Haphazard Summaries

I suppose, in keeping with the pattern of my past posts, that I should begin this one by acknowledging just how long it’s been since my last entry, pledge to do better in the future (since my schedule is opening up and all) and tell everyone to look for my next post to come in the next few days. But seriously: after so many empty promises just like that, who would believe me? And to be honest, I don’t even know when the urge to write again will strike me. It could be tomorrow or the next day. Or it could be in two weeks. Or a month. Or two. The point is: I have no freaking clue when I’ll blog again.

But just because I haven’t been writing doesn’t mean interesting things haven’t been going on down here in Central America. Far from it, in fact. In the past few weeks alone, Heather and I have traveled to Panama, my first issue of Azul finally came off the presses and Travis, one of my two best friends from high school, and his wife Holly came to visit.

What follows is sure to be a rambling, semi-coherent, non-chronological, poorly written summary of all those goings-on. Consider yourself warned.


The Flandermeyers got in on a Saturday and we immediately left San José for the glory that is La Fortuna/Arenal, where the local volcano creates amazing hot springs and the rainforest provides spectacular hiking. Within 30 minutes of arriving, we made it to the first hot springs “resort.” We paid $25 each to enter and enjoy lounging in pools of different temperatures in between trips to the swim-up bar. Not such a bad way for T & H to get their first taste of Costa Rica, right?

The next morning, we set out for the rainforest and this place called the “Hanging Bridges,” which is exactly what it sounds like. We spent all morning hiking across these bridges, which seemed to bob and weave with each step we took. We got in some good exercise and took some pretty spectacular photos, but on our way back it started to POUR and we were absolutely soaked by the time we got back to the hotel. Unfortunately, Heather had to leave later that day so she could teach on Monday, but Travis, Holly and I soldered on the next day at the Tabacon Hot Springs.

It’s difficult to explain just how amazing Tabacon is, because I’ve never seen anything like it, anywhere else in the world. Located at the base of the volcano, Tabacon is like some mystical land with hot-water rivers, pools and waterfalls carved into the dense landscape of trees, flowers and other foliage. You can swim in the pools, relax under the waterfalls or, like Holly did, get a massage and the got relax some more in the hot springs. After nine hours in and out of the rivers, pools and waterfalls, we gorged ourselves on the buffet dinner there as well. I’d write more, but I would just utterly fail to capture the beauty that is Tabacon.

Sans Heather, the three of us left the next day for Monteverde, a small mountain town close to another huge rainforest. After just one day there, Travis and Holly continued on to Manuel Antonio, which probably has the best beaches in all of Costa Rica, while I had to come back to San Jose for work. After two days in MA, T&H made it back to the city, where our host mom cooked us all a huge dinner. At the table we had people from Italy, Cuba, Costa Rica and the US, all trying to communicate, with Heather and I serving as translators and T speaking a little Italian with our host dad. It was quite the scene.

The next day, T&H left for the US, and I quickly turned my focus to the magazine. A few days before T&H arrived, I finally got the first copies of my first issue as managing editor of Azul. And although the printing quality could have been better (we are in Costa Rica, after all), it was extremely satisfying to finally see the fruits of my labor.

A few days later, though, I received word that Sotheby’s had decided to continue with Azul, but without my company, Aventura. I may still continue to work on it directly with Sotheby’s, but as of this writing, that is very much up in the air. For now, I’m working on Aventura’s other magazine, Nature Landings, because its managing editor resigned just a few days ago. I may just transfer over to that magazine as its managing editor, but we’ll see…

Before any of that happened, Heather and I fly down to Bocas Del Toro, Panama, a series of islands just of the coast of both Costa Rica and Panama. The town was dumpy, old and filled with drugs, but the beaches and food were amazing, and we enjoyed them to the fullest. We took a tour of a few of the islands, ate at a restaurant in the middle of the water, and watched dolphins roam the waters around us (photos still to come).

This past weekend, Heather and I went to Puerto Viejo, a little town on the Caribbean coast, with two friends of ours. But I’m not sure I really feel like writing about that today. Maybe I’ll write tomorrow… or next Thursday … or in May sometime…

(Sort of) deep thoughts, by Matt Heitner

I watched a soccer game last night. Actually, not only did I watch it, but I enjoyed it. I’m not quite sure what that means, but it’s got to be significant, right?

