“Would you like me to get you a taxi?”
She’s already picking up the phone. Poor girl can’t wait to get rid of me.
I retrieve my bag from the floor, dig a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet, and hand it to her. “Yes, please. And thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
I take mercy on her and wait for the taxi outside.
As it turns out, the concierge was either misinformed about the ferry or just f*****g with me in retaliation for weirding her out, because there’s a direct flight from Panama City to my destination. By the time I disembark from the airplane onto the small, emerald-green island called Isla Colón in Bocas del Toro, it’s late in the afternoon and I’m delirious from exhaustion, hunger, and stress.
I’ve got hand tremors. Eyelid twitches. Stomach cramps. Plus, I’m hallucinating,
