drink beer.  He was a generous person but not one to volunteer his time at non-profit or take up community activities.   Dad’s hobby was working, being up to things, making them better, and earning money.  Once he stopped doing those things, he slowly started to disconnect.

Mom, on the other hand, has always been a connector and, therefore, interested in staying connected.  She *retired* from medicine when she moved to Nevada and then started a totally new business in a new field and founded a non-profit organization here in Panama.  She witnessed Dad’s entire ageing process and made a personal commitment to create a different experience for herself.

Unfortunately, Mom fell and fractured her hip last year; she is still working very hard to recover.  Luckily her injury was not worse.  Did you know that twenty percent of women who fall down and break a hip die within one year?  Or that hip fractures kill more women each year — about 300,00 — than breast cancer?  Twenty-five percent of women who break a hip will end up in a nursing home.  And twenty-five percent will be at home, but dependent on a wheelchair or walker to get around the house, and dependent on someone else to get through each day.

I learned these facts reading Younger Next Year for Women, which I purchased because Suzanne Sieloff recommended it.  I don’t know Suzanne but came across her on BodyBuilding.com and was totally motivated by her transformation.  Here are her pics at ages 45 and 50.  Pretty awesome.

Before

After

Younger Next Year stresses the importance of staying engaged as we grow older and also strongly encourage readers to exercise six days a week, two of those days reserved for lifting weights.  Through facts and anecdotes, it tries to create a sense of urgency around working out, thereby allowing us to avoid emergencies.

So start now.  Do something physical each day.  Do not give up.  If you don’t already participate in sports, find something you like to do and do it.  And go to the gym as well.  That’s where the big heavy weights are waiting to be picked up.  Don’t worry — you can put them right back down.  Yes, I know it’s not easy.  Even though I love to workout, I often struggle to fit it into my schedule or bail because I don’t feel like it.  Then I remember the alternative — eventual vascular dementia or fractures due to silent, creeping osteoporosis.

Suddenly a long walk or short run on the treadmill doesn’t seem so bad.

Dancing Queens, Men with Hats, and the Monkey

This gallery contains 3 photos.

One goal Mom and I have for 2013 is to see more of Panama.  We’ve been to a number of popular beach and mountain towns in the distant past; since so much is changing here, we decide it’s time to visit them again. Our first stop: Las Tablas to catch El Desfile de Mil Polleras  […]

I Left My Wallet in San Francisco

In visiting the Bay Area this week I am quickly reminded of one of my least favorite experiences of big City living — hemorraging cash.  I enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle here — but not an extravagant one by any means — and at the same time was never able to save as much money as I should have, as I would have liked.  I left my wallet, not my heart, in San Francisco.  Here what’s I’m talking about.

Last night I popped into Tacobar on Fillmore Street to grab dinner for me and Mom.  For some reason, the location’s name leads me to believe it will be inexpensive.  Prices don’t appear on the menu board but how much can a burrito cost?  Plus, I have like 30 bucks on me so I should be good.  I order an avocado salad, tortilla soup, side orders of rice, beans and guacamole, chips and salsa and a tiny cup of sangria.  The total is $34.  Really?  I’m basically ordering soup, salad and sides.  Humph.  I decide to enjoy the sangria instead of the chips thereby managing to afford our $31 dinner.

This morning I visited my favorite yoga studio, Urban Flow Yoga, and used a massage gift certificate I purchased before moving to Panama.  Here is the price I pay:

$6 Golden Gate Bridge toll

$4 parking near yoga studio

$16 for Rusty’s yoga class; he offers *yoga by donation* and $16 is the lowest donation amount for folks wanting to register online in advance

$14 parking in Nob Hill

$10 gratuity for massage therapist

I’m out 50 bucks and all I did was go to yoga and use a gift certificate.

On the way home, I think about stopping by La Boulange to enjoy their delicious $12 Nicoise salad.  But I feel broke.  Plus, I spent most of my healthy food budget yesterday at the pricey Marin’s Farmer’s Market.  So I head home to eat leftovers and make juice from my fresh produce instead.

