Today so far is not a bad day. I got back from Paso Canoas, found Gaby on the beach, made her put sun block on and showed her all the yellow stuff, and then settled in to talk to a couple of locals I haven’t seen for a while. Sassy is here nine years permanently, and Hadassah is here six years. Sassy said she first came to visit many years ago when her 19 year old was in diapers, and camped for a month just a few feet from where we were sitting. The “extranjeros” of Pavones are what I’d call “hardliners.” These are foreigners who for the most part vehemently have embraced their new home and rarely return to the U.S., if at all, and are possibly smug in the knowledge that they had the good sense while still in their prime to leave the crazies of stateside living and start all over in their own version of Paradise. These are not doddering retirees, nor dope-mellowed Rastas. Certainly surfing played a part in many of their decisions, and for those for whom it did not, Pavones’ soft and swelling “Largest Left in the World” (meaning a wave that breaks to the left) converted many of them to later-life surfers.

Much like the gentleness of the Costa Rican surf converted me. One day in Guanacaste (that large peninsula on the northern Pacific Coast), Kenneth was trying out the surf, and I decided on a lark to rent a board for an hour. He pushed me into my first wave, and it was all over. I returned to Miami in a fever, and had the first good conversation with my brother in years as he loaned me one of his surfboards to get started. This board met an untimely end on I-95, having been decimated by at least 11 passing vehicles, after slipping off when my roof rack gave way. I called him from the side of the highway to say, “I’m looking at your board lying in the middle of six northbound lanes.” After determining that its recovery was out of the question, he sensibly said, “that must be very painful for you,” watching it. I said I felt like crying. He knew it was as much for the loss of the surfing opportunity as the loss of the board, so he, once again practically, asked me, “Do you have a credit card?” Yes. “Then this is what I suggest. Take your card and continue up to a town called Indiatlantic, to the Longboard Surf Shop. Go in there and get the most knowledgeable guy you can find, and get him to pick the best board you can get within your budget.”

Me and Gaby and my board in Jaco

Since surfing had quickly risen to my most important new pastime, and my card had some credit on it, I ended up that day with a $500 board, and it is one of the best decisions I have ever made. The board became an entry into the entirely new world of surfing which still bewilders and stirs me frequently. Though there is very, very much I do not know about surfing, one thing I know for sure: I do not surf nearly often enough. That’s about all I can say about surfing right now. Perhaps more stories will come later.

I guess all that about surfing is another aside, which means I think that most of this book so far is “asides.” Maybe it is because my whole experience of Costa Rica is an aside. Meaning that what happens here is just the little things. A whole collection of little events. The thing about Costa Rica is that it makes me appreciate the little things.

Here it is!

It is the small moments that “llaman la atencion.” That call the attention to them. It’s the unbelievable sunset I saw this evening, and even captured on camera. A huge ball of red setting over a glittering sea. My god, but it was so beautiful that I completely forgot the fact that my car is stuck eight and a half hours’ drive from my home in San Jose, and not running, and that tomorrow I have to bring it home by tow truck. Things here often take longer. And do not go with the smoothness that I was accustomed to there, in the U.S. But my compensation for that is the little things.

I was about to dive into that whole experience of worrying over the costs and impracticality of it all when I saw that sunset, and literally ran to the beach and finally captured a spectacular Pavones sunset on my camera. Just a minute while I look at the image again. Wow. That clears all the dirt out of your pipes. I think Pavones has great sunsets pretty much every night, if it isn’t raining.

There are the sunsets. And also the simple things like having a great batido, which is a fruit smoothie that pretty much all the restaurants offer. I should say the “typical restaurants.” The truth is that here in Costa Rica, people actually call their food “typical food” (comida tipica) and this is a complement, an attraction for locals and foreigners alike.

Here is the reason. Typical food means rice and beans (combined they become “gallo pinto“), with meat or fish and usually a salad and fried bananas. The operative word here is “cheap.” The food is filling and cheap, also generally delicious, and truly is typical food, which means that when I want a “taste of Costa Rica,” I go for a “casado” (one of these meals) and a batido.

