My first day at work, our weekend in Turrialba, the TLC, and a ridiculously long post that took way too long to write

First days at a new job are always a little nerve-racking. New people, new places, new responsibilities. Add to that new country, new city, and new language and you've got an idea of my first day on Friday. Here's a timeline to give you juuuuuust a little better idea.

6:15 a.m. Up. I think to myself, What the hell have I gotten myself into?

6:45 a.m. Out the door, catch a ride to my friend's place. Since he works reasonably close to my new job, the plan is to catch a ride with him to his work, then catch a cab to mine.

7:45 a.m. After enduring San Jose traffic for an hour (who knew?), I'm now standing on the side of the road, trying to hail a cab. Finally, mercifully, one pulls over and I hop in.

8:00 a.m. I walk up to the office right as my two bosses (husband and wife) get out of their car. We all walk in together and jump-start the day.

8:15 a.m. to 9:30 a.m. Work, work, work. I've got two million questions about the state of the magazine and my boss is kind and patient enough to answer them. All of them. Now, you may wonder how we could get through two million questions in 75 minutes. Don't.

Anyway, as the day goes by and the rest of the staff trickles in, I struggle to grow adjust to a Costa Rican custom: kissing members of the opposite sex on the cheek to say hello (and good-bye for that matter). It was a bit strange, especially with people that I had met once, for five minutes, a few days ago. I guess I'll get used to it.

9:40 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. My boss and I leave for a meeting that I didn't know about the night before at our client's office. We're there to go over the cover shot for the current issue. The entire meeting is conducted in Spanish. Whew.

11:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. Wrapping up odds and ends and then kissing everyone good-bye (except for the guys).

12:30 p.m. to 2:00 p.m. This 90 minutes is spend on my commute home. First, I catch a bus from the office to downtown San Jose (40 minutes). I walk from there for about 10 blocks to the other bus stop (20 minutes). Finally, I catch the bus back to our barrio and walk the last block home (30 minutes). That's fun.

2:00 p.m. to 4:15 p.m. Internet research to find a suitable place to learn Spanish. I also have to pack for the weekend, because, did I mention, Heather and I are going to Turrialba to chill with the family who owns the house we rent. Oh, and my company is having a dinner tonight all the way across town at a posh Brazilian restaurant. Too bad it's pouring outside and I have exactly zero colones in my wallet.

4:30 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. I set out on foot to the local ATM. By the time I get there, my pants are soaked half way to my knees. Smart. I catch a cab the rest of the way. For the first 15 minutes, I have the honor of listening to the driver berate his son over the phone. I can't believe the son's insolence either!

5:30 p.m. to 8 p.m. Getting to know the crew. Wine, drinks, stories, and jokes are shared. Pictures are taken. Fun is had. Almost all in Spanish. Is it me, or am I getting just a little better at this language?

8:05 p.m. Regrettably, I'm the first one to leave. Gotta get back to the house, meet up with Heather, and catch the bus to Cartago (where we're meeting our host family to drive to Turrialba). On the way back, me and the taxi driver talk about music, politics, the United States--I don't think we stopped talking the whole way. Is it me, or am I getting just a little better at this language?

9:00 p.m. to 10:45 p.m. On the bus to Cartago. We're 20 minutes late (my fault, of course), but we find the family near the bustop and head for Turrialba. I fall asleep on the drive, exhausted from my day. Little did I know at the time that Saturday would be just as tiring, though for completely different reasons.

SATURDAY

Saturday is now officially known as "The Great Adventure," though I like to think of it as "The Day I Was Sure I Was Going To Die." It all started innocently enough, a little breakfast at the house and the a short ride up to check out Volcan Turriable. Except apparently, Mother Nature (and Costa Rican infrastructure) didn't see things that way. After driving for about 20 minutes, we said good-bye to paved roads and hello to major problems.

