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The plane door opens and the heat hits you like a wet towel. That’s it. That’s the moment you know you’re in the tropics. I’m Javier Moreno, and this is the Panama Travel Podcast. I’ve just landed at Tocumen International Airport, PTY, on the first of August, 2026. It’s the start of a long journey along the Pacific Riviera, but right now, it’s about getting my feet wet, literally, in Panama City.

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First things first: immigration. The line moves fast, faster than I expected. I’ve got my passport, my exit ticket, and the address of a bed and breakfast in Casco Viejo. The officer stamps it, no questions. Ninety days for most Westerners, and for US and Canadian citizens, up to 180. I’m here for the long haul, so I’ll need to sort out a proper visa soon, but for now, I’m in. I grab my bag, find a kiosk, and buy a local SIM. Thirty dollars, a passport, and I’m connected. That’s the first practical hurdle cleared.

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Outside, the air is thick, and the sky is a bruised purple. August in Panama City means rain, and it’s not shy about it. I hop in a taxi, an Uber, actually, and we crawl through the evening traffic. The driver points at the skyline, all glass towers and cranes. 'That’s Punta Pacifica,' he says, 'the Manhattan of Panama.' I’m headed to Casco Viejo, the old town, a UNESCO-listed peninsula of cobblestones and colonial charm. The fare is about five balboas, which is five dollars, since the balboa is pegged one-to-one with the greenback. Easy math for a traveler.

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I’m staying at Panama House Bed & Breakfast, a quiet spot tucked off the main square. The room is simple, high ceilings, a ceiling fan that creaks. I drop my bags and head out before the rain returns. The streets are narrow, the buildings painted in faded yellows and blues. There’s a rhythm here, a salsa beat from a window, the clatter of a pan from a restaurant kitchen. I walk past the Plaza de la Independencia, where the Panama Canal Museum stands, all stone and history. I make a note to come back for the full tour.

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Dinner is at La Pulpería, a place that feels like a colonial grocery store turned into a restaurant. The menu is Panamanian with a twist. I order the corvina ceviche, and it’s fresh, bright, with a kick of lime. The cost? About eight balboas. Outside, the thunder starts, a low rumble that builds into a crack. The rain comes down in sheets. I finish my meal and watch the street turn into a river. It’s a bit like the whole city is taking a shower, and I’m just part of it.

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By morning, the storm has passed, leaving a washed-clean shine on the cobblestones. I grab a coffee at Leto HiFi, a listening bar that also serves a mean espresso. Three balboas for a cup, and it’s worth every cent. The barista tells me about the Geisha coffee, Panama’s claim to fame, and I make a mental note to try it in Boquete later. For now, I’m on a mission: the Panama Canal.

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The Canal is the reason this city exists. I take an Uber to the Miraflores Locks Visitor Center, about fifteen minutes away. The entry fee is seventeen dollars, and it’s a steal. The viewing platform is crowded, and I see a massive container ship, the size of a small city, being guided through the locks. Water rushes, gates creak, and the whole thing works like a beautifully choreographed machine. There’s an IMAX film narrated by Morgan Freeman, but the real show is right in front of you. I could stay here for hours, and I do.

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The canal’s history is a saga of failure and triumph. The French tried and failed in the 19th century, losing thousands to disease. The Americans took over and finished it in 1914. Then, on December 31, 1999, it was handed back to Panama under the Torrijos-Carter Treaties. The pride is palpable. I meet a local guide, a man in his sixties, who tells me about the handover. 'That was our day,' he says. 'We finally owned our own country.' It’s a powerful reminder that this is not just a marvel of engineering; it’s a symbol of national identity.

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After the canal, I head to the Amador Causeway, a four-kilometer stretch of road that connects four small islands to the mainland. The Biomuseo, Frank Gehry’s only Latin American building, is here, all colorful, twisted metal and glass. I walk along the causeway, the Pacific on one side, the city skyline on the other. The rain holds off, and I catch a glimpse of a pelican diving for fish. I stop at a small kiosk for a coconut water, three balboas, and just watch the ships drift toward the canal. It’s a moment of calm in a city that seems to be in a constant hurry.

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I’m staying in Casco Viejo, so I decide to explore it properly. I start at the Mola Museum, MuMo, a gallery dedicated to the Guna people’s intricate, vibrant textiles. The molas are stunning, geometric patterns that tell stories of their culture. I buy a small one as a souvenir, twenty-five balboas. From there, I wander up to Plaza de Francia, a leafy square with a monument to the French attempt at the canal. The view over the bay is postcard-perfect, even with the clouds building.