While traveling I’ve been present to missing Billy, Sammy and The Maven very much.  Turns out I also miss Panama’s relatively low cost of living.

A Call for Help

Like many of you, I have been filled with a lot of sadness over the past few days due to the Sandy Hook Elementary School Massacre.  Since I’m visiting the United States, I’m present to the conversations here, most of them about much-needed gun control, how to cope with grief, and questions about why this happened, who is to blame.

One topic that we don’t discuss enough is mental illness.  As someone who has suffered from depression in the past, I have felt the stigma of disease, of feeling embarrassed or shamed to ask for help, even after I was courageous enough to admit that I needed it.

Here is one mother’s story about living with and loving a son with mental illness.  I am grateful for her transparency and hope her words, along with current events, spur further dialogue here.

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I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother: It’s Time to Talk About Mental Illness

http://thebluereview.org/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother/

Friday’s horrific national tragedy—the murder of 20 children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in New Town, Connecticut—has ignited a new discussion on violence in America. In kitchens and coffee shops across the country, we tearfully debate the many faces of violence in America: gun culture, media violence, lack of mental health services, overt and covert wars abroad, religion, politics and the way we raise our children. Liza Long, a writer based in Boise, says it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.

Three days before 20 year-old Adam Lanza killed his mother, then opened fire on a classroom full of Connecticut kindergartners, my 13-year old son Michael (name changed) missed his bus because he was wearing the wrong color pants.

“I can wear these pants,” he said, his tone increasingly belligerent, the black-hole pupils of his eyes swallowing the blue irises.

“They are navy blue,” I told him. “Your school’s dress code says black or khaki pants only.”

“They told me I could wear these,” he insisted. “You’re a stupid bitch. I can wear whatever pants I want to. This is America. I have rights!”

“You can’t wear whatever pants you want to,” I said, my tone affable, reasonable. “And you definitely cannot call me a stupid bitch. You’re grounded from electronics for the rest of the day. Now get in the car, and I will take you to school.”

I live with a son who is mentally ill. I love my son. But he terrifies me.

A few weeks ago, Michael pulled a knife and threatened to kill me and then himself after I asked him to return his overdue library books. His 7 and 9 year old siblings knew the safety plan—they ran to the car and locked the doors before I even asked them to. I managed to get the knife from Michael, then methodically collected all the sharp objects in the house into a single Tupperware container that now travels with me. Through it all, he continued to scream insults at me and threaten to kill or hurt me.

That conflict ended with three burly police officers and a paramedic wrestling my son onto a gurney for an expensive ambulance ride to the local emergency room. The mental hospital didn’t have any beds that day, and Michael calmed down nicely in the ER, so they sent us home with a prescription for Zyprexa and a follow-up visit with a local pediatric psychiatrist.

We still don’t know what’s wrong with Michael. Autism spectrum, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant or Intermittent Explosive Disorder have all been tossed around at various meetings with probation officers and social workers and counselors and teachers and school administrators. He’s been on a slew of antipsychotic and mood altering pharmaceuticals, a Russian novel of behavioral plans. Nothing seems to work.

At the start of seventh grade, Michael was accepted to an accelerated program for highly gifted math and science students. His IQ is off the charts. When he’s in a good mood, he will gladly bend your ear on subjects ranging from Greek mythology to the differences between Einsteinian and Newtonian physics to Doctor Who. He’s in a good mood most of the time. But when he’s not, watch out. And it’s impossible to predict what will set him off.

Several weeks into his new junior high school, Michael began exhibiting increasingly odd and threatening behaviors at school. We decided to transfer him to the district’s most restrictive behavioral program, a contained school environment where children who can’t function in normal classrooms can access their right to free public babysitting from 7:30-1:50 Monday through Friday until they turn 18.

The morning of the pants incident, Michael continued to argue with me on the drive. He would occasionally apologize and seem remorseful. Right before we turned into his school parking lot, he said, “Look, Mom, I’m really sorry. Can I have video games back today?”

“No way,” I told him. “You cannot act the way you acted this morning and think you can get your electronic privileges back that quickly.”