Batidos here come in two basic options. You can have the fruit blended with milk or with water. The fruit is usually fresh or a frozen pulp (you won’t find fruit-flavored syrups here!). Often you have to choose among sandia (watermelon), papaya, mango, banano, melon (canteloupe), guanabana (sour sap) and fresa. These things are totally addictive.

 

Another thing to mention is that the fruits and vegetables here are delicious. They are sun-ripened, and you buy them often within a day of coming off the farm, via the multitude of “ferias” or farmer’s markets that are usually once a week in most decent-sized towns. My daughter started coming here when she was 8 years old. And like most 8-year olds, she was always reluctant to eat her fruits and vegetables. Not so in Costa Rica. I remember well one day in a restaurant when she looked at me in amazement and said, “Mom, I don’t understand. The food in Costa Rica just TASTES better!” I couldn’t agree with her more. It has the flavors I remember from my childhood. The carrots taste like carrots. The watermelon explodes in your mouth. I explained to her about the food coming straight from the vine to market, and that the milk and cheese here comes from cows who eat grass on mountainsides (remember the good old days?), and from then on when in the states she was her own little Costa Rica advocate, explaining to whoever would listen the amazing phenomenon of Costa Rican food. And I myself love the experience of weekly taking the food that will be on my table directly from the hands of the man who grew it. Something just feels balanced about that, like my world that was topsy-turvy is in order again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This morning the bus had a complication upon leaving Pavones at 5:30 am. As he rumbled over the dirt road out of town, the driver realized that a huge tree had fallen over, blocking the roadway. We then rode in reverse as he backed up the quarter of a mile on the narrow dirt road and headed back where we had come. He then tried an alternate route. Too narrow for the school bus. So we backed up some more hundreds of yards to take another side street. Same problem. In the end, he backed up completely another 1,000 meters or so until we encountered the main road and we were on our way. These bus drivers have assistants for just such occasions, hopping off to check how close the wheels are coming to the ditch.

We headed along toward Comte (which is also spelled Conte at times) passing over 3 narrow bridges. The first was the most interesting, since the bridge was literally narrower than the bus, though fortunately not narrower than the wheel base, which means we stayed out of the river. But it was interesting to look out the window down the side of the bus and see nothing below me but river. I sort of took a mental note of it in passing before I slipped back into my mindless reverie, encouraged by the heat, the dust, and the bumps of the ride, coming out of the reverie briefly to note the cow and the gentleman that I mentioned in an earlier post.

My scariest Costa Rica bridge (and there are many to choose from!) is also one of the ones I have probably crossed the most in my time here, being one of the last bridges you cross going into Quepos. [At the time I wrote this, I was encouraging you to try to get a look before they complete the replacement bridge being built right next to it. I figured there was no rush, since that bridge had been under construction since I started coming to Costa Rica, which is about five years now. But much to my surprise, the new bridge is finished! No worries, though. The old bridge is still there on the side, for you to examine if you so wish.] Anyway, that bridge is a metal structure with metal beams running every which way and wood slats on the metal, which you drive over. The interest comes in looking at the point where the metal of the road base is soldered to the overall bridge structure, sort of to your side and down as you drive over. For some reason the corrosion seems to be attacking these joints faster, and the connections are basically nonexistent at points, with the link composed predominantly of air. Well, back to my bus ride, over far less adventurous bridges.

When I was getting onto the bus, I saw a man who in profile reminded me of Kenneth, and felt that odd lurch of recognition inside before you realize that it’s impossible that it is him. Kenneth may be one of my greatest Costa Rican follies. He was my traveling companion for most of my first two years in Costa Rica. During the time that we were together, I was introduced to all sorts of variances between Tico and U.S. culture. We swam together through mutual confusion on many occasions. I enjoyed a translator, both of language and Tico culture, a protector and tire-changer at times, and a first rate driver who made even the bumpiest roads feel smoother (which is no easy feat here). Kenneth enjoyed the benefits of travel with someone with far more money than he had ever seen, and in the end, the relationship cooled down without me ever really knowing how much he had been interested in me and how much it was just interest in the novelty of seeing that much money pass through someone’s hands at one time. When I finally decided to move here, and the routine went from permanent vacation to finding a way to support myself, Kenneth disappeared along with the vacation schedule. As of now, he seems to have reverted to being one of subjects in my “learning curve” of the first few years of Costa Rica, rather than a permanent addition to my life.

