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Blog de Alex Canton-Dutari
Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: Amazon Digital Publishing
ISBN-10: 1428367383
Type: Fiction
Pages: 198
Copyright: March 1, 2015
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
The author is inspired by the images of his early-life friends.
For some reason, Doc felt that he had the need to write about important people that went through his life. He also wanted to emphasize their interactions and the impact that they had on him. As a result, we meet Zane, who was his best friend at a time, Margarita who shared his life, Florjak -- a former college roommate -- and Martin.
The experiences include sites of South American cities --Lima, Buenos Aires, Montevideo, Sao Paulo, Rio de Janeiro -- as well as visits to some countries in Europe. Though the main story takes place in California and Panama City, Panama.
The story covers important cross-cultural events, including living through the beginning and end of a dictatorship, a stint with the Peace Corps and a bit of romance.
Important highlights of each character are combined in a manner that conveys that no matter what life may bring on to each individual, there can always be good memories. In Doc's case, memories of what he considers to have been beautiful people.
Excerpt
Chapter 5
Panama Circa 1965
Our workplace was on the outskirts of Panama City, quite close to the international airport. Every morning I drove my second-hand VW Beetle to work and on my way back I dropped Zane off near his home. I never knew where he lived exactly, because the drop-off point varied each time. I do remember that the area was very popular, though not part of the slums that existed in the town in 1968.
At the time, the relationship between the US and Latin America was not the best. Castro had been exporting his Cuban revolution to most countries and there was some animosity towards Americans. Panamanians, in particular, held a grudge about the part of their land they could not control. Many felt very strongly that the US Canal Zone should be Panama’s Canal Zone. It had been leased perpetually to the US, thanks to the brilliant mind of a Frenchman who negotiated a treaty with the northern country, and for which Panama would be paid an insultingly tiny pittance.
The Peace Corps made sure that all volunteer training included a detailed history of each host country. Zane had been trained in Puerto Rico. This not only included ancient history, but quite up-to-date information that was innocently provided by host country nationals working in their training camps. I must admit that I was never interested in politics, and the particular situation of my country was something that I preferred not to discuss in detail. There were both pros and cons that I could find whenever I thought about the perpetual lease of anything.
Nevertheless, up until this very day, I do not feel comfortable driving around the area that reverted back to Panama at the turn of the last century. I still remember when Panamanians had to have a special US Canal Zone driver’s license. If we wanted to go to the western side of the country, we had to cross the Zone, and every time I did so I felt that I was stepping into an unfriendly foreign country. The fact that most of the gringos who lived in that particular enclave very seldom crossed Fourth of July Avenue into Panama City just made matters worse. It really was a foreign country.
There was a very beautiful causeway bordering the entrance to the Pacific side of the Panama Canal. Panamanians could see it from Balboa Avenue. Three islands in close proximity had been linked by a road, which included stops at the Officers’ Club, a small beach and other mysterious dwellings. All we could do was drool over this out-of-reach beauty and grow more hostile toward our residential invaders.
*****
Zane’s disappearance every Sunday—I include the Saturday nights after he left our social gatherings—was something that reminded me of my college days in California, when I would gather my dirty laundry and spend the morning in the Laundromat. On those afternoons I would step into my Iron Man role; not the modern comic hero, but the guy who was ironing his clothing in his room.
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