To say that the road up to the volcano was the worst road I've ever been on would be an understatement. And as if bouncing our way up the mountain at 10 mph wasn't bad enough, it was at this point that the gods decided to reward us with some rain. At first, I didn't think anything of it, but as we passed 6,000 ft., I realized that the road was worsening and the car struggling. A few minutes later, we were stuck. Every time we tried to go forward, we slid backwards. Backwards, as in, towards the edge of the road, as in plummeting to our certain death backwards.

Now, when I woke up that day, death wasn't really on my menu, so I was going to do whatever I could to avoid it. Which led me to this: Getting out of the car, putting rocks behind the back tires, and pushing as the car slowly made its way uphill. If we got a good burst forward, I would have to run after the car, up the hill, at 6,000 ft., in the freezing rain, holding huge rocks, to put them behind the tires when we stalled again. After trying this method for about 20 minutes, with some success, we had all finally had enough. We parked the car and hiked the rest of the way to the crater. Where one of our umbrellas promptly broke from the wind. But the crater was cool, we got some good pictures (on their way, I promise), and we'll always have a good story to tell.

The drive back down was uneventful, as was the rest of our time in Turrialba. On Sunday, we visited the oldest archeological site in Costa Rica and then took the bus back in the afternoon. My plan for Sunday night: catch up on all the football I missed, watch the Sunday night game, get to bed early. Let's just say I was 0 for 3. When we got home our internet was out, it turned out that there was no Sunday night game, and I had to say up late to watch the local Denver newscast just to find out if the Broncos had won, which, of course, they had.

All that and it was back to work on Monday. I've been putting in eight-hour days so far for this "part-time" job, but I ain't complaining. The next issue of the magazine is really coming together, even though it's not published until February. I had two meetings yesterday, on different sides of town, one in English, the other in Spanish, and everything would've gone as planned if not for the protests. The massive street protests. Let me explain.

The good people of this country decided Monday and Tuesday would be a good time to take to the streets to protest the potential approval of CAFTA (known down here as the TLC). Roads were shut down, offices closed, and slogans chanted. Public support for the TLC is actually right about 50/50, but it was cool to see people who care about the future of their country making their voices heard. Of course, that didn't help me get to my second meeting on time, but the dude didn't seem to mind. He offered me some fruit, we looked through his slides, and he fell asleep with me in his office. Ah yes, living the good life in Costa Rica.

Well I never!

I've been called a lot of names in my day--some of them inflammatory, some of them laudatory, some of them hardly auditory--but never, ever, ever had I been called this until today: managing editor. That's right, as of approximately noon today (11 a.m. for my readers on the West Coast), I am officially employed once again, this time with that heady title preceeding (or following) my name.

I'll be managing a staff of freelance writers and photographers, working with our design and marketing teams, and maybe even be doing a little writing myself for a high-end lifestyle, culture, and real-estate magazine dedicated to Costa Rica. Pretty freaking cool if you ask me. Even better, because the magazine only publishes only three times a year, I'll only be working about 20 hours a week. Which leaves more than enough to do the tourist thang and still pull in a little dough. The only downer is that the commute is about an hour each way (the first 20 minutes via taxi and then 40 on the bus), but get this: After I get comfortable in my position, I can work from home a few days a week!

Honestly, I couldn't have asked for a better situation. And, honestly, I was ready to face another challenge. Apparently, sleeping in and doing nothing all day gets stale after a little while. Imagine that.

So call me what you will--just make sure to toss the M.E. in there every once in a while.

Porn on the bus and other noteworthy happenings

Before I begin this post in earnest, I first want to thank all of you for the cards, phone calls, and emails about my back injury. Your outpouring of concern truly warmed my heart.

(And just to be clear, by “all of you,” I mean Justin and Bernice. The rest of you smell. Really bad.)

I’ve had an interesting couple of days since I last broke bread with you good people, so interesting, in fact, that “interesting” doesn’t do it justice. What I’ve seen has ranged from the comical to the bizarre to the pornographic (more on that one later).

But first, some good news: I may soon be bidding adieu to the world of unemployment. On Wednesday, I got a call from Aventura Publishing, who, perhaps not incoincidentally, I had emailed my resume to a few days earlier. They’re looking for some editors and want me to come in next Wednesday. I told them I’d be more than happy to oblige. They publish an eco-travel magazine and a high-end Costa Rican lifestyle and real-estate magazine. I’d be happy to work on either one of them, or both. Wish me luck.

