“When I was growing up,” I explain, “in the 1980s, we could really feel the Cold War, and we were really fearful of it. There were these air-raid sirens in my home town that were used for both tornado warnings and nuclear war warnings, and they just creeped me out! They literally gave me nightmares! So when this movie, Red Dawn came out, which was about war actually breaking out, lo and behold, who is depicted as being as attacking the United States?”

I describe a cigar-smoking Cuban general, and the husband and wife begin to laugh at this.

“The problem is,” I explain, “The United States is still partially living that movie. We’re still stuck in the cold war.”

Ancon Peninsula

In the morning, I hail a taxi and ask him to take me to the coast.

“No, don’t drop me off at the resorts,” I explain. I am trying to get to the mangrove lagoons.

The taxi driver is confused. There is nothing after the resorts except for a dirt road.

“Yes!” I say, pointing to a road beyond the end of the strip of resort hotels. “Go that way!”

The taxi driver continues, but the road stops.

“Left!” I say, as right appears to head back to the resorts.

The taxi crawls past a gate and its security guard. “Este Americano está tratando de llegar a las lagunas” the taxi driver explains to the security guard.

They are still talking while I pay the driver and close the door. I know from Google Earth that there are saltwater lagoons hidden behind the long peninsula that extends out east from the Playa Ancon area.

I can tell that I am inside some kind of gated marina area. What I can’t tell is how to get out of it from here. I hug the interior side of the marina property, looking for an exit into the lagoons.

The problem is, the security guard is following me.

My plan is to keep walking until I am off this property, maybe even slipping into the mangroves before the guard can catch up with me. But it’s just a matter of time, he is right next to me.

“I am sorry, senior, this is puerto deportivo exclusivo. You must leave.”

“I am just trying to get to the lagoons,” I explain.

“You must go to the playa!” he explains.

I show him my map. “I am trying to get to this point, here!” I say.

“Playa!” he says.

“But I will be off this property in no time!” I explain.

“Playa!” he says.

Crap, I give in. By playa, he says I need to go to the all-inclusive resorts, just a short walk away from here.

By this time, the sun is already baking hot, and I now realize I need to resupply my water bottle. I might as well fill up at one of the resorts.

I walk into a large resort building. It’s painted in bright colors, but there is something worn, dated and Soviet constructivist about the building. It immediately creeps me out from the outside, but the inside is downright lurid.

Beachside resorts, even the worst of them, typically have cheery interiors, with lots of light that brings the warmth of the holiday sun indoors. Not this place. Despite its bright primary colors, it feels cavernous and damp on the inside.

There is a small kiosk fixing espressos for the guests, so I ask the barista if he has water for my water bottle. He tells me to go downstairs to the gift shop, where they should be selling water.

But the basement lights are all off, and the gift shop is closed, and so I start asking every employee where I can buy some water or just fill up my water bottle. The bar doesn’t have water, the breakfast cafe doesn’t have water, and the concierge can’t explain where else I can get water.