Page 16 of The Big Race
Lost in Translation
G eorge and Ernie, and Gemini and Blaine, followed us to Terminal Two, and we were in a cab pulling away when we saw the military couple and the male models arriving at the taxi line.
Our taxi driver spoke no English, but Ray had spent years selling copiers and support services to large and small operators, many of whom spoke only basic English, and he’d learned quite a bit of Spanish over the years.
He and the driver chatted away as we drove from the airport into the center of Panama City.
The journey from Tocumen International Airport into Panama City reminded me of Miami in some ways, but with distinctive Central American twists.
Palm-lined boulevards gave way to a skyline that could have been Brickell Avenue—gleaming glass towers jutting against the blue sky, their modern silhouettes unexpected after the developing-world chaos of the airport.
The humidity felt familiar against my skin, but the scents were different—unfamiliar street food, diesel fumes, and tropical flowers I couldn’t name.
The trip took nearly a half hour, leaving lots of opportunities for teams to get stuck in traffic.
As we approached the city center, colonial buildings in pastel colors began to appear between the skyscrapers, their wrought-iron balconies and weathered facades evidence of the country’s Spanish heritage.
Pedestrians darted between cars in a way that would feel at home in Miami’s Little Havana, while street vendors with wooden carts offered fruits I recognized but rarely saw in Florida groceries.
“He says that’s the Canal Administration Building,” Ray translated, pointing toward an impressive structure as our driver gestured animatedly. “And apparently we’re lucky—the traffic is much better than usual because it’s Saturday.”
I nodded, my attention caught by the contrasts around us: luxury car dealerships next to tiny family-owned bodegas, modern banks alongside colonial churches, poverty and wealth coexisting within blocks of each other.
It was like Miami’s cultural patchwork intensified, compressed, and layered with centuries more history.
“Ask him where the best place is to get coffee,” I suggested, already thinking about how to navigate this unfamiliar yet oddly recognizable urban landscape as we prepared for our first challenge.
The driver dropped us at one edge of the large open square, and pointed to a coffee shop nearby. We quickly grabbed drinks and approached the crafting stations.
“What’s a mola?” Ray asked.
“It’s a type of textile art made by women in Panama,” I explained, recalling an exhibit I’d seen years ago at a museum. “Layers of fabric cut and sewn to create intricate designs. Very precise work.”
Ray glanced at the first crafting station, where a Panamanian woman in traditional dress waited with colorful fabrics and tools. “You should do this one. You’re better at detailed work.”
“The clue asked for someone with a steady hand,” I pointed out. “You’re the athlete.”
“But you’re the puzzle person.”
“It’s not a puzzle, it’s a craft. Besides, you’re the one who needs to show he can follow instructions carefully.”
The pointed barb landed exactly as intended. Ray’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
As Ray approached the crafting station, the military couple arrived, quickly followed by the male models. Adrienne immediately volunteered, while Alex, the model we’d spotted limping, reluctantly agreed to represent his team.
I stood back, watching as the Panamanian woman explained the process to the three of them. They needed to layer three pieces of fabric, cut a design through all layers, then fold under and stitch the raw edges of each layer to reveal the colors beneath in a specific pattern.
Ray, to his credit, listened attentively to the instructions, asking questions about the stitching technique. Adrienne, meanwhile, was already cutting her fabric, apparently confident in her understanding of the task. Alex seemed completely lost, asking the instructor to repeat directions.
“You’ve got this, Ray,” I called, trying to be supportive despite my earlier jab.
Ray began cutting his fabric, his athletic hands steady with the small scissors. But as he moved to the stitching phase, his frustration became evident. The needle was tiny, the thread kept breaking, and the precise folding required a delicacy that didn’t come naturally to him.
“Damn it,” he muttered as he pricked his finger for the third time.
The garbage collectors and sorority sisters arrived, selecting their team members for the challenge. Ernie joined the crafting table with Gemini.
Adrienne finished first, presenting her mola to the craftsperson for approval. She examined it carefully, then shook her head, pointing out several flaws in the stitching. Her military precision had backfired—she’d rushed through without paying enough attention to the artistic elements.