The smoldering tree that impeded our progress in returning from Paso Canoas to Pavones.

When I returned to Pavones that night, we encountered the same tree, which was now being burned off the road – yes they had elected to burn it rather than cut it – and the bus driver had wisely decided to just drop us all off at the burnt tree, to walk the final mile or so to Pavones.

Here we are, leaving the bus named Kevin to make our way back to Pavones at days end!

First, I have to explain how I came to be at the southernmost end of Costa Rica. This is because Gabriela (my daughter) and I had gone as far as Quepos to visit friends, having just spent the night in the most AMAZING house in Londres, 20 minutes inland, which had a

Part of the aforementioned putting green

huge pool that interrupted the panoramic view of the valley and ocean from the wrap-around porch, over the trimmed lawn and golf putting green (yes, you heard right. A private putting green!).

The patio included hammocks, a bar and barbecue, wood lounge chairs, a ping pong table, and a complete Universal weights system.

A Costa Rican paradise: the patio recreation center!

(Someone else’s idea of Costa Rican paradise) And indoors, everything was hardwood, decorated with a designer-enhanced “Nuevo Tico” theme, with shells, beach items, pottery and all manner of other “authentic”-looking decorations and accoutrements designed to remind you that, yes, you are in fact living in a foreign country.

 

Well anyway, it was nice. I would have been happy to stay in the laundry room, which was in fact where eight of our party did stay the night. We had decided to spend our Christmas vacation with our two dogs, Tiger and Sandy, who really love the beach. But since Tiger’s six puppies were only one month old, we decided to add them in, too. After 100 miles or so, we added a cardboard box to keep them from wandering (and pooping) everywhere in the back. And after another 100 miles or so, they had found their way out of the box. But actually, they were pretty good travelers and no end of entertainment for the people we met along the way.

Shaggy, a favorite among the puppies.

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Anyway, I asked Gaby, “should we stay here, and find some horses to ride to the cabin?” I had bought some land with a cabin 3 years ago, which at the time was accessible with 4 wheel drive on a 3-mile or so rocky and pitched “public” road. Now, that same cabin was easily accessible by horseback in about 2 to 2 and a half hours, rain or shine. Luckily, we can just strap plastic garbage bags full of food and supplies on the backs and shoulders and even rear ends of the little Tico mountain horses, who don’t balk at anything, and we’re set.

Or, I asked her, should we go to Pavones and see Shari and Shane? “PAVONES!!!” she shouted, and we were on our way. Pavones is on the coast of Costa Rica, almost right on the border of Panama, and one hour’s drive from Paso Canoas.

After the first hour and a half of the drive from Quepos, which was on the famous Dominical Road, it started to get dark. (I will have to address the reason for the road’s fame later.) Normally, its getting dark wouldn’t be much of an issue. But on this trip, we were traveling without lights, due to another of mom’s famous Costa Rica fender-benders. In this one I came out lucky, but in one of several ill-fated attempts by neighbors and friends to fix the ignition problem that had developed after the accident, (don’t ask how, but) someone had sheared off both the screws holding on the headlights knob, causing the knob to land and remain uselessly on the floor.

So, though now the car ignited and ran, I was unable to turn on the perfectly functioning lights. We made it to Palmar Norte by driving in the half light relying upon lights from telephone poles, and by my “flicking the brights” for a minute at a time when we passed other vehicles. I got pretty good at simply holding the direction signal control arm on the steering column so that the brights stayed on steadily, but by Palmar Norte, it felt like a losing battle as it got darker and darker.

But this problem also prompted us to stop at our new favorite hotel in Palmar Norte. I love the fact that this small group of four rustic cabinas, well located in the gravel parking lot behind a grocery in downtown Palmar Norte, also has a bigger than life charitable Jesus statue in a large stone altar at the end of the parking lot which is lit up impressively at night. It sounds hokey, and it truly is, but also falls into that “hokey in a delightful and quaint way” category. So we like it. This year they added a small but complete nativity, and also a live bunny, who hopped through the gravel garden for most of the night, avoiding my enthusiastic dogs.

