A young man in powder blue shirt had seen my retreat and asked me where I wanted to go. The bus station, I said. He looked worried about my look of helplessness (and lack of Spanish) even if he didn’t say as much. He said he would share a taxi with me to the bus station.

When I pulled out some money at the end of the short ride, he asked, "Can't I invite you?" As I thrust the money forward he looked genuinely disappointed.

His persona was disarming. I read genuine concern in his face. His English was very good. He not only answered my questions, he reacted to my comments. While I talked he listened. I thought his proficiency in English would not allow him to feign misunderstanding if he tried to scam me. If he tried to get me to pay an exorbitant amount for a cab ride, tried to get money out me somehow, he could not fall back on, "I don't understand," as others had done before.

He told me he wanted to help me figure out the rest of my time in Panama, and so he invited me to lunch. There, at a restaurant in the very modern Panama City bus terminal, we ate a very Panamanian meal of chicken soup with yams, onions and cilantro. He had even offered me the option of several American fast food outlets.

His name was Omar, Omar Sanchez. At 34, his hairline was receding. His complexion seemed to me truly Panamanian . Possibly he'd had some African heritage, but his skin was almost a light olive color. He was well dressed and equipped with an expensive looking watch and a mobile phone.

His English, I learned was the product of his time working for the Intercontinental Hotel. Now he did customer service training for various companies. It was his own business, which he had started two years ago but was now struggling. Apparently he had some time to entertain total strangers.

"Are you sure you have the time to help me like this?", I shyly asked. Omar looked like he should have been busier. What was it about me that was making him stay at the table? My question was not really about his time, as much as his motivation. I was becoming uncomfortable with what additional offer might follow: what would it be and how might I get out of it? This was going farther than I ever imagined.

"I am only doing for you what you would do for me in your country, right?"" he replied. I nodded that I would, but I wasn't convinced myself. Omar's stare hung on me for a long time, almost waiting for a more reassuring answer.

We figured out my destinations for each day, the name of the buses, and to where I would take them. My final week in Panama was scripted and ready to be tested. All of it was written on the back of paper menu.

The conversation shifted back to me and what I did and what I now do. He had a fairly stereotypical view of America, while not an unfavorable or ignorant one. We discussed American football, September 11th, baseball and Panama.

"You have no idea how much money is in Panama", Omar said as he shook his head.

This was something very noticeable, from the cars, to the buildings, and the infrastructure in general. This wasn't how I had thought Central America would be. According to Omar, it wasn't part of Central America and of course not South America. "If you look at the flags of Costa Rica and Nicaragua, they have five stars, each for the five countries of Central America: Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua and Costa Rica," he reasoned.

Yes, I had thought Panama was unusual. I had come with my preconceived notions of Central America but here in Panama there were too many nice cars, and not enough clunkers; too many skyscrapers and no third world barrios. I had expected more indigenous people - more locals from the countryside selling handicrafts.

After pushing our plates around for a while, Omar suggested that I should spend the rest of my day visiting Panama Viejo and the Vatican embassy.

He gave me his telephone number and email address and assured me that I could call anytime if I had a problem. He then ushered me to buses that would go to Panama Viejo. These were the ruins of the very first Panama City burned down in the 1600s by Captain Henry Morgan, a British buccaneer who was attempting to control the gold trade of South America.

The deluge of buses in all shapes and colors was somewhat unnerving. As Omar stood close to me I practiced what I would say to the bus driver. He tried not to wince. The expression on his face reminded me of a teacher straining under the weight of a stupid answer. I think we were both beginning to feel there was little chance of me making it to any destination with my Spanish.

"Do you feel safe going alone?" he asked.

I frowned, shrugged and raised my eyebrows. A moment later he was headed across the city with me on a public bus. This was no longer just a 45-minute lunch. I was now asking myself why this man was going so far out of his way for me - what was the catch?

I was beginning to have growing suspicions. I wondered if his playing impromptu tour guide was all about him trying to eventually con me. What kind of con could it be? We were traveling to a part of the city that was far away from the safety of the center. There at least I could take comfort in seeing the occasional American or European. It was his territory and I was going with him. Aside from the a few words, silence prevailed. It was during one of these silences I thought back to a time in Bangkok, Thailand.

Three years earlier I had fallen victim to good con trick. I was looking round a temple with a friend when a Thai woman in her late forties approached us. Playing the good hostess, she invited us to go on a canal cruise in a motorized canoe. We accepted, and then in the middle of one of Bangkok's many canals the canoe stopped and with a mock look of disbelief, she relayed to us a message from the driver that we would each have to pay $20. She paid as well, completing the ruse. Having been told originally that the trip woul be just be a few dollars, we knew we had probably put the boat driver's child through private school for a year. That was how far that money would go.

Well if I was going to get ripped off, scammed or roughed up it probably wouldn't be on this crowded bus. I was nervous about what could happen, but I didn't want to show signs of panic. I thought about what I knew about him. I wondered if he had played tour guide to a stranger before. Just as I was going to put that very question to him, he began to point out places we were passing. He showed me buildings, schools and neighborhoods. I thought that at least he could answer a few questions about some peculiarities of Panamanian culture. Perhaps if Omar elaborated with true enthusiasm, then maybe he really did want to play tour guide.

"Do you listen to Latin music?" he inquired. Was he taking me somewhere to buy something I really didn't want? What could he sell? Maybe electronics? Questions like these made me hesitate.