To everyone’s surprise, Gemini was progressing quickly, her sorority crafting experience apparently transferable to this traditional art form.
“We make all our own bid day decorations, y’all,” she explained cheerfully as she deftly manipulated the fabric.
“That’s when we issue invitations to new girls to join the sorority. ”
Ray was now visibly sweating, his hands shaking slightly as he attempted to follow the pattern. He kept glancing over at me, clearly hoping for some assistance or encouragement, but I remained impassive.
“Jeffrey,” he finally called. “Any tips?”
I hesitated, torn between my petty desire to let him flounder and the promise we’d made to each other.
The realization hit me with sudden clarity: this was a test. Not the mola—that was just fabric and thread.
The real challenge was whether we could break this cycle that had become second nature over twenty-five years.
What lesson was I learning if I kept defaulting to the same response? What was Ray learning if I abandoned him to prove a point?
With a sigh, I approached the edge of the crafting area, careful not to cross into the workspace, which would violate the rules.
“Slow down,” I advised, moving closer to the edge of the crafting area.
“You’re rushing the stitches. Make each one count rather than doing a lot of messy ones.
Just like a triathlon, you don’t want to blow all your energy racing through the swim.
You still have to bike and run, so find your pace and maintain it. ”
The relief in Ray’s eyes when he looked up at me was like a physical weight on my chest. How many times had we done this dance? Him needing something from me, me withholding it to punish him for not being what I needed?
“Also, fold the fabric under more tightly before you stitch,” I added. “That’ll give you a cleaner line.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Gemini finished first, earning her team the next clue. The sorority sisters squealed with excitement, hugging each other before racing off toward their next destination. Adrienne finished shortly after, her second attempt meeting the craftsperson’s standards.
Ray was third, presenting his mola with nervous anticipation. The craftsperson examined it carefully, then smiled and handed him our next clue. The relief on his face was palpable.
"You did it," I said as he returned to me, still holding the delicate textile. His hands were slightly unsteady, whether from the precise work or the stress, I couldn't tell.
"Thanks to your advice," he acknowledged, his eyes meeting mine with something I hadn't seen in months—genuine gratitude mixed with surprise, as if he hadn't expected me to help him succeed.
As he handed me the mola to examine, our fingers brushed briefly. The fabric was beautiful, intricate, far better than anything I could have managed.
"What does the clue say?"
Ray tore open the envelope, but not before placing his free hand briefly on my shoulder. We'd functioned as partners instead of competitors, because I'd chosen to help him succeed rather than watch him struggle. He'd chosen to accept that help rather than push me away.
It was a small moment, but it felt like the first real step back toward each other.
Ray read, “Make your way to Cinta Costera and search for your next clue near the Panama sign.” He turned to the woman who had judged him and asked in Spanish if he could use her cell phone, and she handed it to him.
“That’s the coastal beltway,” he said after a moment. “It’s along the waterfront, not far from here.”
We took off running, leaving the remaining teams working on their molas. The nearest exit from the plaza led us to a bustling avenue, where we quickly flagged down a taxi.
“Cinta Costera, el signo de Panamá,” Ray told the driver as we jumped in, with Cody in the front seat and us in the back.
“The teams from the second flight will be landing soon,” I noted, checking my watch. “We need to maintain our lead.”
Ray nodded, looking determined. “We will. We’ve just proved we can work together when it counts.”
He was right, but as the taxi navigated through Panama City’s congested streets, I couldn’t help wondering if one moment of teamwork could outweigh years of growing apart.
The weight of all we hadn’t said to each other—about his affair, about my withdrawal, about the future we’d once planned—hung between us, heavier than the humid tropical air.
The taxi swerved sharply to avoid a street vendor, throwing me against Ray’s shoulder. He steadied me with a hand that lingered longer than necessary, and our eyes met.
"Jeffrey," he began, his voice low and serious, "there's something I need to tell you."
The taxi horn blared as another car cut us off, and Ray's words were lost in the cacophony of traffic.
Whatever revelation had been on the tip of his tongue remained unspoken as we pulled up to Cinta Costera, the impressive waterfront stretching before us, the race—and all its uncertainty—still ahead.