OK: Highlight time.

In the past three days I have seen:

• Two homeless men dunk their heads in a fountain downtown
• A dude walking down the street smoking a joint like it ain’t no thang
• A middle-aged man with a beard halfway down his chest singing a duet (poorly) with a lady half his age, accompanied by someone on a keyboard
• A different homeless guy sleeping on the sidewalk, using newspaper as a pillow

I’ve also watched a movie, in Spanish, starring Lil Bow Wow, had a small dog attack me, eaten at a Costa Rican “soda,” and, most importantly, enjoyed the best chocalate milk of my life. If you ever have the chance to get Dos Pinos Choco Leche, do it. You'll thank me later.

I’ve actually been so busy that the infamous “To Do List” made an appearance yesterday. And just for the record, I would like to say that, yes, the first item on the list was, “up.” That’s right, I include waking up on my “To Do List.” You just can’t beat getting up and already being able to cross something off your list. Gives a man a sense of accomplishment. And before you ridicule, think about this: In the relatively new novel, “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time,” the main character is a savant in math. He likes the way everything has rules, the way everything is structured, and he likes to plan out his days down to the minute. In fact, he makes his own “To Do List,” which includes getting up as the first entry. What does that say about me? I’m don’t know, but when I started this paragraph I thought it was a good defense. Now I’m not so sure. Let’s move on.

I think I forgot to mention before that my potential job is in a town about 10 miles from here. Just to make sure I could find it next Wednesday, Heather and I did a dry run yesterday, catching one bus, then walking to another, then taking that one to the town where Aventura is located. After finding the right building and eating at the aforementioned soda, we caught a bus back and were pleased to see that the bus actually had a TV in the front. I was almost immediately disappointed, though, because the time of day, poor screen quality, and position of my seat made the TV almost unviewable.

After a few minutes of listening to music (the audio played throughout the bus), I noticed a distinct change in the sound. All of a sudden, instead of “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor, I heard a little “bow-chica-bow-now.” And since we’re all adults here, you know what that means: porn. (Oh, you didn’t know? Of course you didn’t. Neither did I. I was just speaking in generalities.) Anyway, like I said, I couldn’t see the TV, but Heather, who was sitting a row behind me, assures me that very little clothes were involved and that no body part was hidden from the camera.

The porn was only on for a few minutes, but now that I’ve experienced commuter porn in a Third World nation, I’m convinced anything is possible. Mel Gibson converting to Judaism? Why not! Bill O’Reilly admitting that he’s a Republican hack? You bet! Shaq making it through an entire season without referring to himself in the third person or quoting “The Godfather” trilogy? Sure! Getting Dave or Travis to admit that I’m better than they are at ping-pong? Maybe, just maybe. (At some point you’d think they’d have to take a look at the cold, hard facts and give it up.)

And if all that could happen then I can definitely get an editing job in Costa Rica. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

First day back at the gym; or, I'm not as young as I used to be

I always knew this day would come, when I would finally start working out again and all those late-night Snickers, chocolate chip cookies, and bowls of ice cream, coffee-flavored, preferably, would come back to haunt me. I just didn't expect it would go like this.

A little background: With everything that's been going on these past few months, I kind of deviated from my lifting regimen. In fact, I haven't lifted a thing since leaving California unless you count Heather's 10,000-pound suitcases. But I always knew that once we got settled here in San Jose, I would join a gym and get back to it. And after a little exploration, Heather and I found a passable gym. It’s not up to par with gyms in the U.S., but it’s got everything you would need, and it’s easily reachable by bus, so we signed up yesterday.

Which meant that today was to be the day. THE day. And I was ready. Not even the driving rain this morning was going to stop me. So while Heather was off "working," I hopped on the bus, walked to the gym, tuned my iPod to Jay-Z (my workout music of choice--it makes me feel like a badass), and hit the weights.

