Old Panama is again becoming a scene of romance. Nothing can be more
delightful than an automobile trip by moonlight to the scene of Morgan’s
piratical invasion. When your machine rounds the corner on the road to
the ocean a warm wave is wafted to you on the breezes from the seawall.
You take your fan and you fan and you fan yourself vigorously, but, as
you draw nearer, the air becomes still warmer. The ruins stare you in
the face, and your mind wanders back to the days when black-eyed
senoritas strolled upon the bridge and through the lanes and byways, now
overgrown with jungle weeds. You think to yourself, as the machine
speeds on, how deserted the lovely spot is in the weird moonlight. You
are nearing the beach, and, oh! the warmth, the delightful breeze, the
moonlight, the odor of tropical lilies, and then your eyes behold a
scene that makes you feel young again. Hand in hand, strolling in pairs,
you behold lovers in the ecstacy of abandonment on the white sands.
Lovers are kissing each other, right under your middle-aged eyes.
Lovers are sitting on the sands holding hands, cheek to cheek, without
any apparent fear of criticism.
“There’s an automobile full of old folks,” says a masculine voice, “so I
guess I’d better let go of your hand.”
“Who cares?” says the sweet voice of a girl. “We’re not in Panama now.
Let the old frumps stare.”
There is a merry hum of voices, and a clinking of glasses under the
rustic shed. Two men are busy making sandwiches, two others are busy
serving cool drinks, the young people, and some that are not so awfully
young, wander to and fro, arms entwined, or else they sit in the shadow
of a rock and spoon. Dapper couples, black, white and brown, meander
around in that warm, affectionate atmosphere without getting in the way
of one another, because each couple is so absorbed in itself that it has
no eyes for its neighbor. You look on approvingly, even though you are
old, almost grey, and unloved. You forget your neighbors, who are like
yourself, up in years and alone.
There are men swearing under their breath and mending tires that have
been punctured on the rocky, unfinished roads of the Zone. There are
voices singing “Casey Jones.” There are voices singing “I Love You, I
Love You, I Love You.” There are voices singing “In the gloaming, oh, my
darling, when the lights are dim and low,” and this song of songs takes
you back to a sea beach that is far away, to where “rosy dreams were
dreamed when everything was what it seemed and every dream came true.”
You hate to tear yourself away, but it is almost midnight and the
machine is hired by the hour. So you step in and are whirled back to
Panama, where the atmosphere is cooler, the scenes far less romantic,
and where you are rudely awakened from your balmy dream in a sudden
realization of fast-fleeting time by the price the garage empresario
says you must pay. But, after all, the dream was worth the time, and
money is of secondary consideration in a trip by moonlight to Old
Panama.