Bound for Books

We all know that it's a gaggle of geese, a murder of crows and an iPod of whales, but is it a bunch of books or a batch of books? If I asked my friend L, he'd say it was a mess of or a slew of, but I'm going with boxes of, because that's how they arrived here, in boxes.

It wasn't easy though.

"Hey Charly," a friend shouted to Woowoo in the supermercado, "did you know there's a package for you at the post office?" We stared back blankly. Having no postal box there, the comment seemed unlikely. "It's true," the friend added, they have a sign up that says package for Charly Walton." While Woowoo Chuck and RTGFKAR continued shopping, I trotted over to the P.O. to check out what surely had to be a misunderstanding.

And wouldn't you know, there on the glass above the service counter was a note that said, you guessed it, package for Charly Walton. I took it down and approached the clerk at the window. "This," I said in my best Spanish which is now approaching second grade level,"is for me." The clerk eyed me dubiously or, as Frank Sinatra would say, doobie doobie do biously, but reached under the counter nevertheless and found a postal form for me to sign. Now what, I thought. I can't write Charly Walton on the line because the clerk is likely to ask me for I.D. If I write my own name, she will clearly see the difference. I opted for my own though, first middle and last, just like it shows on my residency card and hoped for the best. I thought maybe I could convince her that Charly was my nickname. Not to worry, the signature was not given a glance. The clerk handed me my copy of the form and just stood there smiling the smile of someone who has just received a "hip hip, good show, well done." I waited a minute, smiling back and then seeing that nothing was forthcoming, I looked her straight in the eye and said, "uh, the package?" That "uh" by the way, is pronounced the same in Spanish. There is no package I was told. It's in David. Alrighty then, I said more or less, when will it arrive here? It won't, said smiling Maria, also more or less, you have to go get it. Just take your form to the main post office and pick it up. Hmmmm, I thought. That must be this form in my hand; the one with the wrong signature.

A couple of days later Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR, friend B and I set forth in search of. I had a vague memory of where the P.O. was located having been there once before a couple of years ago. It was, I recalled, just a few blocks from the town's center. I couldn't have been more right. I drove straight to it. That is, if by straight to it I mean around several detours and into a massive traffic jam. Panama was protesting NAFTA, the U.S. free, ha ha, trade agreement and thousands of people had taken to the streets in a parade to display their latest displeasure with the good old USA. And not just any streets, mind you, but the specific streets I wanted to drive on. I remembered a scene from "Soylent Green" where a huge bucket loader drove through crowds scooping up people by the dozens. Where are those bucket loaders when you need them? We did finally make it to the post office though, but not before several games of chicken with Panama taxis left my passengers whimpering and checking the deductible on their insurance policies. The post office was closed. Or, rather, enclosed. It was undergoing renovation and was barricaded in by a tall temporary construction fence. Other than seeing no entrance and finding no parking there was...no problem. I drove around the block and found a space to pull over that was maybe or not, legal. I gave RTGFKAR the keys and instructions to move the car if a problema should arise. I then set off on foot to find our bunch, batch, box of books.

The first door I came to that was close to where the P.O.'s front door used to be was what I took to be an unemployment office. Something like that anyway. Lines of people at windows that could have been postal had there been any mail about. I was given directions by a sweet older woman whose Spanish was Greek to me but whose finger pointed further up the street. There, down a driveway hidden by illegally parked vehicles, I found the P.O.'s temporary entrance. I walked up to the clerk and said, "Doctor Livingston I presume" and handed him my form. He had a nice one word answer as a response. "Aduana." I like one word answers. You either know them or you don't and if you don't you can look them up. This one I knew. It means Customs. Visualizing an office miles away I fired back my own one word query, "donde?", where? The clerk smiled which is apparently post office policy in Panama and beats the heck out of "going postal" and pointed to an office just three doors away. I would have skipped merrily there, but I knew I would still have to deal with the bogus signature on my form.

The guy at Customs was very nice. Though not smiling he did put down his broom and attend to me right away. He looked at my form and gave me new ones to sign. There were two boxes waiting for Charly Walton and I signed for both with my actual signature which, no matter how much I scribbled, I couldn't make look like Charly Walton. But, again, no matter. And, again, no books. The guy explained to me that he was not the customs agent, he was just the guy, who, well, swept. The customs agent was in a meeting and would not be back until after one and could I wait. Well sure, I thought. What the heck, it's already ten thirty. I about faced and marched off.

Back at the car I found no one but some thing. That thing being a ticket on the windshield. I looked about and saw Charly down the street and gave her a holler. RTGFKAR and B showed up shortly after. It was too hot they all explained, to stay in the car. I mumbled something about the air conditioner that they couldn't hear and drove off in search of a parade to run over.

Errands and lunch followed before returning to the Post Office. The customs agent was in and she, unsmiling, couldn't find our boxes of books. Eventually, I was enlisted to help look and it was my eagle eyes behind my 200 percent magnification eagle reading glasses that found the books amidst the piles of packages stacked about the room. I was then given a knife and told to open the boxes. Inside were, of course, brand new books sent by daughter K from Random House which to customs looked like they were for resale. In other words a dodge around paying import duties. No no no I protested, we just read a lot. I suppose because I have an honest face and because I was truly flustered and there really weren't all that many books, I was believed and allowed to go. But first, I had to pay the storage charge...back at the post office. It wasn't much, really, but there was a line... a long line. Twenty minutes later, receipt in hand I returned to the customs office and claimed my prize.

No one asked about the signatures.

Batches, bunches and boxes of books finally in tow, I pointed the car to the highway and started for home. Aren't you forgetting something Woowoo Charly inquired. What could that be, I responded sure that I had covered all bases. The ticket, she said, you have to pay the ticket.

Oh yeah, the ticket. Now where is that municipal building? I see it. It's right there.

On the other side of the parade.