Fifteen, twenty minutes in and I was pleasantly surprised. I wasn't lifting as much as before, but I wasn't embarrassing myself (like the time I had do to girl push-ups when I first started working out eight years ago--but that's a different story). And then it happened. I'm bending over, re-racking some dumbbells on the bottom row, and ... POP. Something in my lower back gave out, my chin dropped, hitting the dumbbells already in the rack, and I dropped the weights I was holding.

Now, I don't know if any of you have ever injured your back in any fashion, but I don't recommend it. I took a break to gather myself, make sure my chin was OK (it was), and then gingerly re-rack those weights. Which I could hardly do, because I couldn't bend my back at a 45-degree angle without enduring some serious pain.

Somehow, thanks to Jay-Z and adreneline, I managed to finish my workout. But as I sit and write this, I've got Heather's heating pad on my back, I've taken some Advil, and some cerveza doesn't sound like a bad idea, because my back is throbbing. I've tried sitting and standing in every position you can imagine, and the only way it doesn't hurt is if I'm lying flat on my back.

None of this bodes well for my workout plans, which will probably have to be put on hold for a day or two. And God forbid I drop the soap in shower. It'll be all over.

Broncos 13, Ravens 3

Yeah, that pretty much sums up my feelings right now. As most of you know, I’m somewhat of a Broncos fanatic (to the tune of wearing my special Broncos shirt, socks, and, um, other garments for each game), so any time they win, I’m a happy man. But on Monday night, at home, with Ray Lewis dancing around like a fool, this one was sweet.

The Ravens have had the Broncos’ number the past few years (heck, they hardly beat them last year with freaking Kyle Boeller at quarterback). And when the Broncos started out with turnovers on their first two possessions, I was expecting the worst. But the defense stepped up with three interceptions, and offense did just enough to win.

I’m gonna enjoy this one for a few days, but it starts all over again next week—with the Raiders.

Shoes, blues, and inconvenient truths

I present to you
a story of woe
Tis rather long
(This I know)

So lend me your eyes
Just for the moment
And I’ll share with you
My tale of torment:

In my closet
Where my clothes nightly rest
Yesterday I discovered
An uninvited guest

My shoes, you see
Had been invaded by mold
And quite a lot of it,
Truth be told

One pair, two,
Three, four, five, six
The mold had enveloped
all of my kicks!

So I did the only
thing I could do:
I threw them in the trash
(No… that’s not true)

I took them outside
To wipe them down
But I got distracted
And never got around

Then today the rain came
With my shoes you know where
And now I have moldy shoes
With moisture to spare

……………………………

After all that, we still managed to get to the movie theater to catch “La Verdad Incómoda” (“An Inconvenient Truth”). And let me tell you: If there’s anyone one that can carry a movie all by himself, it’s Al Gore. I mean, that smile, that charisma. He should run for public office or something.

Actually, I wasn’t all that impressed (by the movie, that is). It got the point across, but I thought the editing job left something to be desired. Was it a movie about global warming, Al Gore, or both? I don’t think the director ever really made that choice. But maybe I was just too busy reading the Spanish subtitles. “Sequía” means “drought,” in case any of you were wondering.

My review aside, I would still encourage all of you to go see the movie, or at least surf over to to this site to see how you can help. Go on, you can do it. I promise I’ll be right here when you get back.

Employment: What is it good for? Absolutely Nothin! Say it again!

Hold on one second. If you didn't read that header to the tune of Edwin Star's classic "War," go back and read it again, inserting all the necessary gutturations and maybe even a "good God, y'all" if you're really feeling it.

There you go. Much better.

Anywho, apparently Heather disagrees with my premise here, because in the last five days she has secured teaching positions at two, count 'em, two different centers for Costa Ricas who can't speak English good and want to do other things good too. The first one is at a local private university (which technically makes her a profesora), and the other is at a language institute that specializes in teaching English. Who knows, maybe she can teach me a thing or two about this so-called English language that I've heard so much about. (Lindsay and Jenn just had the same reaction: "Too little, too late for you, Heitner.")

