The Beach
I am waiting for Wm’s mother, sister Patricia and her son David to get ready to have a bite to eat in the restaurant. Incredible light show is happening outside. I saw several lightning bolts touch down in the distance and could smell the electricity in the air.
It took 5½ hours by bus to get to Playa Flamingo and then another 20 minutes by taxi to get to Playa Pan de Azucar. The bus ride was beautiful, though hot. The driver had music on so the whole bus could enjoy it. At one point everyone sang a couple of the songs together.
I should back track. Yesterday Patricia, David and I went shopping and asking questions about how to get a bus to the coast. We walked from bus terminal to bus terminal to bus terminal to find out our options. Weird that they don’t all depart from the same place. Ours ended up leaving from the Coca Cola Center, another mystery in that name. I am not sure why, but no one wants to use the phone to find things out—let your fingers do the walking is not a common move around here. No one would call to book a hotel. I finally did all the calling and even managed to get us the Tico discount. I think Wm’s family was impressed with my business like performance on the telephone.
Patricia and David were supposed to pick up Alisia#1 and me at 7 a.m. but didn’t get to us until 7:30 a.m. so we had a nerve-wracking time hoping to make the 8 a.m. bus. The driver kept saying we would never make it by 8 a.m., but Patricia directed the man like a pro and strong armed him into taking the route she wanted. We made it there with four minutes to spare.
Our room is the size of William’s parent’s house and Carmen’s house combined—maybe larger and right on the beach. There is a kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms. Patricia and David have one bedroom and Alisia and I share the other.
We had a great time in the ocean which is as warm as bathwater but not as clear as the Atlantic. Then we went to the swimming pool. When we had dinner tonight, everyone was stunned to see a napkin folded in a special fold in front of them and they very carefully set them aside so as not to disturb the fold. It turns out they were that fancy paper we find in the bathrooms of expensive restaurants in SF and this really blew them away.
There’s a big problem with mapaches here (raccoons) which of course there would be as they follow me all over the world—am waiting to find pigeons breeding in my window and the circle will be totally complete. [Note from the future: I was given a mapache bone as a talisman for good luck with love and money and I carry it everywhere.]
Observation: No one seems to fart out loud in CR, including me! And I would know about others because the toilets are not exactly miles from the other rooms. Not sure what makes this process quieter than in SF—do U.S. toilets echo more? Is it the air? The food? Also do not need to use much toilet paper—hmmm. What’s it all about, Alfie?
Carmen the Chicken Killer by Sarah Curtiss 