I had mentioned to my friends visiting from Miami, whose invitation enabled us to stay in that palace of a home in Londres, that I couldn’t explain why after so many years without an accident in the U.S. (Geico had even given me that “good driver” designation that meant that from that point on, even if I had an accident my insurance would never go up again), I came to Costa Rica and had four serious accidents in as many years. They simply laughed and said, ‘you don’t need an explanation,” I guess meaning that with the way driving is here, they could understand perfectly. When we got to Pavones, for reasons known only to my car, it once again refused to turn over, which necessitated my trip to Paso Canoas to buy a fuel pump.

A note on bathrooms: If you have spent any time here, you will know that while Costa Rica is really live-and-let-live and laissez faire in most ways, there is one cardinal rule here that is never violated. YOU DO NOT PUT TOILET PAPER IN THE TOILETS. There are small garbage cans near the stool for that purpose. Enough said.

Anyway, Pavones (actually Rio Claro de Pavones) is just about Gaby’s and my favorite spot in the whole country, and that is saying a lot. It is a bit of a shame that we picked as a favorite almost the last coastal town before you hit the Panamanian border. Punto Banco is closer, being 2 or 3 miles further south, and about a stone’s throw from Panama. Punto Banco’s claim to fame is probably a combination of being the home of (1) a very small (perhaps 3 x 9 foot) turtle egg refuge, (2) a pretty nice yoga retreat center with bunk for overnight stay and an awesome open air all-wood yoga room, lined by jungle… (well the truth is that few people actually know of this place, but they should! ) And finally (3) “Learner’s Rock,” which is probably the most well-known feature, being a nice small point break that creates a wave just about right to learn surfing.

A Pavones sunset.

Pavones, by the way, is basically a surfer’s paradise. It has the “longest left in the world” (or the second longest left, depending upon who you ask). What this translates to for surfers is that there is a “point break,” a rock formation out in the water that causes the wave to crest and break to the left, and that same wave will continue to travel up the coast, because of the angle of the coastline, without ever hitting the shore, which enables an able-footed surfer to basically ride the same wave for ten minutes straight. This is pretty much impossible anywhere else, where a long ride is measured in seconds, and not minutes.

But Pavones for us is also a delightful river,

Making a campfire next to the river, just before sunset.

camping in the trees right next to the beach, a tiny town formed around a soccer field that adjoins the beach, and a group of really nice friends to sit around and talk to while watching Pavones’ first class sunsets. Here is a sample, so that you know that I am not exaggerating.

I must interrupt my tale to get on the school bus named “Kevin” that just pulled up. Inside the bus is a sign that says, “visualice bien las gradas.” Please visualize the steps well. I guess that means that the steps are steep. Reminds me of signs in England that lose something in translation to American English, like “Mind Your Head” above a low entryway.

After living here a while, I have found my hygiene improving to match my environs. I also began to take notice of the condition of my hair and my nails, following after the Tica women, who always look well cared for. Their clothes are not always expensive, but they nearly always are well-fitting and slightly provocative in some way or another, even on women who in the U.S. we would charitably call ‘portly.’ These women carry themselves with style and flaunt their rolls and big bottoms in their tight fitting jeans. And with the makeup and the hair, this somehow works to good effect, combined with those hypnotic Tica eyes. Of course, there are the svelte beauties here, too, and a minority of more conservatively dressed women, but by and large, the norm is to dress to accentuate one’s femininity, with well manicured nails, carefully applied makeup, and neatly arranged hair and clothes.

 

 

This brand of beauty isn’t lost on Tico men, who spend an inordinate amount of their waking time ogling women, making “friendly” comments or passing out compliments to whichever “Reina” (queen) happens to be going by, or just making conversation with any nearby female, “no importa” how ample. And with the Tico knack for romance, I’d say this country is a Big Girl’s paradise. I recently made that comment to an ample friend of mine, also extranjera (foreigner), and she whole-heartedly agreed.

 

 

But it is a paradise for me, too. For lots of reasons. I too feel beautiful here, buoyed up by all the compliments and attention. I know they are spread liberally among all the female population, but it still makes me feel special. And much more complacent about my middy roll and popcorn thighs. To the point that I can comfortably swim in a two-piece suit again, twelve years after my daughter’s birth took its toll on my girlish figure.

 

Also, well, it is almost paradise to have just bought the following at La Frontera, inside of five minutes, after finding a replacement gas pump for my car for $25 (it still wouldn’t start): A nicely styled jean skirt: $5; A pair of bright yellow boardshorts for surfing: $5 (my old board shorts are also yellow, and brown, but were originally white); a nice T-shirt, also yellow: $3 (I passed on the one that said, “my boyfriend is out of town.” Apparently this wasn’t a big seller, as dozens ended up on the sales rack.); a long-sleeved 100% cotton T-shirt with nice styling that simply states “Classic” –that works for me– also yellow and also $5; and a pair of turquoise plastic sandals perfect for river walking, for 900 colones or about $1.60. Three really bright bungee cords for around 65 cents each. And an appointment book for the spa for $5.

By way of explanation, I was in a really yellow mood today. Also by way of explanation, why did this tale start with a trip to Paso Canoas at 5:30 in the morning? All to be explained in the next entry.

 

As I bumped along the dusty road this morning, I caught myself straining to look out the window, to see… what? A cow. But I saw some movement, too. There was a man there, wearing a cloth hat and a light shirt typical of the darker-skinned people here. What was he doing with the cow? It was to know this that I was straining to get a better look before the bus rolled on by. Not enough time though. Just the man in the hat standing in a corral with the cow was all I caught.

I settled back into my seat and had to smile at myself. It wasn’t lost on me that I had just taken a keen interest in what a strange farmer might be doing with his cow. A genuine interest. The simple elevated to the sublime.

I was experiencing something that can be rare in the life I had left in Miami. Contentment. As I sat on this rattling bus feeling all the tension being shaken out of my muscles, feeling that slight dampness that happens in very dry, hot weather, just before you break out into a sweat, I was perfectly content, my mind a delightful blank.

Probably an exasperating blank to anyone stateside who hasn’t tasted the joy of The Slowdown.

But I have, so I sat, wondering vaguely about the Indian woman (probably Taino) next to me, her hair in two long braids and wearing one of those fabulous, sturdy, brilliantly orange and yellow cotton dresses with bright contrasting brocade over her portly body. I wondered where she was going, what passed through her thoughts as she sat next to me. Was she married? (That question was answered when I encountered her again on the bus trip back a few hours later. She was seated across the aisle from a slender and strong, dark-haired man in a cloth hat and a light-colored shirt, loose pants and sturdy boots. His face looked fixed in an expression of permanent patience. The only discernable indication of their relationship were the almost imperceptible nods they exchanged to coordinate their departure at their stop, and the way they exited and made their way down the road, with her trailing perhaps a pace or pace and a half behind him.)

A native Costa Rican in colorful traditional garb, leaving the bus near Pavones.

Something that astounds me here in Costa Rica is how no matter what someone appears to be doing for work or leisure, they are always clean. I have never encountered body odor, except on foreigners, nor greasy hair, though often the guy who fixes your car has a perfectly gelled and styled haircut. The construction workers at my spa carried a change of clothes that they put on before they left at day’s end. Does everyone do that? The shirts, even on the Indian men who are working outdoors, almost seem starched.

I have found that virtually all of my Tico friends will shower twice a day. “Tico” is the name that Costa Ricans have given themselves. The reason is that Costa Ricans describe almost everything in the diminutive form… “Esperate un momentito,” (wait a little moment) “si puede regalarme un pedacito de esta pan” or “galletica,” (can you give me a tiny little piece of that bread, or little cookie?) “Si, el es jovencito.” (yes, he is a little young one). I think everyone feels it softens the blow of a request, or seems a gentler way to describe things if you make them smaller. For instance, at the Municipality of Heredia, the man behind the official window shoved a form out to me through the slot and politely asked me, “Si usted puede firmar este papelito?” (if you could sign this little paper?) with complete dignity. This I think was the moment that it really came home to me that Everyone here uses the diminutive for Everything. Since then, I have literally heard thousands of examples, and I too will take a “momentito” to drink my “cafecito” once in a while.

This all goes with the Costa Rican habit of extreme politeness. Costa Ricans do not say “dar” for the word “give,” even though it exists in their language. They use the word “regalar.” Gift. So you are saying, “gift me that little paper.” It just sounds better, I guess. They also only use the usted form, for pretty much anybody, unlike other countries who use what is known as the familiar form of you, called “tu” for family, friends, and children, and the usted form for polite company, strangers, work associates… basically people you would refer to as Mr. or Mrs. But not so with Costa Ricans. The usted form is used nearly always among friends, though in intimate moments lovers will refer to each other in the “tu” form. I have seen usted used nearly always between husbands and wives, and it even seems favored in addressing very small children. If you come from another linguistic habitat, like Miami with its Cuban prevalence of the familiar form of “tu,” even with strangers, you run the risk of appearing brusk or even rude to Ticos when you throw the “tu” form around with people you have known a mere three years or so.

In general, direct confrontation is avoided at all costs. If someone doesn’t like what you have said, they are more likely to avert their eyes or make a joke to another Tico standing nearby to show their displeasure, rather than directly responding against you. I saw one of my employees correct another this way… One had said that there were still clean towels for the clients to use, and her coworker responded, “yes, there are the clean towels, except that all the towels were used yesterday for the clients,” with an apologetic smile and soft voice. That’s about as tough as it gets.

Why would I write a book about Costa Rica? I guess for the same reason I moved here. Because I love it. Sometimes the ordinary becomes elevated to the sublime. To me, that is the essence of Costa Rica. Today I took a bus to a bus to a bus to the border town of La Frontera, a/k/a Paso Canoas – “the place where the canoes pass. Which also happens to be where Costa Rica meets Panama – La Frontera.

An interesting point for those of us accustomed to border guards, Homeland Security, and that “You Stay on Your Side and I Stay on My Side” perspective that exists stateside. Not so here. The bus dropped me off next to an ordinary gas station. What makes this station unusual for us “Estadounidense” (U.S. citizens) is that if I walk 30 feet, crossing the pumps to the other side, I am in Panama. The station is sandwiched between two roads, one in each country, which are indistinguishable except for the obvious fact that the Costa Rican road still has the normal contingent of filled potholes, bumps and lumps that characterize our roads here, where the Panamanian road appears satin smooth by contrast. Yes, I am saying that you can amble back and forth from one country to another with ease. I entered a shop in Panama and exited it in Costa Rica. That easy.

If you WANT to go through the border controls, you can do that too. You get in a car and drive through, and the guards dutifully stamp your passport. Why, you might ask, would I do that? Because a tourist is allowed to be in Costa Rica from the U.S. for 3 months, and there is a large contingent of “permanent” residents from U.S. here who for years have simply been going to Panama to the south or Nicaragua to the north to get their passports stamped every three months. So much for the formalities of immigration.

Why Awakening in Costa Rica? Because it is in this country that I experienced the awakening of a simplicity within me and passions that had lain dormant for years. My eyes tear in gratitude when I think of this awakening.And it is Awakening in Costa Rica because every day now, that is what I am doing. I stretch, open my eyes, and the first thing that my eyes light on as I look outside the window is my new country. It is flowers, trees moved by the breeze, sun and haze, rain and mud and bright beaches. I awaken in Costa Rica.

Just as you too may have made such a decision, and are now awakening in Costa Rica or thinking about doing so.

So many of us have contemplated moving to another country at some point.  It may happen at the tail end of that Perfect Vacation, full of sun and sand and relaxation, or tucked away in a quiet pension in a back street of Florence for a magical week.  Or it might happen when we are sitting at our desk for the two thousand four hundred and eighty-eighth time, staring at a stack of papers, and realizing that we will likely be doing the same thing tomorrow, and trying to remember exactly when it was that the magic drained out of things.

Well, this blog is about making the move.  Picking up my life and taking it to another country, dropping it into another culture which speaks another language, and waiting to see what will happen.  This is basically a chronicle of my journey– or attempt to journey–inside the unique Costa Rican mindset.  The journey is full of surprises.  Along the way, I am sure that I will be able to tell you a bit about how things work here.  But it remains to be seen whether I will be able to explain the complexities and anomalies of living within this unique culture.  Well, that’s it!  Sit back, and enjoy my bumpy ride!