And because nothing interesting has gone on in my life the past few days, here is an outlandish claim that I can't really back up at all: I'm pretty sure I could play professional basketball down here. Now, I know what you're thinking: "Isn't Matt like 4 feet tall?" (No, jerk, I'm 5-foot-7 and proud of it) and "When was the last time Matt even played basketball?" (OK, you got me on that one--my game's a little rusty). Still. I went to a first-division game down here a few days ago to watch the cream of the crop play, and those guys were terrible. Let me spell it out for you: t-e-r-r-i-b-l-e. Terrible. Air balls, turnovers, no semblance of an offense...oh, and did I mention that it was a freaking playoff game???

Suffice it to say, I was not impressed. In fact, I was so unimpressed that I'm pretty sure I could get some run. So if you don't hear from me for a little while, it's because I'm training for my next job: Matt Heitner, professional basketball player.

Maybe employment isn't so bad after all.

Still Alive!

OK, here's the deal: I've been here for a month, and I haven't posted a single thing. But that doesn't mean I haven't been writing. In fact, I've been "blogging" for the past four weeks, I just haven't had the internet access necessary to publish anything.

Until now.

And here's how it's gonna go: I'm going to publish everything I've written so far, all at once. I've inserted the dates when I was writing to make it easier to keep track of everything. But I can't hide the fact that it's going to be a long post. Really long. So read it in chunks, print it out and take it to the bathroom, or, if you've got some spare time on your hands, read it all at once. But whatever you do, read it. And leave comments.

I'm still trying to decide how to run this thing, and I can't promise that there will be a pattern to my postings. Some days I may post more than once and other times I may go four or five days before I add anything new. I guess we'll just have to see how it goes, because that's the way things work when you're Living on Tico Time.

.................................................................................................................................................................................................

Sept. 10
Welcome to Costa Rica, where, in case you didn’t know, it tends to rain a little bit. It was raining when we got in, it rained earlier today, and it’s rained every day in between. Actually, as bad as that sounds, the rain is manageable. It usually comes down between 3 p.m. and 7 p.m., so you just have to plan your day accordingly. And if you have to go out during those hours, make sure you bring your paraguas (umbrella).

That’s one of the many things I’ve learned in my four full days here. Here’s another one: Don’t buy drinks with ice. Ice, as I’m sure some of you are aware, comes from water. And tourists aren’t really supposed to drink the water. Does quite a number on the stomach. Also, things here tend to run on “Tico Time." Ticos (Costa Ricans) get things done, but they do it at their own pace. For example, Heather and I took the bus from our neighborhood today down to the local mall. Along the way, trash was piled up in most driveways we passed because tomorrow, I assume, is trash day. Our bus driver stopped to look at the junk in every freaking driveway from our place to the mall. Or at least it seemed that way. So he got us there, but he did it at his own pace. It’s kinda like “Matt Heitner Time,” for those of you who are familiar with that concept.

Down to the nitty-gritty: We flew in Wednesday and were met at the airport by our friend, Marilynn. She was kind enough to help transport the two of us and our luggage (approximate weight: 12,000 pounds) to our house in the suburb of Sabanilla. Another little quirk of Costa Rica is that there are no addresses. Or rather, instead of numbers, like say, 555 Crazy Street, they use landmarks. Our address: 50 metros norte del Colegio de Cedros, doble a la derecha cuando ve la canasta roja, a traves de Ciclo Tuclo.

After asking a few random people on the street and a few false starts, we found our house and one of our hosts, Doña Flora, waiting outside for us. She welcomed us in and served us jocotes, a local fruit, and, along with her son-in-law, Alberto, we had an hour-long discussion, in Spanish.

Neither Flora nor Alberto live here, meaning that Heather and I basically have the house to ourselves. Not that that’s anything to brag about. It’s two stories, but our room is small and dingy, our bed is small and dingy, the couch (actually a futon) is small and dingy, and the kitchen is small and dingy. Get the picture? If not, I’ll post some soon for everyone to see. One saving grace: the amazing view of San Jose from the balcony. Again, pictures to come.