The game pitted Costa Rica’s national team against its archrival, Honduras, in a tournament in El Salvador. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have bothered to watch, but after reading and hearing nonstop news about the Sele, their new coach, etc., etc., I was primed for this one. And my (adopted) team didn’t disappoint, winning 3-1 despite being outcornered by a ludicrous 8 to 1 margin.

Next up is Panama, which is supposed to be an easy victory. No doubt, I’ll be watching.

…

Anyway, as some of you may have noticed, I haven’t been posting for a while, mostly because I hadn’t done much worthy of writing about. I’ve been busting my butt to get this magazine to print, which should finally happen next week (but don’t hold you’re breath). I’ve been searching for Spanish classes that will fit my schedule, finally coming to the conclusion that I’ll have to pay for individual classes if I want to keep improving. And I’ve finally, truly, really started going to the gym again, three or four times per week. If I could only convince my host “mom” to put just a little less butter in her breakfasts, I’d be getting somewhere.

…

I’m not making any promises, but I hope to start posting again with more frequency now that the magazine is all but completed. We’ve already started working on the next issue, but in theory that shouldn’t take up too much of my time. Instead, I’ll spend it writing, going to Spanish classes and doing my best impersonation of our good governor, circa the 1970s. (Minus the steroids.)

Until then, I’ll leave you with this: the Spanish word for “handcuffs” is “esposas.” Esposas also translates as “multiple wives.”

Think about it.

A 10-piece slice of heaven

Last night was one of those nights that remind me why I decided to move to Costa Rica.

Heather and I had made reservations for our little group of expats at a place called Jazz Café, which hosts live music four or five nights a week, with acts ranging from salsa and jazz to rock and Caribbean sounds. The place is regularly written up in all the travel books, and we had been meaning to visit basically since we arrived, though we always seemed to find some excuse to stay home. But last night, it was finally time.

Our reservation for eight was for 8:45, show up late and you’re out of luck. Running behind, as usual, this time due to no fault of our own (that’s another story), Heather and I put on our finest-fines, caught the Cedros bus, and got to the front door just in time to pay our $5 cover.

Despite a somewhat underwhelming façade, the interior of the club opens up beautifully once inside, including two separate bars, a small dance floor, a small stage, and ample seating for those in the mood for food and merriment. The soft lighting, eclectic mix of patrons, and an energy that seemed to flow throughout the club made me feel like we could have been anywhere in the world. Heck, I hardly spoke any Spanish at all apart from ordering some cervezas.

But then the music started, the place came alive, the dance floor was packed – and all I could was sit back and drink it in. On stage was a 10-piece salsa band (four trombones, guitar, keyboard, maracas, drums, and two bongo players), and let me tell you, they knew how to bring it.

For the better part of two hours, “Salsa Dura” had the crowd riveted. Each of the four trombonists took turns soloing, and the keyboardist twice came off the bench to provide flute riffs that put Ron Burgundy to shame. And throughout it all, it was obvious that no matter how much fun the crowd was having, the group was probably having more.

As I left last night, after the final, outstanding encore, I was bit smoky and, yes, a bit tipsy, but I was also most certainly happy. Happy that we had finally made it to Jazz Café. And happy that I’ve moved to Costa Rica.

End of 2006 Recap

A belated feliz año nuevo to everyone out there! I hope you all enjoyed your time away from work and were able to spend some time with your family, celebrating whatever it is you celebrate this time of year.

I’ve been so many places and seen so many different sights in the past two weeks that relating them all in this space would be as much a waste of your time as it would be mine. Instead, here’s a short list of highlights (and lowlights) from the holiday season 2006.

Highlight: Touring around the mountains in the central valley, visiting churches built hundreds of years ago, and eating lunch at a hard-to-reach restaurant with our first Costa Rican family.

Lowlight: Getting stuck on said tour when the clutch on our car decided to stop working for about 30 minutes. Oh, and getting sick after eating at the hard-to-reach restaurant.

Highlight: Playing basketball for the first time in months with the former assistant coach of the Costa Rican men’s basketball team.

Lowlight: Getting my ass kicked by said coach.

Highlight: Staying up til midnight on Christmas Eve and exchanging presents with the family.

Lowlight: My gift: playing cards and a collectable spoon.