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For lunch, I find a fonda, a small, inexpensive eatery. I order the comida corriente: rice, beans, fried plantains, and a piece of meat, all for four balboas. It’s simple, hearty, and delicious. I wash it down with a bottle of water and watch the locals do the same. This is the real Panama, not the tourist trail. I’m starting to get a sense of the place, beyond the postcard images.

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The afternoon brings the thunderstorms. The sky darkens, the wind picks up, and the rain arrives with a vengeance. I take shelter in a café, Pulpa Specialty Coffee, and order a cappuccino. The barista tells me about the city’s founding, Panama Viejo, which was sacked by Henry Morgan in 1671. The ruins are on my list for the next few days. I finish my coffee, three balboas, and wait out the storm, watching the rain bounce off the cobblestones outside.

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In the evening, I take a walk along the Cinta Costera, a ribbon of park that hugs the coastline. The lights of the city reflect off the water, and the skyline, that Manhattan-like cluster of towers, puts on a show. I stop by the Mercado de Mariscos, the fish market, and grab a cup of corvina ceviche for two balboas. It’s a perfect snack, fresh and zesty. I sit on a bench, watch the fishing boats bob in the harbor, and feel the humidity settle on my skin.

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The next morning, I tackle the bureaucracy. The visa process for a longer stay requires a licensed attorney, a medical exam, and a stack of documents. I’ve got an appointment with a lawyer who specializes in the Friendly Nations visa. The office is in El Cangrejo, a walkable neighborhood with bakeries and microbreweries. I pass by La Rana Dorada, a popular brewpub, and file that away for later. The meeting is straightforward. I need to open a bank account with a balance of at least five thousand dollars, and that’s the next step.

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Banking in Panama is easy because the currency is the US dollar. I walk into Banco General, the country’s largest, and open an account with my passport and proof of address. The process takes an hour, and I get a debit card on the spot. The minimum balance? I put in five thousand balboas, which is five grand in real money. It feels good to have that done. I also pick up a MetroBus card, about two balboas, and learn that a single metro ride is only thirty-five cents. That’s the cheapest transit I’ve seen anywhere.

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I take the metro to test it out. Line Two goes all the way to the airport, which is a bargain. The stations are clean, and the trains are air-conditioned, a welcome escape from the heat. I ride for a few stops, just to feel the pulse of the city. When I emerge, I’m in El Dorado, a bustling commercial district. The sidewalks are lined with shops and food stalls, and there’s a hum of activity. I grab a carimañola, a fried yuca fritter stuffed with meat, from a street vendor for five balboas. It’s greasy, crispy, and exactly what I needed.

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Back in Casco Viejo, I stop by the National Theater, a beautiful building from 1908. There’s a mural on the wall, a riot of colors, and a street musician playing a guitar. I sit on a bench and listen for a while. The music mixes with the sound of traffic and the chatter of people. This is the heartbeat of the city. I’m not just visiting; I’m starting to live here, one day at a time.

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The rain has become a constant companion. It’s the rainy season, and the afternoon downpours are a fact of life. I’ve learned to carry an umbrella and a light jacket. The locals don’t seem to mind; they just carry on, umbrellas up, boots on. There’s something about the rain that makes the city feel more alive, the colors more vivid, the air cleaner. I’m starting to love it.

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Before I end this episode, a few practical notes. Getting around is affordable: the metro is thirty-five cents, the bus is twenty-five, and the metrobus card works for both. Food is cheap if you eat local: a fonda meal for five, a coffee for three, a beer for five. Rent in the city center is around a thousand balboas for a one-bedroom flat, and that’s a big chunk of the budget, but the lifestyle makes up for it. Safety is generally good, but be smart: take Ubers at night, and avoid walking alone in certain areas like El Chorillo. It’s a beautiful city, but it’s still a city.

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I finish my first week in Panama City with a newfound respect for this place. It’s more than just a transit point; it’s a destination. I’ve seen the canal, walked the old town, eaten my weight in ceviche, and taken a metro that connects the city like a lifeline. The next stop is the Azuero Peninsula, where the coast gets wilder, and the whales come to play. But for now, I’m here, in the heart of it all, listening to the rain on the roof and feeling the city’s energy. Hasta la próxima, Panama. I’ll be back for more.

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For more information, check the show notes. I’ll have links to the places I mentioned, the costs, and the practical tips. And if you’re thinking of making the move, or just a quick trip, let me know. I’m here to help. This is Javier Moreno, signing off from Panama City. Hasta luego.