Today I walked into a bookstore and felt deeply apprehensive. The anxiety brewed; a mix of espresso and the overwhelming amount of knowledge around me. Realizing my state of relative poverty, I questioned my recent choices, contrasting my lifestyle to that being pawned by the bookstore.
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At times, cultural idiosyncrasies I learned to appreciate while living in the campo reinvent themselves as sources of anxiety. For example, in the campo, waiting for two hours for transportation is acceptable. Few transportation options exist, so arriving late is normal. On the contrary, in Panama City, waiting a devastating two hours inside a taxi (in a rainstorm with the window open for visibility) going to a dentist appointment is unacceptable. Especially when I must spend my day’s salary on the fare. Then, arriving to the dentist’s office late, I find the dentist has gone home. Instead of returning to Chiriquí, I must spend another day waiting for an appointment. The waiting leads me to the bookstore, where I spend exorbitant amounts of money on coffee and gaze at pretty things I can’t afford.
A deeper anxiety underlies my decision to stay in Panama another year. Being in the bookstore unearths stresses emerging from being broke and intellectually starved. Lately, interminable tasks eat away at time usually spent on reading interesting books. During days spent speaking in Spanish out in the countryside, and nights spent alone, intellectual conversations are rare. I miss parts of the lifestyle in the US: coffee shops, bookstores, hot showers and other luxuries that the average American enjoys daily. More than these simple luxuries, however, I miss events like those advertised on the posters in front of me: jazz concerts, charity events, photography contests, yoga classes and lectures led by people with lots of letters after their names. These things exist in Panama City to a degree, but I don’t have the time or money to enjoy them during my infrequent visits to the City. My insatiable thirst for caffeinated beverages is only a symptom of my craving for intellectual life.
The bookstore with its enticing books about sustainable architecture, novels by Isabelle Allende and Paulo Cuelho, world atlases and travel guides, does not sadden me. On the contrary, I wish I could stay here, page through the books and sip coffee interminably. I feel apprehensive because soon I will return to my solitary life in Chiriquí, where I may be thoughtlessly busy for over a year. I worry the time spent and personal sacrifices made may not be worth the outcome. The deep roots of this apprehensiveness flag the need stop and ponder my decisions. What better place to think than over a cappuccino at a bookstore?
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