When I first arrived in Panama, I expected to spend my days observing the landscape.
Instead, I've found myself observing people.
A few weeks ago, two young brothers from a Panamanian family lost their lives in the Pacific Ocean near where I'm staying. Their loss weighed heavily on this community. It was impossible not to feel the collective grief that settled over the beach and the conversations that followed.
Just one week later, the community gathered again.
This time, not in grief, but in celebration.
The occasion was the Fiesta de la Virgen del Carmen, a celebration honoring the patron saint of fishermen, sailors, and all who depend on the sea. Across Panama's coastal communities, people gather each July to pray for protection over those whose lives are connected to the water. Boats carry a statue of the Virgin along the coastline before she is welcomed ashore with music, dancing, and celebration.
I watched from my balcony as the procession made its way down the beach.
The music echoed throughout the day. Families gathered. Boats lined the shoreline. Children ran through the sand while neighbors celebrated together.
What moved me most wasn't simply the tradition itself.
It was what it represented.
Only a week earlier, this same community had experienced unimaginable loss. Yet here they were, gathering together in hope, praying for protection over one another and over everyone whose livelihood depends on the sea.
My heart couldn't help but wonder if the brothers' family felt wrapped in the embrace of a community that hadn't forgotten them.
It reminded me that community isn't only about celebrating together.
Sometimes it's about carrying hope together.
As I've continued settling into life here, I've also found myself thinking about community in a different way.
Like many travelers, I've joined several online groups filled with English speakers to help navigate life in a new country. They've been useful, but they've also challenged one of my assumptions.
I realized I had expected community to happen simply because we shared a language.
Instead, many interactions felt cautious and transactional.
It made me realize something important.
Community isn't something we automatically have because we come from the same place.
It's something we practice.
One of the people I've connected with most here is a local taxi driver.
He speaks only a little English.
I speak only conversational Spanish.
Every time we see each other, we both make the effort. He practices his English with me. I practice my Spanish with him. We laugh when one of us searches for the right word, and somehow we always find a way to understand one another.
I've experienced the same thing with the security guard at my building. I usually arrive with my translation app open, doing my best in Spanish. He always smiles, patiently helps me, and now watches for the weekly bread truck so I don't miss it. If I'm inside, he'll stop the truck and come find me.
Those moments may seem small.
But they don't feel transactional.
They feel like relationship.
They remind me that community isn't built because communication is effortless.
It's built because people are willing to meet one another halfway.
This weekend, instead of joining a large tour, I've decided to hire my taxi driver to take me to El Valle de Antón for the day. Nestled inside the crater of an ancient volcano, the town is known for its cloud forests, waterfalls, hiking trails, wildlife, and cooler mountain air.
I'm looking forward to exploring a new landscape.
But perhaps even more, I'm looking forward to continuing the conversations we've already begun in two different languages.
Because the longer I travel, the less I believe community is something we find.
I think it's something we create.
One greeting.
One conversation.
One shared laugh.
One act of kindness at a time.
Wherever this journey takes me next, I hope I continue remembering that the most meaningful connections rarely begin with perfect understanding.
They begin with the simple willingness to meet another person halfway.
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