Why no pictures now, you ask? That would be because we still don’t have internet access at the house. It was promised to us before we arrived, but then that whole Tico Time thing took over, and we’re still waiting. We do, however, have cable tv, including Cinemax, HBO, and—and this is important—feeds from the four networks (ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox). Even better, the network feeds come from, of all places, Boulder, Colorado, meaning that each Sunday, I get to watch the Denver Broncos without leaving the (dis)comfort of my own house. Those of you who know me well (and that would be pretty much anyone reading this) knows that I’m, how should I put this, more than just a casual Broncos fan, so getting to watch the game today (even though they got shellacked) was a luxury I certainly wasn’t expecting.

Neither was I expecting to be treated so well by Marilynn and her husband, Alberto. Marilynn escorted us around town on Thursday, bought us cell phones (they won’t sell to foreigners), and took us to the Costa Rican equivalent of Wal-Mart so we could purchase all the necessities (eggs, turkey, energy drinks, etc.). Later that day, we were both able to get our own checking accounts at a local bank thanks to her son, Steven.

Normally, opening a bank account is a difficult endeavor, but Alberto’s family has just a little bit of pull around here. How much? Well, Alberto was the Secretary of the Treasury for the entire country of Costa Rica, and their family, the Dents, has an entire neighborhood named after them: Barrio Dent. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know…

Anyway, to finish off their day of magnanimity, that night, the Dents took us out to dinner at an amazing Italian restaurant, a place where the current president of Costa Rica goes to eat and a place that has been frequented by, among others, Orlando Hernandez (a.k.a., El Duque). Not bad. Not bad at all.

Friday and Saturday were basically dedicated to exploring and getting rained on, until Marilynn and Alberto invited us out to dinner again, this time at an excellent Chinese restaurant (in Barrio Dent). Afterwards, Steven and his girlfriend took Heather and I out clubbing in Escazú (don’t forget the accent over the “u”), a hip suburb of San Jose. We drank it up, partied it up and danced it up with the locals to hip-hop and the Tico favorite, reggaeton.

I admit, I imbibed a few Imperials, the “beer of Costa Rica.” I did not, however, venture into the mixed drinks.

They have ice.

Sept. 17
It’s been four days since my last entry, and they all seem to have blended together. My days this week have included some variation on sleeping in, lying around the house, watching English movies with Spanish subtitles, and hanging out at the local internet café. (250 colones—50 cents—for one hour is quite the deal if you ask me.) Still, not everything has been as easy as it sounds. In fact, we’ve learned a few hard lessons in the past few days.

Lesson 1: Bus drivers lie. Repeatedly. Twice this week we asked drivers (chofers) if their bus was going to Hiper Mas (the Tico equivalent of Wal-Mart). Both times they said yes. Both times we ended up nowhere near Hiper Mas. After realizing this, we asked them again:

“Pase por Hiper Mas?”

“No, no por Hiper Mas.”

Thanks guys. Appreciate it. We made it anyway.

Lesson 2: Doing laundry here is a pain in the &#%. Or, at least it is with the ghetto washer/dryer combo that we have here. Washing is fairly simple, if different. It’s the drying that’s the problem. The dryer portion of the combo doesn’t dry with heat; instead it “dries” by just spinning the clothes, and it works about as good as you think it would—which is to say, not at all. And did I mention that it only lets you dry for five minutes at a time, so you have to keep resetting, resetting, resetting?

After all that, when your clothes are still damp, you have no choice but to hang them up—inside of course, because it’s pouring outside. And that’s when the real problem starts. Hanging inside, with the humidity and lack of air flow, the clothes—the “clean clothes”—start to smell. Smell like feet just removed from work boots after 10 hours of construction work.

We’re still dealing with that one, but for next time, we have a solution: It’s called a lavandaria. And a dryer that uses heat.

…

But enough complaining. Here’s some good news: We’re finally all unpacked, we’re starting to figure out the bus system and our neighborhood, and we’re planning our first trip this weekend, to a butterfly farm/waterfall reserve on Saturday and a volcano on Sunday. I’ll take pictures, I promise.

Even more exciting (for me, at least) is that eight days later, my Spanish is finally improving. Today I made hotel reservations over the phone, and Heather and I had a conversation with the manager of an apartment complex that we’re thinking about moving into. (It’s cheap, has high-speed DSL, and cable TV.) Tonight, Heather and I started reading Cenicientas (Cinderella), writing down and looking up words that we don’t know. The book is for three-year-olds. We’ve looked up about 60 words so far, and we’re not even half done.

My Spanish has a long way to go.

Sept. 25
Wow, has it really been more than a week since I made my last contribution to the blogosphere? I do apologize. But I have been busy. And not busy.

First, the busy: We’ve made two trips in the last nine days, the first to Alajuela (30 minutes northwest from here) and the second to Heredia (30 minutes north).

There are a few things that I’ll never forget about Alajuela, the exhaust-filled streets, the people-packed sidewalks, and the man fondling his wife’s breasts in a church courtyard among them. And then there was the 80-year-old woman relieving herself on the side of the road as Heather and I walked by. That is an image that I may never be able to erase from my memory. Suffice it to say, I did not like Alajuela.

Thankfully, we didn’t do much in the city of Alajuela itself, other than find transportation to two beautiful spots in the mountains just outside its borders. On Saturday, we got up early and caught a taxi ($32) to Cataratas La Paz (the Peace Waterfalls), which is actually a privately run reserve that, in addition to mountain trails and waterfalls, includes an indoor butterfly “farm,” an outdoor hummingbird observatory, and a replica of a typical Costa Rican farm, circa 1840. We thoroughly enjoyed it all, in spite, or maybe because of, the torrential downpour. The hummingbirds and butterflies were beautiful, the waterfalls and nature, awe-inspiring. And the sweatshirts we had to buy because we forgot to bring our own? Expensive.

The next morning, we caught a bus to Poas Volcan, which has he second largest volcanic crater in the world (or so we’ve been told). The sulfur from the crater stunk to high heaven, but when the clouds cleared, it was quite the sight (pictures of this and everything else to come). After another nature hike, this one not so noteworthy, we caught the bus back to Alajuela, another one from Alajuela to San Jose, and then a taxi back to our place, getting back just in time to watch the Broncos beat the Chiefs in overtime, 9-6. What a day!

After all that craziness (I didn’t even mention how often Heather and I got lost in Alajuela looking for restaurants, buses, etc.), we decided to take it easy for a few days. Or a week.

You know how it is...

I’ve started reading the main daily down here, La Nación, every morning, looking up words and writing down their translations in my cuaderno. In the afternoon, I study my old Spanish textbook and then I review everything a nochecer. Fluency: You can run, but you can’t hide.

On Thursday, we went out to dinner with Alberto, whose family owns the house in which we’re staying. He took us out to a local pizza joint, greasy and good. Thanks, Alberto. He also gave us a brief summary of the political situation and put it in an historical context, all in Spanish. Apparently, the recently elected president, Oscar Arias, was president back in the 80s and was awarded the Nobel Prize for peace for bringing an end to the wars in Guatemala, Ecuador and Salvador (?). The constitution was recently amended to allow for previous presidents to get reelected (before, it was four years and you’re done), and Arias took advantage. But not before an election closer than Bush-Gore, in which every vote had to be recounted by hand. If only we had a democracy like that in the United States. You know, where voting actually matters. But I digress. Now, Arias is working on implementing CAFTA, the free-trade agreement for Central America that is supposed to open up the Costa Rican markets, bring free-market competition, and generally improve the lot of all Ticos. In other words, hooray capitalism! In other words, Costa Rica is screwed.

But I digress.

Somehow, Thursday night turned into Saturday morning, and Heather and I were on our way to Heredia, to tour a coffee plantation run by Café Britt, the main coffee company down here. The tour was corny as hell but mildly interesting, and we got free coffee and a good lunch (not free) out of it. Afterward, we did a little exploring in downtown Heredia, which basically consists of a park and an old church.

