Retirement: Why Panama Is the New Florida

Panama's quality health care, low costs, and proximity to the states are attracting American professionals as a retirement haven

By Michelle Conlin

Murdock and Johnson on the beach near their home in San Carlos Jeffrey Salter/Redux

Prospective retirees: Panama wants you. The pitch? A plane ride just 21/2 hours from Miami enables the newly poor to swap a wretched retirement in the U.S. for one befitting a royal in the balmy Central American nation. Cash out! Emigrate! Feel rich! Panama—the new Florida.

Spin aside, Panama is increasingly popular among retirement-age types looking to hedge against—or skip out on—the recession. The Migration Policy Institute, a Washington-based think tank that studies the movement of people around the world, says the chief factors prodding professional-class Americans to flock to Panama include its First World health care available at Third World prices and the country's pensioner program, which offers some of the deepest retiree discounts in Latin America. Seniors get up to half off on nearly everything, including movies, motels, doctors' visits, plane tickets, professional services, and electric bills. Expats also pay no tax in Panama on foreign income. Nor are they required to pay property tax for the first 20 years.

The fact that a luxe beachfront manse can be had for the same price as a dump in Daytona doesn't hurt, either. "We would have been looking at $3 million in Miami," says Jon Nickel of his 3,000-square-foot oceanfront penthouse in Panama City. Nickel and his wife, Gretchen, bought the place in late 2007 for $250,000, right after Nickel retired from his corporate law job in Portland, Ore., and sold the family's mortgage-free home for $800,000.

MORE BANG FOR THE BUCK

The skinny isthmus—nearly all coastline, with a mountain range slicing through the middle—boasts some of the best weather and lowest crime rates in Latin America. Other draws include guilt-free conspicuous consumption, with laughably low prices—by gringo standards—on splurges such as a day of beauty ($10) and a maid ($15 a day). A complete blood workup at Panama City's gleaming new Hospital Punta Pacifica, managed by Johns Hopkins Medicine International, is $36. A checkup with a physician is $50. Boomers who say they would have had to pay roughly $1,200 a month in the U.S. for health care say they are paying roughly $800 a year for coverage in Panama. Barbara Dove, a 66-year-old who suffers from Parkinson's disease, worried that she would eventually need in-home care if her condition deteriorates. Researching rates in Seattle, she found that nurses run $25 an hour. In Panama City, where she has lived since 2007, they cost $25 a day. Says Dove: "I didn't want my kids to have to worry about me."

According to a 2006 report by the Migration Policy Institute, the number of Panama visas issued to U.S. citizens began to rise dramatically after 2003, and an estimated 25,000 U.S. expatriates live there today. "With Americans aging, the economy in shambles, and, possibly, Medicare benefits on the cutting block, it is reasonable to assume that more Americans will retire abroad, particularly to warm, sunny locations such as Panama, where they can get more value for their dollar," says the Institute's president, Demetrios Papademetriou.

That's not to say life there suits everyone. Things in Panama movereallyslowly. A repairman who says he will be right over might show up days later. Water and electricity service can be spotty. In Panama City, drivers treat stop signs as a mild suggestion. "It takes a little bit of balls to retire here," says Matt Landau, a New Jersey native who is the founder of Panama City-based online portal The Panama Report. "This is not for type As. It's not your turnkey Florida retirement."

Still, boomers who have recently relocated to Panama say they feel as if they have figured out a successful geographic arbitrage. When Stephen Johnson and Linda Murdock were living in Aromas, Calif., they used to moan half-jokingly about how they'd have to retire to Barstow—the armpit of the Mojave Desert, with summers in excess of 100 degrees and winters that can dip below freezing.

Stephen, 63, retired as an executive of the Salinas Valley Solid Waste Authority in June 2008. His wife, Linda, 57, owned a dog-food business.

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