Highlight: Coming home to San José on Christmas day and talking with my family.

Lowlight: Not being able to share the day with them in person.

Highlight: Learning some very useful words on our five-hour trip to Guanacaste and during our trips to the numerous beaches in the area.

Lowlight: Finding out that the verb “to fart” has no Spanish equivalent. Instead of saying “I farted,” you have to say something roughly equivalent to “I released a fart.” That’s quite a linguistic shortcoming if you ask me.

Highlight: Going to three different beaches, all of them beautiful, during our stay in Guanacaste.

Lowlight: Getting sunburned on while spending New Year’s Eve at Playa Hermosa.

Highlight: Counting down to midnight on New Year’s Eve in Spanish, with our new family.

Lowlight: Doing so without Heather. She picked up a little stomach bug (if stomach bugs can ever be described as “little”) and was sleeping well before we hit 2007.
Lowlight: Getting up at 4:30 in the morning on New Year’s Day to catch the 5 a.m. bus back to San José. (Lowerlight: Heather vomiting during said ride.)

Highlight: Finally returning home, catching up on calls, emails, and work, and sleeping in my own bed.

Sometimes, the best part of the vacation is coming home!

Chipmunk pseudo-sex

Heather and I went clubbing on Sunday night, only the second time we’ve been persuaded to exchange our rocking chairs for the beer, smoke, and ear-splitting noise native to discotecas around the world.

Our destination: Ebony 56, located within a place known as “El Pueblo.” No sooner had we agreed to go than our host family had this to say, and I’m paraphrasing here, about El Pueblo:

“I don’t go to El Pueblo. That place scares me.”

“Well, I guess it’s not so bad once you’re inside, but be careful outside when you’re getting a taxi.”

“A couple of guys were killed there recently.”

Resigned to our fate, Heather and I put on our finest fines and headed out around 10. We met up with our friends and made our way to the club about an hour later, only to find the dance floor completely empty. That is, the club itself was pretty packed, but no one had yet ventured out to cut the rug.

Save one.

And what a one she was. Obviously already inebriated, she certainly wasn’t afraid to shake her groove thang, shake her groove thang (yeah, yeah). By the time she finished Act 1, she had proven to everyone in the club that she was, indeed, wearing underwear, but from what I (and everyone else) saw, I’m not sure what purpose said “underwear” could potentially serve.

Act 2 provided an interesting twist: a dance partner. Although calling what they were doing “dancing” is certainly a disservice to just about anyone who’s moved their feet with any semblance of rhythm while listening to music. No, their “dancing” was comprised of movements we humans associate exclusively with the act of having sex.

WARNING: The following paragraph is rated NC-17. Continue only if you can certify that you were born before 1989 or, alternatively, are simply interested in what transpired.

Back to our story, the, um, gentleman involved in the spectacle practically removed the girl’s skirt, exposing her bare behind (due, of course, to the lack of underwear) and proceeded to spank it in time to the music. Gasps, guffaws, and more emanated from the crowd, and Heather and I were left wondering just what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into. Apparently not satisfied with their first round, our infamous couple went on to try a number of different positions (Acts 3 and 4, respectively) before mercifully going their separate ways.

For some reason, I felt the need to have a beer (or three) after witnessing such a display, which I did before returning to the edge of the dance floor. Perhaps the rest of the crowd should have followed my lead (though from all appearances, they did), because nearly two hours after our entrance, no one had really ventured out onto the dance floor. My hesitance centered around two issues:

1. I cannot dance.
2. The music was terrible.

Admittedly, I have overcome affliction number one in the past, and I probably would have done so again on this night, had anyone else been brave enough to break the ice first. But even as the crowd surged closer and closer to the floor, no one would get down in the middle. And it’s not like they weren’t enjoying themselves. I mean, as each new song came on, the club would erupt in hoots and hollers, lyrics and gyrations. But not a one of them on the dance floor.

Just why everybody got so excited is beyond me. Now, this may be my age (or ignorance) showing, but each song sounded exactly like the next to me, until the DJ put on some Kanye. Finally ready to shake my moneymaker, I quickly realized why all the other songs sounded the same: every freaking song was played at double or triple time, including Kanye, which made all the vocalists sound like they’d come from a Chipmunks reunion or had just inhaled their fill of helium.