With all that to see, and because I was and am feeling a bit under the weather, we decided to come back and rest before going out to eat with some friends of ours. Well, wouldn’t you know it, Alberto and his wife and niece had other plans. Right when we got back, they insisted on taking us on a tour of San Jose. They showed us some sights we hadn’t seen, and then we stopped at McDonalds (not my choice) before doing a little shopping.

We got back just in time to shower, change, and catch a bus and then a taxi to meet our friends (Steve and Hazel) for dinner. They picked us up and we went to a restaurant up in the hills for comida típica (typical Tico fare). The food (pork, beans, something akin to a quesadilla) was good and the views of the city lights were impressive.

We were all tuckered out after our big day, so Steve dropped us off back at our place and we called it a night. Unfortunately, something I ate didn’t quite agree with my stomach and I was up half the night. Ahhh, the splendors of living in a foreign country.

Sunday was dedicated to football (as it should be) and the Broncos’ 17-7 thumping of the Patriots on national TV. It was a beautiful thing, or as beautiful as football can be when Jake Plummer is your quarterback (read: ugly).

So the Broncos are 2-1, Heather’s close to getting two jobs, and I’ve got fluency on the run. If only we could get internet access at the house. But I guess that’s being greedy.



Oct. 2

Scene: Heather and Matt get off the bus, somewhat weary and a bit agitated after their four-hour ride to Cahuita, a small town on the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica. As they get their bearings, they realize that things are not what they had expected. There are no taxis to take them to their hotel, no signs to direct them, and they notice that the roads are all unpaved. As they start walking in what they hope is the right direction…

Matt: Do you think this is the right way?

Heather: I really have no idea. Do you think we should ask someone?

(Enter large, shirtless black man, standing across the street)

LSBM: (shouting) What’s up? Hey, what’s up?

(Matt and Heather keep walking, unsure of what to do.)

LSBM: Hey! Hey you!

(Matt, starting to worry, turns his head to look at LSBM.)

LSBM: Hey, you want some blow? You want some blow?

(Matt and Heather, scared as all hell, ignore his questions and pick up their pace. They eventually find the way to their hotel, without any more LSBM offering them blow.)

Yes, that was our introduction to Cahuita, and though somewhat typical of our time there, it certainly does not do the town justice.

For example, Saturday morning, we woke up, had a little breakfast, and booked a snorkeling tour. Within 10 minutes we were on a boat out into the Caribbean, and in another 15 minutes, we were swimming in the warm, tropical waters—just us, the tour guide, and another guy, a huge, fat former Marine who, thanks to multiple operations on both knees, could hardly move. But he could swim. And he could butcher Spanish. Oh, he could butcher Spanish like it was going out of style. I would give you some examples, but it would probably just make you dumber (not unlike reading this blog…).

Anyway, afterward, our tour guide took us to the beach at Point Cahuita and we shared some pineapple and watermelon. Deeeeeeeeee-lish. In the afternoon, we walked all through the Cahuita National Park, spying monkeys, crazy huge crabs, and all kinds of foliage.

Sunday was dedicated to bumming it around the beaches, getting propositioned on multiple occasions to buy “something special” by other LSBM, and enjoying the local ice cream.

And that would’ve been that, had it not been for a very interesting bus ride back to San Jose. Apparently, the bus was oversold, which forced me to stand for the first 20 minutes. Then, abruptly, the bus came to a halt and was boarded by the Costa Rican 5-0. We were told to get off, and one by one, our bags were searched by cops holding some serious weaponry.

Thankfully, everything was in order and we were soon on our way. Meaning that I was again standing, but not before trying to snag some guy’s seat after reboarding. Now, technically, there were no assigned seats, so I could’ve stayed. But I could see he was ready to make a stink about it, and you never know down here—maybe this guy was in FARC for 20 years or was a member of the Panamanian CIA or something. I wasn’t about to find out. So I stood for another 25 minutes, until our next stop, where we decided there was only one option: I would sit, and Heather would sit on my lap. And that’s what we did. For another two and a half hours. It took awhile, but I eventually regained the feeling in my right leg, and we eventually made it back to our house.

Just another day in Costa Rica.