"Nobody wants to have an occupying force in their country. I certainly don't," my grandfather confided to me over lunch the other day. "But considering how strong Noriega was, what other alternative was there?

"For some reason, though, even though I see the tanks and jeeps and soldiers in the streets, it doesn't really feel like an occupying force," he added.

He said not once had a U.S. soldier given him any hassle as he went along his daily business.

There were minor inconveniences around the city, such as the occasional roadblocks and the 11 p.m. to 5 a.m. curfew, but those were only temporary measures needed to maintain law and order while the new Panamanian police force settled into its routine.

My grandfather rose from the living room table and went to brush his teeth. I switched the TV to a Mexican station on cable. The newscast began, "The self-declared government of Guillermo Endara, imposed upon Panama by the North American army . . ."

It was a report on the money-for-arms program the U.S. Army was making in Panama in an effort to round up weapons from deposed General Manuel Antonio Noriega's hidden arsenals. Mexican TV decried the project as an "effort to disarm the people of Panama."

Apparently Panamanians still aren't heeding the caveats of other Latin American countries about this Yankee plot. As of this date (Jan. 25), Panamanian motorists still are waving to U.S. soldiers throughout the city (although the soldiers are looking increasingly bored with the adulation), and people are picking up the tabs for troops at restaurants.

Anywhere else in the world, the townspeople would have responded to such a military action by taking to the hills and fighting the 'gringos' tooth and nail; when the dust settled in Panama, entrepreneurs had already hit the streets with T-shirts.

"I survived Operation Just Cause, December 1989," reads one, featuring U.S. and Panamanian flags side by side.

Of course, the Noriega pineapple motif was also popular; another best-seller bears a circle and slash over a pineapple and reads "Esta vaina se acabo."

The line, pulled from an inauguration speech by vice president Billy Ford, can be roughly translated to "This crap is over."

There's also stickers and license plates, and I'm still looking for an official invasion baseball cap.

Dairy Queen, where Noriega supposedly met with Vatican officials before taking asylum at the Papal nunciature, unleashed a vicious advertising campaign titled "Si hay de pina," or "Yes, we have pineapple." Apparently they were not able to sell or promote pineapple shakes, sundaes or pies during Noriega's regime.

The TV commercial is perhaps the wittiest ever produced in Panama although it eschews none of the sexism that backbones most Latin American advertising.

Scene: Dairy Queen in Panama City. Tan, brunette beauty enters, with an "Operation Just Cause" T-shirt bodaciously bobbling on her bosom.

She passes by a cute, blond and blue-eyed U.S. soldier, his face smeared with camouflage paint. He sits alone, chomping a burger.

Booming voice cuts in: "We couldn't do it before, but now, yes, we have pineapple!"

Cut to scenes of milkshakes, pies, sundaes, burgers, as announcer makes roll call of newly-available pineapple products.

Girl picks tray up from counter. G.I. eyes her figure. She sits down. His blue eyes flicker. Hers do too. Their eyes meet. True love is born. "Si, hay de pina!" the announcer belts.

And a Noriega look-alike pops out from behind the girl, smiling widely and holding up a pineapple.

"Yo, hold it, are you American?"

"Kinda," I replied, turning to face the U.S. soldier.

He was sitting astride a chair in the doorway of the National Theater with two anonymous members of the Panamanian Public Forces, his machine gun on the floor between his feet.

"This is a very dangerous part of town to be carrying a camera, especially at this time," he said. I told him I knew, I was born here.

I hung around and we talked until dusk. He said he was from Washington, D.C., and had been in Panama six months with the 193rd Infantry Brigade.

"Check it out," he said. "I got 25 new numbers in this little black book. When I get off guard duty, I'm going back to the barracks and try them out."

The women seem to have a great affinity for U.S. soldiers. A joke is going around that "The real Yankee invasion is coming in nine months."

I have found that I get along better with U.S. troops down here as long as I don't identify myself as being vaguely related to the press.

On Jan. 10, I tried to enter the refugee camp at Balboa High School with an expired Collegian press pass. I was told no go; I needed press credentials from this and that office at Fort Clayton.

"Amazing, you know. I went to high school here," I said.

"Oh yeah," one said. "Well, we've been sleeping in your goddamned classrooms, and they're cold as hell."

I came back a half hour later, leaving my press pass in the car. "I'm a student here," I said, so they let me in and I did some interviews. Even bought some T-shirts.