Needless to say, Heather and I skedaddled at around 1:30 (early by Tico standards), escaping the smoke and clatter just in time to be ripped off by a taxi driver before calling it a night.

But since that was the worst form of robbery we experienced all night, I guess we should consider ourselves lucky. After all, many others, according to our family, have met a fate much worse than semi-nude pseudo-sex and Chipmunk rap played at foundation-shaking levels for three hours.

Like death. I think.

Beer with breakfast and anachronistic regression

It’s been 10 days since we moved into our new house, with our new family, and I’ve got to say that I’m still adjusting. Before, for everything that we lacked, we at least had an abundance of privacy. In the old place, if I wanted to go to the bathroom with the door open, I could. If I wanted to walk around the house naked (not that I ever did), no one would complain (except for Heather), and if I wanted to make a turkey sandwich, I didn’t have to waltz my way past three people in the kitchen. Conclusion: privacy cannot be overrated.

In our new place, for example, the only place I ever get any privacy is during my eight-minute shower (before the hot water runs out). Every other room in the house is a bustle of comings and goings, Spanish and Italian, food and dishes. The mom of the house, Doña Nora, always seems to be doing something around the house; the dad, Don Marcelo, usually splits his time between his seat at the kitchen table reading obscure books and sitting on the couch watching the Discovery or History Channel; and their two daughters, Anita and Natalia, are in and out, hiding out upstairs, or hang out with us in the living room. All that, plus a family friend, Don Maximo (in the running for coolest name ever), is currently visiting from his home in Venice, Italy. He’s usually drinking a beer by the time I get up, and his strange mix of Spanish and Italian leaves me baffled most of the time, but I’m sure I’ll be a little disappointed to see him go.

Apart from my lack of privacy, just about everything else in my life has changed as well. Now, no matter when I wake up, I have breakfast and coffee waiting for me on the kitchen table. Now, instead of taking my laundry to the local lavandería, Doña Nora collects and cleans it every day. And now, for dinner, there’s no more worrying about what to make or how long it will take to do the dishes: Doña Nora takes care of that too. Basically, it’s like I’m 16 all over again and all I have to worry about is going to school and getting good grades, or, in my case, dealing with my ever-expanding work schedule and making sure that the magazine meets the expectations of the people at Sotheby’s.

Speaking of work (that’s what we in the biz call a segue), I’ve been getting freaking slammed lately. The notion of this being a 20-hour-a-week gig has long since left the building. It’s much closer to full time, which puts my hourly earnings somewhere around half of the current federal minimum wage. To say I’m not exactly raking in the bucks would be putting it kindly. (Thankfully, we get our room and board, plus high-speed internet and cable TV for $250 a month, per person. Third World living baby!!!!)

But, as with my living situation, the perks and experiences of my job still outweigh my pittance of a salary. Last week, for example, I arranged for a photo shoot at a home in Playa Bejuco, a beautiful stretch of coastland about three hours from San José. To get there early enough, in order to catch the best light, I had to drag my sorry behind out of bed at 4:30 in the freaking morning to meet my photographers on the other side of the city to begin our journey. I was tired as hell all day long, despite numerous cups of coffee, but the payoff was worth it. I spent all day in a multi-million dollar home with stunning views of the forest and ocean, making phone calls, editing articles, and helping out the photogs when they needed it.

I even served as the model in a few of the shots. Not that it went to my head or anything, but if those turn out well, I’m thinking about leaving the world of journalism behind and joining my fellow beautiful people in the fashion industry.

Next stop: Paris!

A land of colors and Córdobas

A word to the wise: if you’re traveling to Nicaragua (and I know that this takes a lot of you out of the running right off the bat, but nevertheless), if you’re traveling to Nicaragua, take a $5 bill with you.

I understand that for those of you coming from United States, that probably won’t be a problem. But let’s say that someone’s entering Nicaragua from, say, Costa Rica, and that this person has brought only Costa Rican currency with the idea of exchanging it in the Nicaraguan airport in Managua. What do you think would happen to that person?

Well, funny you should ask! It just so happens that that exact same scenario happened to me (and Heather) on our trip to Nicaragua two weeks ago. Even with all our research and all the advice of our friends here, we somehow didn’t know that everyone needs to pay $5 American to pass through customs. If you don’t have it, customs confiscates your passport and tells you to come back when you’ve got your five.