His face turned cold, and his eyes were full of calculated rage. “Then I’m going to kill myself,” he said. “I’m going to jump out of this car right now and kill myself.”

That was it. After the knife incident, I told him that if he ever said those words again, I would take him straight to the mental hospital, no ifs, ands, or buts. I did not respond, except to pull the car into the opposite lane, turning left instead of right.

“Where are you taking me?” he said, suddenly worried. “Where are we going?”

“You know where we are going,” I replied.

“No! You can’t do that to me! You’re sending me to hell! You’re sending me straight to hell!”

I pulled up in front of the hospital, frantically waiving for one of the clinicians who happened to be standing outside. “Call the police,” I said. “Hurry.”

Michael was in a full-blown fit by then, screaming and hitting. I hugged him close so he couldn’t escape from the car. He bit me several times and repeatedly jabbed his elbows into my rib cage. I’m still stronger than he is, but I won’t be for much longer.

The police came quickly and carried my son screaming and kicking into the bowels of the hospital. I started to shake, and tears filled my eyes as I filled out the paperwork—“Were there any difficulties with… at what age did your child… were there any problems with.. has your child ever experienced.. does your child have…”

At least we have health insurance now. I recently accepted a position with a local college, giving up my freelance career because when you have a kid like this, you need benefits. You’ll do anything for benefits. No individual insurance plan will cover this kind of thing.

For days, my son insisted that I was lying—that I made the whole thing up so that I could get rid of him. The first day, when I called to check up on him, he said, “I hate you. And I’m going to get my revenge as soon as I get out of here.”

By day three, he was my calm, sweet boy again, all apologies and promises to get better. I’ve heard those promises for years. I don’t believe them anymore.

On the intake form, under the question, “What are your expectations for treatment?” I wrote, “I need help.”

And I do. This problem is too big for me to handle on my own. Sometimes there are no good options. So you just pray for grace and trust that in hindsight, it will all make sense.

I am sharing this story because I am Adam Lanza’s mother. I am Dylan Klebold’s and Eric Harris’s mother. I am James Holmes’s mother. I am Jared Loughner’s mother. I am Seung-Hui Cho’s mother. And these boys—and their mothers—need help. In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it’s easy to talk about guns. But it’s time to talk about mental illness.

According to Mother Jones, since 1982, 61 mass murders involving firearms have occurred throughout the country. Of these, 43 of the killers were white males, and only one was a woman. Mother Jones focused on whether the killers obtained their guns legally (most did). But this highly visible sign of mental illness should lead us to consider how many people in the U.S. live in fear, like I do.

When I asked my son’s social worker about my options, he said that the only thing I could do was to get Michael charged with a crime. “If he’s back in the system, they’ll create a paper trail,” he said. “That’s the only way you’re ever going to get anything done. No one will pay attention to you unless you’ve got charges.”

I don’t believe my son belongs in jail. The chaotic environment exacerbates Michael’s sensitivity to sensory stimuli and doesn’t deal with the underlying pathology. But it seems like the United States is using prison as the solution of choice for mentally ill people. According to Human Rights Watch, the number of mentally ill inmates in U.S. prisons quadrupled from 2000 to 2006, and it continues to rise—in fact, the rate of inmate mental illness is five times greater (56 percent) than in the non-incarcerated population.

With state-run treatment centers and hospitals shuttered, prison is now the last resort for the mentally ill—Rikers Island, the LA County Jail and Cook County Jail in Illinois housed the nation’s largest treatment centers in 2011.

No one wants to send a 13-year old genius who loves Harry Potter and his snuggle animal collection to jail. But our society, with its stigma on mental illness and its broken healthcare system, does not provide us with other options. Then another tortured soul shoots up a fast food restaurant. A mall. A kindergarten classroom. And we wring our hands and say, “Something must be done.”

I agree that something must be done. It’s time for a meaningful, nation-wide conversation about mental health. That’s the only way our nation can ever truly heal.

God help me. God help Michael. God help us all.

(Originally published at The Anarchist Soccer Mom.)

liza long is an author, musician, and erstwhile classicist. she is also a single mother of four bright, loved children, one of whom has special needs.

http://thebluereview.org/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother/