This sounds like a place I could live:

http://theurbanophile.blogspot.com/2009/08/detroit-urban-laboratory-and-new.html

Grow crops, enjoy life, get ready for winter. Buy a raccoon carcass from a truck driver (feeds a family of four for $12).

I like the part about no protests at city hall, because everyone knows city hall won’t do anything, unlike in other cities, where city hall will not only listen to protesters, they will also thwart people who want to do interesting things, like build a two-story beehive.

Once in a while I see a sign on a cash register at a grocery store, something about an “escasez de monedas a nivel Nacional” – a scarcity of coins at the National level, so they would appreciate exact change. I heard they had this problem in Argentina as well.

I realized what the problem is in Costa Rica. The coins are too big and heavy in relation to their value. It is very tempting just to leave them at home, but then you just end up bringing home more. It’s like my economic duty to load up a pocketful of these brass and steel cartwheels and go spend them. I usually give them to bus drivers, who probably love getting these handfuls of carefully counted “menudo”  (small change). Once an Alajuela bus driver got back at me by giving me eight of the big steel 20 Colon pieces in change for a Rojo (1000 Colon note).

Another part of the problem is the many varieties of coins. There are three different versions of some low-value coins, a big old steel one from 1982-85, a newer, smaller brass one, and the newest lightweight aluminum ones with the same dimension as the brass. Only the 5 and 10 Colon coins (5 colones = less than 1¢ u.s.) are made of aluminum.

The huge steel ones from the eighties are the worst. There is a steel 20 Colon piece worth three cents (and still falling) with the same size and weight of the modern 500 Colon brass coin. The most common coin in circulation is the 100 Colon, a brass coin worth about 17 cents that looks like an arcade token like my brother used to stamp out in an old airplane hangar. Four of them will get you a nice bus ride to downtown San José.

Update – Sept. 29: The Central Bank is going to take the big steel coins out of circulation

July 9-12, 2009

I took a Friday off and we got up at 3:30 AM and went to get a rental car we had reserved. We got a Toyota Yaris, very nice and new. I opted for full coverage insurance, since I’ve never driven a long distance in Costa Rica.

The sky was just getting light in the east as we set out westward for the coast. Our first stop was at the top of the grade at San Ramon. We had breakfast at Las Tinajitas, a place Ily has always gone in her long history of taking early morning road trips here. We ate the typical breakfast, gallo pinto with eggs and sausage for Ily; fried cheese, platano maduro and gallo pinto for me. And two or three cups of good strong coffee for each.

We looked out the glass window at the green hills beyond, muted by the patchy mountain fog of winter. They call this winter here even though it is technically summer everywhere else in the northern hemisphere. Ticos don’t care about scientific technicalities. If it’s the “Green Season,” it’s winter. Even so, it is not cold. Wind blew through a screen at the side of the dining area prompting Ily to remember when the windows had no glass in them and it was in fact pretty cold at 5 or 6 AM. In the corner was a bizarre little hand-carved statue of a campesino with a hat on, about three and a half feet tall.

Fortified, we continued on. Already the traffic was pretty busy. We passed through Esparza and got some gas. The rental place had given us one with only a three-eighths full tank. The digital readout made it easy to judge. Eight little bars each representing a fraction. It was an automatic and drove great, plenty of power to pass and go up hills. It navigated the twists and turns of the Aguacate (Costa Rica’s version of the Grapevine) without problems and we arrived on the coastal plain unscathed.

Clary and Lalo

Zipping along between 60 and 90 kph through a vivid green tunnel of trees, we arrived in Cañas by about 8:30 for a visit with Ily’s mom Clary, and Clary’s partner Lalo. Lalo looked good despite some recent health issues. Clary seemed happy and upbeat as usual. We sat in their front room and chatted as a mild breeze blew. Clary said the last few days had been really hot with no wind at all. But today we had clouds and it looked like a possibility of rain. This early in the morning it was probably too soon to tell, but it seemed like it might not be too hot, unusual for this area.
I tried to ask Lalo about the miniature beehive he had shown me on a previous visit, but everything in the backyard looked kind of cleaned up and different. There was a box larger than the one I remember, but no tiny bees went in and out. We weren’t able to communicate about it very effectively.
Their mango tree was in full fruit, and they gave us a huge box tied with twine. When stored in the hot trunk of the car for the next few days, it gave off a nice ripe aroma. We were also presented with a couple of the squashes that are used to make loofahs, growing on a vine next to the front door. Lalo cut two of them down with a machete.

Lalo harvesting a loofah

Ileana and I took a five minute nap and then we had some strong coffee with special Guanacaste pastries, circles of dry sweet bread with vivid red frosting. The orange and white cat begged for some, but only wanted to be fed by hand. Earlier this cat had tried to suckle my shirt leaving a little wet spot.

We took some pictures and got ready to continue the trip, loading up the mango box and fresh green loofahs (I don’t think they are actually called loofahs in Spanish. I referred to them to Lalo as “ayotes para lavar [squash for washing]” and he accepted that). He peeled back some of the dark green skin with his thumbnail to reveal the signature loofah texture beneath.

We got in, waved goodbye and hit the Carretera Interamericana, heading north to Liberia, the White City. It’s called that because of a white mineral that they build and pave with there.

Liberia is the biggest city in Guanacaste. It has an International Airport, Earth University, and Franklin Diaz Chang, the Costa Rican astronaut who flew on the space shuttle and is now in the final testing phase of his plasma rocket engine that will revolutionize space travel.

We turned right and went into the town center, 3 or 4 blocks off the highway. It was pretty dry and dusty, lots of people around this Friday morning. We looked at the town square, drove past an impressive old fort, and went back out to the highway crossroads where we would be turning toward the coast. Burger King and Papa John’s dominated the intersection, followed by Subway and a forest of others too numerous to distinguish. We headed down past the airport, a few jetliners parked in a wide green field. We passed through Filadelfia and Belén, then turned again and went through yet more stunningly green savannahs dotted with magnificent trees and humpbacked white Brahma cattle.

At the top of a hill I got a glimpse of the ocean. We stopped to consult our map, a blown-up color photocopied section of an old version of the only map available in Costa Rica, kind of low on details. It was hard to tell where we were on the map. Ily says Ticos don’t use maps, they just ask directions of people by the roadside.

She came out of an ice cream store (in Huacas, I believe) where a girl told her something, and we turned off on an unpaved road through Playa Brasilito, where I saw the open Pacific for the first time since I’ve been here. For me, Puntarenas doesn’t count as the open ocean since it is blocked by Nicoya Peninsula. Now as we were on the western side of the peninsula, the glorious Pacific sparkled under a lightly cloudy sky. The temperature was warm, but bearable, a lucky thing for this delicate gringo.

Ileana called ahead to the hotel where she had reserved a room. It was run by Italians, like many places in the area. They said follow the signs to “El Diablo,” kind of a bad omen for Ily. We saw it and it didn’t look good. They had lied to us about their proximity to the beach, a long dusty walk away. A couple of little kids hitchhiked by the road, holding their tiny thumbs out as if they’d never heard of an Amber Alert. The hotel looked like it was still under construction. The finished portions were painted a vibrant screaming crimson. We figured if they lied about the beach-front location, they’d probably try to mess with us in other ways, so Ily called another place, Hotel Bahia del Sol, right on the beach, that we had passed on the way in. Ily told them we were in Filadelfia and we would be there in a couple of hours, right at 2:00 check-in.

We went to Pueblo Potrero and asked a kid where the best (más rico) place to eat lunch was. He said Las Brisas, so we went and had a good lunch in a little place right on the beach under some big shady trees. Ileana asked the waiter if he knew of a lot owned by her friends in the U.S. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, but no rain fell. Ily was certain the waiter would tell a few people, then everyone would know that Ily was here to look after her friend’s interests, and any squatters would be on notice to leave.

We drove over to the hotel and checked in. It was very nice and they gave us pink daiquiris with the Costa Rican liquor called Cacique, your basic clear firewater. The guy held up the bottle enticingly and gestured toward the glasses. For kids they just offered just the smoothie with no liquor. Nice touch. The next day I had a mango daiquiri at the swim-up pool bar, and Ily had a drink invented by the bartender with coconut milk and ground up lime peel. Chewy but good. The daiquiri was made with mango concentrate and didn’t have enough fresh lime so I squeezed in some more. For seven bucks it was pretty ordinary, except for the location. But we didn’t come here to drink anyway.

The room was super nice, the best we’ve had so far (a little better than the fancy place in Puntarenas, with a much better location), and also the most expensive. The bathroom was all modern and glassy, with a big glass bowl for a wash basin, a funny looking ancient-modern spigot reminiscent of a Japanese chrome bamboo, and a push-button drain stop, but no overflow drain, which seemed like taking a small chance. The shower enclosure was glass-brick, and from the shower we could see the walled-garden with palm trees. The toilet was the good kind with the extra long seat.

There were two twin beds and a really good TV with a working remote and cable, a hidden mini-bar fridge stocked with expensive water, sodas and beer; a coffee machine and a free pack of Rey Café. A ceiling fan kept us cool. It did tend to be a little dark, however.

We went over to a covered rancho area to read on comfy wicker chairs next to a life-size wood sculpture of a nude female. Thousands of dragonflies (libélulas) hovered and darted over the grounds and beach. After awhile we realized it was time for coffee, so we wandered over to the deserted dining area. Ticos always have coffee with something to eat in the late afternoon.

Ily asked if they had coffee, and the guys said they had coffee, but nothing to eat with it. That sounded fine to us in our near sleepwalking daze. Ily ordered café con leche, and I decided on a cappuccino, just to see if there was any difference. Hers arrived first. It looked like coffee, dark brown with milk, but on first taste, it seemed to entirely lacking in coffee flavor. It tasted like someone had tried to make coffee out of leftover grounds from breakfast. Ileana watched one of the guys fumble with an espresso machine as if it was his first time. The cappuccino arrived with the same sad watery debility as Ileana’s drink. We thought of asking for more flavor, or another shot, but ended up just leaving the coffee on the table untouched. They didn’t charge us for it and we all forgot the episode as quickly as possible.

Hotel Bahia del Sol

We went to the room, changed into swimwear and went to walk on the beach. First we walked south, toward the towering mansions and fancy hotels of Playa Flamingo, a mile or so down the beach and out on a small peninsula. Ily stopped to talk to a couple in their yard enjoying the afternoon, inquiring again about the location of a certain lot. They talked for awhile as I picked up small scallop shells and felt the warm ocean with my feet. Yes, the ocean was actually warm. The people told Ileana that this beach wasn’t as popular as some others since it is bounded at each end by a small river, and that makes the surf quite dark with silt. He said some think Potrero is “dirty,” but assured us it’s only river silt. We continued down the beach, stopped at a piece of driftwood, sat for a moment or two, then headed back. We walked past the hotel going north this time, toward the Las Brisas Bar Restaurant where we’d had lunch.

We saw some people fishing in the surf, an old Gringo with a younger Tico, while a woman watched from the yard. Ily asked the old guy something, but he wasn’t too friendly. Ily walked down a lane leading away from the beach while I sat on a concrete bench. She wanted to look at some more lots. After quite awhile, I started to wonder where she’d gone, so I walked that way too. After a block or so an SUV came out a driveway heading toward me. Ily was in the passenger seat calling to me out the window to get in. She had made some friends. Jenny was driving and another girl and a baby were in the back seat. I got in the back and we took a short tour of the neighborhood. Jenny gave us the web address of the local homeowners’ association. She was on her way to church. We had seen quite a few billboards with white Times New Roman letters on a black background, signed “-God,” sponsored by a local church. One of them said something like “You know that thing about loving your neighbor? I meant that. -God”

Jenny was very nice, a true Christian. She and Ily chatted in the front seat as we drove around for a bit, then she dropped us off at the hotel. When we went back to our room, I discovered I had lost the key at some point, probably in Jenny’s car. I got another one from the desk, and then we walked back to Jenny’s. Ily told me she had heard howler monkeys while at Jenny’s, and had seen crabs coming out of holes in the ground, plus Jenny’s pet macaw. As usual, I had missed all the good stuff. But then I saw some crabs, and we heard some monkeys later, so it was okay. Jenny wasn’t home, but we talked to a kid and a man who said they would tell her about the key. I ran down the beach just before the sun went down, to look at the other places we had stopped, but it wasn’t there. It turned out it was in Jenny’s car and she returned it to the front desk a day or two later.

On our way back to the hotel we stopped at a café with a big white sign out front. A hand-lettered scrawl read “FAST, CHEAP AND GOOD.” Another small sign announced free coffee. We went in and found the young gringo proprietors lounging at the counter. They didn’t have any coffee, just some cold from the morning. The main guy said “This is Costa Rica, coffee should be free.” He said they had home-made bagels too, and that tonight was margarita night, with $2 margaritas until 10. We thought we might come back next morning for free coffee, but we didn’t.

We went to sleep early that night, completely exhausted. In the morning, outside our window in a little walled garden area surmounted by concertina wire, the crabs came out among the palm trees, dodging and feinting back into the shallow sandy holes as they played their cangrejo games.

Saturday, after an awesome breakfast (fresh pineapple, watermelon, and papaya, along with all the other regular Tico things: gallo pinto, scrambled eggs, potatoes, little sausages called salchichas and really good coffee), we took our car and went to see some other beach towns. We headed out to Playa Brasilito and got on the paved road. We took some wrong turns figuring out where we wanted to go, puzzling over the map, then saw signs pointing to Tamarindo not too far away. It was pretty busy there, lots of chickens along the sides of the road, lots of people on bikes.

We saw a fancy new AutoMercado, my favorite grocery store, and went in. It was freezing inside, too cold, with nothing we wanted, not even my bank’s ATM like in Heredia. Ily asked directions to the bank and we went to get some cash and find lunch.

The streets of downtown Tamarindo are mostly dirt, with dirt gutters, fortunately dry at the moment. We had to drive through a deep one to get up on to the bank parking lot. Seems like with all this fancy development going on someone could invest in a little infrastructure. I guess if people are making money, then who needs infrastructure? Wouldn’t want to waste pavement and gutters on people who don’t have any money. And the people who do have money don’t live here year-round, so they won’t really miss anything. I guess the poor residents are lucky to have jobs parking cars and serving food and selling trinkets on the street to the tourists. They don’t need infrastructure. Their chickens probably like the dirt better anyway.

At the end of the downtown, there is a little stretch of blessed pavement, maybe 300 feet in all, a circle about 100 feet in diameter. We drove down it and immediately got into a small traffic jam. Cars were parked on both sides, with a small channel to navigate through. A delivery truck was in front of us. People behind us honked. A guachiman (watchman) gestured us through the tiny channel and we inched through. The man guided us into a perfect parking spot and asked for $2 or 1200 colones. When Ily asked, he told us the best restaurant was the one right in front of us, so we went there. It was like an old house, right in front of the beach. We could almost see the car from our table too.

The place was pretty crowded, lots of tourists, lots of gringos. Lunch was pretty good, $27. Two different guys came around trying to sell Cuban cigars. A guy on a bicycle bought 2 or 3 boxes. Another guy on a beach cruiser bike had blond hair down his back and a faded t-shirt that said “Rock and Roll Never Forgets.”

We went back to the car and opened it up to the sweet scent of mangos ripening in the hot trunk. Driving out of Tamarindo back toward our hotel, we took a detour to the wealthy enclave of Playa Flamingo. From the peninsula we could see back along Playa Potrero, then we were on the other side, under the towering hotels and mansions, next to the long white beach where lots of people enjoyed the sun and sea. Cars lined the road and continued to arrive. We crawled along behind a mini-suv police vehicle, looking at possible shady spots to park. Loud music thundered from one little car, partiers. The trees were the kind with small, sparse leaves, making a scant shade. We drove past the beach and into the walled mansion area, past guarded condos where workers arrived in a company bus from nearby inland cities like Santa Cruz and Nicoya.

Playa Flamingo beachfront road

Up we climbed past the bases of mighty walls, in the shade of even mightier trees. At one point the pavement ended and the road got all rutted and rocky, but it was only 100 meters or so until it was paved again. Our Yaris handled it quite well. The automatic transmission was smooth and positive. The road wound back and forth up the hill past opulent houses, then past a place that was either a local police outpost or a big bust in progress, probably the former. The police all looked very relaxed as they chatted in the driveway of a less-fancy house. They gave us a cursory glance. Ileana said she went to a party here years ago, supposedly at Liz Taylor’s house, with a bunch of her fabulous gay friends. She says several other gringo movie stars live in Flamingo too. I don’t doubt it a bit. I would live here.

At the top of the hill we came to the end of the semi-public paved road. One way switchbacked into the driveway of the palace sitting up there like a crown, and the other way turned to dirt and plunged steeply into a green valley dark with trees. In the distance a bigger dirt road was visible, with the appearance of a major improvement underway, grading and such.

We turned around and went back to the beach. We found the perfect parking spot next to some people who were just leaving. They even left us their sunglasses. I changed into my trunks in the car and ran out onto the sunny beach and into the surf. This felt just like the quintessential Costa Rican experience I had imagined for years.

The lovely Ileana at Playa Flamingo

Warm water, mellow sun, white sand, happy people. Guao.* A big wave hit me in the face, then I was beyond the breakers. I actually swam in the ocean, completely comfortable in mostly just my skin. What a total revelation. I let the waves lift me up and carry me. Others body-surfed, but I quickly realized it required a certain sense of the sea together with patience and timing I hadn’t yet developed. I ran back to the trees where Ily waited. I couldn’t wait to do it again.

* Guao: Wow – My favorite Spanish word.

We hung out, took a few pictures, took the abandoned sunglasses off the tree, swam a little more, then drove away to find coffee. Parking next to the patio of a big hotel, we inquired about the dress code. Our state of disarray was fine. We sat down on the patio and the waiter said the kitchen was closed. I was ready to leave on hearing this, but Ily discovered we could have coffee, but no food, strange for Ticos in the afternoon. We got cappuccinos, and they were absolutely perfect and delicious.

Playa Flamingo

Back at our hotel, we showered and went into the pool. We swam up to the pool bar and ordered some drinks. I drank mine and part of Ily’s pretty fast and got a little buzz. Ily talked to a waitress about other beaches, and she told us there was a really nice one not far away, called Playa La Penca. We went over to the lawn to sit under the dragonflies and watch the sun go down. We took some pictures and got bitten by insects, even though Ily was liberal with her “repelente.”

Playa Potrero

Sunset

We watched TV that night, the old Jennifer Garner movie “13 Going On 30.” We made the free coffee in our room, and it didn’t come out well. This was our second and last night here.

In the morning we had another great breakfast then drove over to find Playa La Penca. There was some new construction in Pueblo Potrero, some condos with a fancy new coffee shop called Café Arabica, with a Sanskrit, batik and wicker theme. We drove past it and up into the hills, finally stopping at a place that looked down on a faraway beach back the way we had come. We could see people playing on the beach, families with adults and kids. It was about 8:30.

We headed back down there and made the turn at the new coffee house. The road was rough in spots and went for a few hundred meters past small houses with chickens in the yards. At the end was a Guachiman who guided us into a parking spot in the shade. There was a lot of shade this early in the morning.

We walked south a little ways down the beach. The water was much clearer here than at Playa Potrero and the waves were smaller than at Flamingo. It was just as warm and felt even better. At one point a school of fish swam past and touched my leg. I swam on my back and felt like it was an absolutely perfect day on the beach. A wave broke and water went right up my nose. After a little while, we went back to the hotel.

We got packed and ready to check out. Our plan was to drive back a slightly different way, over the Puente de Amistad de Taiwan (Taiwan Friendship Bridge) that crosses Rio Tempisque. This route would take us through Santa Cruz and Nicoya to the south. It looked shorter on the map and we wouldn’t go through Liberia or Cañas.

We turned off into the small town of Portegolpe, which looked like a shortcut to Santa Cruz, but the road turned quickly to dirt, so we decided not to take a chance on unfordable rivers or other hazards.

In Belén we turned south. The countryside was still brilliant green, like always here in the rainy season, even thought we hadn’t had more than a drop of rain, if that. After half an hour or so we came to Santa Cruz, a little community of mostly one and two-story buildings on a grid of alternating one-way streets, like most Tico cities. We toured the downtown, looking for a place for lunch, then continued to Nicoya, another half hour or so.

Nicoya was much like Santa Cruz, maybe a little bigger, with a hospital in the middle of town. We stopped at a place on the edge and asked the guy if they were open but he said no. He said there was a good place on the other side of the Amistad Bridge, an hour away.

We found a place a few minutes down the highway and stopped. We were the only people there. They didn’t have pineapple for a batido, so I ordered cas, and Ily had Coke. Ily had a lomito and I had beef fajitas. Soon after we ordered, a bunch of gringos arrived, maybe Europeans. One blond kid had a Hollister shirt and played pool by himself. It looked like he was pretty good. A herd of brahma cattle wandered past on the other side of the highway as we ate. The hills were so intensely green, and the little trees that grew on them reminded me of California, like near Gilroy, but 50 times more green and warm. If it was this warm in California everything would be brown.

The Amistad Bridge was pretty impressive, with lots of people crossing on foot and taking pictures.

The road was narrow and lined with trees that made a tunnel, also much like the old highway near Gilroy, California.

Soon it connected with the Interamericana and we stopped for coffee. In the trees over the café were a bunch of big macaws, at least ten of them, a couple of the blue and yellow ones, and a bunch of red and green ones. Across the highway some kids played under an immense cement statue of a bull, with testicles almost as big as the kids’ heads.

We had good coffee and desserts: cherry cheesecake and tamal asado, baked nice and dark. Ily said it was a real authentic Guanacaste tamal asado. I got one for the road.

At this point the road was full of vacationers on their way back to the city. A couple of times someone ahead of us wasn’t paying attention and had to lock up their brakes. The traffic got slower and slower as we got closer to Barranca, where we would start up the Aguacate grade. We stopped in Esparza for gas and fruit. Ileana said the fruit here would be really sweet. She was right, the papaya we got there was the best one I’ve ever had in my life. We got a pineapple too, and a piece of watermelon. We drank plastic bags of cold pipa juice, biting holes in the corners and squirting it into our mouths bota bag style.

We crawled over the Aguacate, breathing fumes. My throat was feeling sore where the wave had gone up my nose that morning on La Penca. I was feeling pretty miserable actually, but good too. I took three hours to get to Alajuela from that point, stop and go all the way. Every once in a while the road would widen to two lanes, setting off a competitive clamor to get ahead, making the semi-gridlock even worse. Big buses muscled their way to the front, spewing diesel smoke from their side pipes into our faces.

Finally, it was fully dark and we arrived in Alajuela, returned the car, unloaded our luggage, fresh loofahs and mangos, and called a taxi. The traffic thinned out somewhat coming into Heredia, and we were home.

There is an article today in Inside Costa Rica about the San José – Heredia commuter train. They say it will be running in two weeks, but they still have to clean up the tracks somewhat:

” In addition, the Incofer is investing in the clean up of the area along the railway, as refuse by residents has piled up, especially in Tibás, a city that has continuing problem with its garbage collection and a serious lack of culture by people living along the railway route.”

Last weekend I went to the party at Diego’s, after the dentist, like I said. The dentist wasn’t too bad, but I had to cut it short after she drilled on three teeth without anesthetic. We were going to go for five, but I was getting stressed out. Maybe next time I’ll ask about novacaine or lidocaine, whatever they use here. Ily says most people don’t get anesthetic for minor drilling, only gringos seem to need this. It’s too expensive for Ticos, she says. I’m going back Saturday, and for many foreseeable Saturdays, until my teeth are sufficiently perfect.

But then, I’m wondering, why is it so easy to go to the pharmacy and get a shot of muscle relaxant when your back hurts? You don’t need a prescription, just an honest face and a few Colones, and it’s really cheap, and really works.

Anyway, I guess the benefit is that I could eat afterwards without fear of biting myself, so that made Diego’s chanchada barbeque more fun. I had a couple of Costa Rican beers (Bavaria Gold, the best in my opinion) ate some beef and salchichon, and sang and played Rock Band, for the first time.

I played drums on Rebel Girl by Bikini Kill (does anyone remember when BK played at PG High?) and then I sang Carry on My Wayward Son, by Kansas, to everyone’s enduring surprise, since I’m pretty quiet at work, and also pretty old (even somewhat stodgy, perhaps).

I just got email encouraging us to wear shorts, t-shirts and sandals to work tomorrow (just don’t overdo it, whatever that means). I’m going to look ridiculous wearing my coat with that outfit when I ride the bus in the morning. Maybe I’ll skip the shorts. Or the whole thing altogether, in keeping with my usually stodgy attire and demeanor.

Over in San José, they are going to build a new stadium in a section of the big Sabana park where there is just an empty grass field right now. The Chinese government is funding it. For awhile, it looked like it might not happen, since someone raised a doubt about its Constitutionality, saying the park was meant to be enjoyed as open space in the city, something there is mighty little of around here. The Constitutional Court, Sala IV, said it was fine to go ahead.

Now, Chinese workers are coming from China to actually build it. Not every Tico worker is happy about this. It seems kind of ironic to me, a gringo working at an offshore American company. But then I’m one of the people who thought they should just keep using the Ricardo Saprissa stadium they have in Tibas. Maybe someone thinks moving the stadium from the sketchy, crime-ridden neighborhood of Tibas to the more safe La Sabana area will make the soccer games more civilized.  I’m guessing it will make La Sabana less so.

I took some pictures with my phone on my way home from work yesterday.

Downtown Heredia elementary school

I took a few photos with my phone on the way home this evening. It was rush hour and the sunlight was coming in straight sideways from the west. Even though there were a lot of people around, and Ily always tells me to be careful with my valuables since I attract attention as a gringo, I felt okay about taking these pictures. My phone is not really valuable except as a phone, and it takes bad pictures. I took these photos in the middle of the city at rush hour, and no one even noticed. Maybe I’ll try it again.

I like the one of the billboard best. The tattered shred of image left at the top, with the advertisement for billboard’s availability underneath.

It speaks for itself. That is the wonderful thing about images.

I went to Dream Studies Portal blog this morning and found three new links, then another one branched from one of those. I’ve added a new category on my sidebar for Dreams, and put the new links there.

I’ve been writing my dreams every night recently, with the intention to continue, and to listen to my dreams so I can evolve in harmony with all the consciousness available to me, whether I am asleep or awake. I’ve been writing down some events in waking life as if they were dreams as well.

We had a couple of small earthquakes the other day that made the building sway sensually. It was scary and fun, like many good things. Nothing broke, and that was good too.

Today we had a building evacuation drill. Tomorrow there will be a party at Diego’s in Barva, after I go to the dentist in San Pablo.

On Saturday, after Ily got home from school, we went to the Real Cariari Mall in Barreal to see a movie. Ily wanted to see a comedy, and that sounded fine to me. We sort of wanted to see Inkheart (Corazón de Tinta) since Ily likes Brendan Fraser (she can watch any of the Mummy series over and over again). I did not want to see the Pink Panther, however. Or He’s Just Not That Into You, either. Or the Adam Sandler movie. Unfortunately, Inkheart was dubbed in Spanish. My language skills aren’t good enough for me to watch a movie and understand the jokes. Fortunately, all the other comedies (the ones I didn’t want to see) were dubbed too, so it left only one choice for us, Seven Pounds (Siete Almas), something we’d heard nothing about. It was not a comedy, just the opposite. Afterwards, in the taxi home, Ily jokingly complained that she’d wanted to laugh, but ended up crying. It was a good movie.

A couple of weeks ago, Ileana asked me if I wanted to take the train to the beach in Puntarenas. The Costa Rica rail system is being refurbished after being out of service for many years. Ily remembers taking this train to the beach as a child, sharing the ride with chickens, ducks, and sacks of vegetables, as well as the maximum number of passengers that could be crammed into the coaches. Of course I said yes, even though there would be no chickens on this train.

Back in the day, you could just show up with your family, chickens and whatever, and buy your ticket. Not anymore. We had to get tickets two weeks in advance. The ticket person on the phone said several times that the train left at 8am. Ileana questioned this, saying that departure time was 6am when she rode it as a child, but the agent stuck by her story. She said it departed San José at 8, then left the beach at 5pm to come home.

The agent also called Ily several times to say there was a seat available immediately on a Saturday train. They just couldn’t seem to comprehend that Ily couldn’t go on Saturday because of her class at the university. I guess they figure most Ticos would just ditch class and go.

We got out of bed at 5 the morning of the trip, had coffee and walked down to the busstop for the trip to San José. A waning five-eighths moon was high in the clear sky. As our bus driver struggled to return change for two fares, it appeared that he might be having his first day on the job. As he struggled to leave the bus stop, it appeared he might be driving very slowly and carefully to nurse a vehicle on the verge of expiring. At another point he started to drive away from a stop before some passengers had debarked, so we figured it was the former. A little bit later it seemed the bus was barely making it up a hill. I decided it must be an unlucky confluence of both factors. When we left it in San José, the bus gingerly limped away, pouring out black smoke behind.

We caught a taxi to the train station. As we made our way through the now-light streets, Ileana chatted with the taxi driver. Ily seemed surprised that so many ordinary people were out and about at this time. She asked “Is it my idea, or is this a very dangerous neighborhood?” The driver responded with a bright and matter of fact, “It’s your idea!”

Arriving at the station we saw the little antique train cars from the past parked in the yard, painted with shabby, complementary advertisements for chocolate and toothpaste. The station turned out to be closed, the bars were rolled down, no one was around except some street people. Ily still seemed nervous about the neighborhood, saying that we couldn’t stay here. She went to ask a kid on a stingray bicycle if he knew anything. A white haired old lady with string bracelets on came to help. A jackbooted, black-clothed punk-rocker ambled over and asked if I spoke English. He recommended that I kick the metal bars of the train station door. Ily spoke with everyone in Spanish and thanked them. I went over and kicked the bars, making an echoey crash in the empty station.

Ily came over just as a security guard emerged from the train yard into the barred station. He said the train had left at 7am, right on time, and implied that Ily was late just because she’s a Tica and likes to be late. Ily told him off and we left him talking to the air.

We caught another taxi and went to the bus station. A kid who opens taxi doors for a living asked me for money and looked disappointed when I gave him 20 colones (three-and-a-half cents), but it was all the change I had. I guess 100 colones (18 cents) is the standard, but he probably expected more from a gringo. Little does he know I’ve been here a year already.

Tips are added to the check in restaurants. Hardly anyone tips taxi drivers. They always seem very pleased when I give them 60 cents, a tip that would elicit derision in a U.S. taxi. But then again, they don’t drive Crown Victorias that get 10 miles to the gallon. They drive small Asian 4-door stickshifts. They make hundreds of short trips per day, probably averaging less than $2 dollars per trip. I don’t know how long their shifts are. I need to learn more Spanish and/or have Ily grill one for me someday. I think they are doing okay. They almost always have shiny new cars.

We caught the bus and it sped to Puntarenas, getting there in less than two hours. It seemed like record time. The weather was warm and clear with no wind. I saw Natacha and Elías and their kids from the window as we pulled into the bus station. They saw me and waved. We disembarked and went over to their car and put our backpacks in.

I had no idea what the plan was. Ily and the family were all talking in Spanish and I had a head-cold lingering on from the previous Thursday. I thought we were going for a ride in the car, but we just locked up the things and crossed the street to the sidewalk under the palm trees by the beach. We walked north past many little open air restaurants, cafés and bars selling all the local specialties, Imperial beer, Vigorón with yuca, different flavors of ceviche, chicharrones and chicken parts glistening in warm glass boxes, pipa and other juices and drinks, lots of seafood, shaved ice drinks, and Churchills (shaved ice with syrup and condensed milk, sometimes ice cream and whipped cream). It was also possible to buy hats, clothing, posters of Bob Marley, hats with fake dreadlocks attached, wooden keychains carved in the shape of your name, coconuts carved to look like monkeys, bobbing headed bird mobiles, giant inflatable squeaking hammers, and plenty of other things.

We walked past the pier where a cruise ship was anchored. Many gringos swarmed around, speaking different Gringo languages, wearing gringo sandals with socks, turning red in the hot sun. Ily and Natacha remarked on the latter, and I said “gringo frito” (fried gringo), making them laugh. Out on the crowded beach, people swam, others rinsed off in the public showers near the sidewalk. All the shady places under the trees were right next to the sidewalk. People had claimed these areas by laying down bundles of beach-going items.

We continued on past the Maritime School and a new restaurant that hadn’t been there last time we came here. Even though the restaurant was now open and serving food, the building was still under construction, with rebar sticking out of the roof for the next story. We finally stopped across the street from Hotel Tioga, where Ily and I stayed several months ago. Ily went over and asked the proprietor if we could come in and use the pool, restrooms, etc. He remembered us and kindly agreed.

I layed on an uncomfortable plastic deck chair while everyone swam in the pool. After an hour or so, we left and went to have lunch. I wanted pipa (green coconut juice), but the restaurant didn’t have it. Elías, loving a challenge, as well as being obsessed with finding the best of whatever, insisted on going back out to the beach area and finding me some pipa. He returned after about 20 minutes with two little plastic bags of it. I poked a hole in the corner of one and squirted it into my glass, getting a lot of it on the table cloth. We waited a long time for our food. It was pretty good. Ily and I had shrimp with rice. David had a whole fried corvina. There were lots of french fries with everything.

Across the street, people in a tent danced to disco music. Natacha said you could dance there from 10am to 5am.

After lunch, we walked back the way we had come, passing all the same things. Near another disco tent, I saw someone’s black underwear sticking up out of his waistband. On the elastic was printed “Chain Gang Soldier,” bringing to mind an absurd image. Later I found in Wikipedia the pro wrestler who goes by the name.

At one point Elías and Irina were separated from us. We stopped and I looked across the street. People were folk-dancing in a huge warehouse with bars on the front. I pointed it out and we all went over there to look. Natacha teaches Costa Rican typical dance at an arts high school, so she was interested. It turned out she and Ily knew the guy who was running this dance practice. It was the Puntarenas folk-dance troupe, getting ready for a show. It turned out the “warehouse” was actually the old train station.

Costa Rican typical dancers in the old train station

Elías and Irina caught back up with us and we walked toward the center of town to look for some special bread for Elías’ friend. We didn’t find it, but we did see a couple of ordinary chain bakeries, Musmanni and PPK (Pan Por Kilo / Bread by the kilo). Elías always insists on the best, especially for his friends.

Back at the car, I still didn’t have a clue as to what the plan was. Ily hailed a taxi and told it to follow Elías’ car. We drove south to the town of Caldera, where the container ships unload. Just before Caldera is a beach, where we stopped.

It was hot and dusty, with gauzy little trees providing scant shade. My sandals were giving me a heat rash on the tops of my feet. I was itchy and hot, getting kind of crabby. Elías and Irina went down to the water. Natacha and Ily put a blanket on the burning sand. They sat on it in the nearly-non-existent shade. I stood, to present less of my surface area to the sun. We were lucky even to have this spot, since the people who were there had left just as we’d arrived.

This mild suffering lasted for about 15 minutes. Then, from the highway, Ily heard a honking blast. It was the train! We bid a hasty farewell to Natacha and David, then we ran across the highway, and over to the train. This train was painted red, white and blue, the colors of the Costa Rican flag. It was old and the paint was faded. Shaved ice and juice and fruit vendors crowded around.

Ily began talking to some train personnel, telling the story of the wrong information she was given on the phone. They were very understanding and willing to help. They gave us a ticket and found us seats. The conductor gave us his card and told us to call him personally when we wanted to take the train again, and he would make sure we got a free ticket.

Train at Caldera, bound for San José

Our First Class coach

Soon after we sat down, someone in the seat ahead of us spilled a Churchill. It dripped through the crack onto Ily’s foot, and threatened her backpack as well. A train person brought water and a rag, and moved us to another seat across the aisle. Soon the horn blew again, and we chugged away out of Caldera.

Churchill vendor

The train people were happy and outgoing, natural performers. Paola, the girl assigned to our car, made announcements all during the journey, pointing out and naming the features of the landscape as we passed, such as a melon field (fruit for export), the new highway being built by the Chinese for Costa Rica (started eight years ago), and the upcoming Carnival coming to our coach. The way she said it sounded like a joke, but it wasn’t. Someone danced in with a radio in one hand, followed by others in costume. They got a few people to get up and dance with them in the aisle. After a few minutes they went on to the next car.

The train ascended into the mountains, even though it never felt like we were going uphill. The air smelled good and a light rain fell. We saw cows and horses in the pastures, and we glided, swaying and clacking, through the backyards of little shacks and big ranches, seeing the people sitting in their yards enjoying the warm late afternoon and evening. People waved and dogs barked.

We stopped in the station at Orotina. Ily thought there was supposed to be a lady coming on the train with fresh home-made snacks for us, but it didn’t happen there.

One area, called Balsas de Atenas, had a lot of big classic-looking trees and neat, seemingly manicured grass, without too many houses visible. It was like a dream.

We went across a bridge over the Rio Grande, looking down into the river in the night. We could see the lights of San Ramón not far away. We were almost home. At one point we slowed down, the train blew its horn, then we stopped. There were cows on the track. The next minute we were in a town, passing a bar full of hooting and waving party people.

We got to San Antonio de Belén and got off the train. We took the bus back to Heredia. We got home about 8:30pm, put away our things and got ready for bed. The next day was the first day of school in Costa Rica, Ily’s first day back at work in two months.