Girls Underwear and Shady Hotels in Panama City

Embarrassing Unmentionables

Latin Americans, because of certain Catholic cultural values, are forced to make love in coveted, mysterious ways. They cannot bring their lovers home to show off to their families, so the common custom is to rent a room in a “love” motel. These unsavory places are also the frequent haunts of prostitutes looking for customers. These hotels are present all over the Latin world. They offer rates by the hour, and usually have the cheapest price in town. Sad to say, I have often stayed in these hotels out of sheer economics. Often there is no other affordable option for the traveler in more expensive cities.

Such a place is Panama City. Because of the vast historical heritage, the quaint restored colonial avenues of Casco Viejo, the lore of the largest canal in the world, and the rich culture of the land, Panama City has a large tourism infrastructure. There are hundreds of beautiful sky high resort type hotels in swanky, clean parts of the city. These huge white monstrosities, however, are far out of y price range. The youth hostels ran an average price of $10 per night. I thought this was also expensive for a bed without a lock open to robbery, sleeping in a room full of dirty, smelly hippie kids and sticky, fungus-floored communal bathrooms. Like the other tourist hotels, the hostels were on the outskirts of the center city, in nice quiet residential and business districts that utterly stank of America money. These places provided the comfort of ambiguity as to any indication of the region of the world, void of all cultural or uncomfortable aspects of the country. These blank places seem to comfort the rich tourist while on vacation. Yet then again what person with money to spend would want to stay in the loud, exhaust-filled, wild center of Panama City when they could sleep in silence?

I and my purse, however, were in for the center city. A few stops in seedy hotels, and I finally found a private room with a bathroom in a quaint hotel for a fraction of the price of a hostel dorm bed.

From my window I looked down upon the main drag where I had a clear view of all the action of the city; the wildly painted pimped buses, the street vendors selling cigarettes and gum from huge baskets and the Cuna women walking passed in their beaded and stitched garbs. The surging multitude was like watching a parade, complete with the honking of cars and blaring reggaeton, Latin and Caribbean rhythms. It was located amongst a wide range of local restaurants and bars, within a minute’s walk of the busy street markets on one side and a tranquil, lazy park on the other. This was far more exciting than being stuck up in the dead banking district.

It was, although, of the unsavory category of a love motel. The sidewalk in front was heavily shaded by thick bushes to obscure the view of entry through the front door. The paper thin walls in the interior did nothing to hide the nature of the hotel either.

Entering the afternoon of my check-in, I heard panting through the hallways. Stopping to wait for the elevator, I determined that the sounds were coming from the adjacent room from a couple obviously in the act of after lunch coitus. After hearing all too much of the shrill pleasure moaning and the bed-posts thumping against the walls, I scampered away up the stairs, too discomfited to wait longer for the elevator while forced to eavesdrop on the mating pair.

That night, unlike the activities of the other guests, I washed my clothes. I hung them over the windowsill in hope that they would dry in the cool night breeze before morning.

During the night I was roused by a strong wind blowing in my 4^th story window, banging the shutters against the brick exterior. Half asleep, and forgetting about my wet clothes, I shut the windows, bolting them against the harsh wind. The next morning I awoke to a wind-blown room with every item that could catch the wind strewn about the floor. My two clean shirts were tightly locked in the window, but shockingly my underwear was gone. The torrential gusts the night before must have blown them away.

They were not in the room, nor in my pile of luggage. I flung open the shutters and searched the street. I saw nothing. I dressed and went out to search the street. I ran, a little ashamed, around the surrounding blocks, but found not even the slightest sign of my panties. Gone. Disappeared. They were nowhere to be found. I let go of the notion of ever discovering them again and bid farewell.

The worst part is this underwear was not just any normal, ordinary pair. They were the well-hidden, unappealing period panties. Even uglier than the average granny panty, these are the ones only used when there is absolutely no likelihood whatsoever of being seen. They are a most clandestine secret of women, never to be revealed to the eyes of men. (For the reader’s sake I dare not go into further gruesome description as to the appearance of the well-worn garment.) My unmentionable secret had flown like a kite out of the window and was now on the loose in Panama City, exposed to the world.

My dirty secret was out there, but it did not match the dirty secrets of the other hotel guests. Because of the risqué location they had probably been identified and wrongly accused as those of a woman of the night. My mind ran through possible scenarios of what may have happened to my underwear. Had they been taken by someone? Were they now covering someone else’s nether regions? Was there a panty-sniffer on the loose? Would this panty-snatcher search me out? What kind of sick person would touch someone else’s period panties anyway? Would I ever find out the answers to this strange mystery?

I somehow forgot about the uncomforting experience, and moved on for the period panty is an utmost forgettable piece of one’s wardrobe. It is not an article of clothing that women often fret over in daily life. It is only donned once a month and with more contempt than delight. While traveling, a female does not often contemplate such matters with too much worry for the majority of weeks.

Thirty days later I was reminded of the incident, to my dissatisfaction and discomfort. In my absent-mindedness I have not gotten around to purchasing another adequate undergarment for the occasion. There are now four countries between me and my lost panties. I am left with frilly, stringy, lacy pieces that hardly cover anything worth mentioning. In my forgetfulness I have reduced myself to wearing my bathing suit, the only adequate piece of cloth to cover myself. This will have to do until a lingerie store in rural Honduras can be found.