As you can imagine, walking into the Nicaraguan airport without your passport quite disconcerting. (Nothing like entering a Third World country illegally, you know?) Still, we figured we’d just find a currency exchange window, get our money and be on our way. Great idea, in theory. Yeah, and so is communism.

Turns out that the Nicaraguan airport doesn’t have a currency exchange (or bank for that matter) in the baggage claim area. Instead, the security guard there told me to leave our bags with Heather, go through customs, and change my money at the bank in the main lobby of the airport. Now, the last time Heather and I separated in a foreign country we vowed we would never do it again, but because this was really our only choice, I made my way past customs, without my passport or luggage, and into the lobby.

I quickly made my way over to the bank and asked them to change my colones into dollars. Can’t do it, they told me. We only change Córdobas into dollars and vice versa. Incredulous, I asked them if there was an ATM near by. Sure, they said. But it’s broken.

Shit.

Now I’m really starting to freak out. I’m in the second poorest country in the hemisphere, I don’t have my passport, I don’t have my luggage, I don’t have my girlfriend, and I don’t have any freaking way to get 5 freaking American dollars. At this point, I’m thinking, I’m gonna have to leave the airport, find a cab, have him take me to the nearest bank with an ATM, have him wait for me while I withdraw some cash and then come back to the airport. All the while Heather will be waiting in baggage claim wondering what the hell is going on. Not good.

Instead, I went back to the security guard, explained my situation the best I could, and he told me that there was another ATM at the other end of the airport. Woulda been nice for the suckers at the bank to tell me that, but oh well. Eventually, I found the other ATM, took out some cash and headed back to immigration, where Heather and I were finally granted legal passage into Nicaragua.

So began our 72-hour jaunt to the north. Thankfully, that was the most anxious (if not the most interesting) experience of our trip. After that, we were on our way, via taxi and bus, to Granada, a colonial city along the banks of Lake Nicaragua, about 45 minutes outside of Managua. Other than getting accosted and literally pushed and pulled in different directions by employees (and I use that word loosely) working for different bus (again, loosely) companies, our ride to Granada was uneventful.

About an hour later we were checking into our hostel, which just so happened to be without electricity and water at the time. Not to worry, we were told. It should come back sometime tonight. Reassuring it wasn’t. Nonetheless, we hit the town for a few hours in the afternoon, marveling at the amazing pastel colors that cover the cities homes, offices, and churches, and taking in the sunset next to Lake Nicaragua.

A quick history of Granada seems to be in order here, if for no other reason than its history is really effing crazy. It seems that at the same time that our Civil War was going on, Nicaragua was also engaged in a civil war of its own. One of the factions involved, the city of Leon, turned to an American named William Walker to help them in their struggles.

Walker was so successful and won the war so easily that he decided to name himself president of Nicaragua with the intention of turning it into another slave state for the US. For some reason, this didn’t sit too well with a few neighboring countries (including Costa Rica), which decided to declare war on Walker’s “government.” Walker was easily defeated, but not before he burned Granada to the ground in 1858 (I think). Since then, Granada has been rebuilding itself with those bright pastels and beautiful colonial buildings that I mentioned before. Anyway, Walker later tried to retake Nicaragua but was defeated again and executed in Honduras in 1860.

What followed in Nicaragua was a litany of dictatorships, incompetence, and poverty, most of it under the Somoza family (with the support, of course, of the United States). They held power for roughly 50 years, until the Sandanista revolution in 1979, headed by Daniel Ortega, overthrew the Somoza family and began its Communist rule. The Sandanistas were quickly challenged by another group, the Contras (funded by the Iran-Contra scandal, thank you Mr. Reagan), which left the country with yet another civil war until the Sandanistas were finally defeated in elections held in 1990 and Nicaragua returned to democracy. Nicaragua actually just held their most recent presidential elections in November, and guess who’s now the president-elect: Daniel Ortega.

Back to the present (or, rather, two weeks ago). Heather and I survived the night in the hostel and checked in the next day to a very fancy hotel on the other side of town. We spent our first full day on a walking tour of the city, taking pictures and speaking Spanish with our Nicaraguan guide, Julio. In the afternoon, we went on a boat tour of the hundreds of islands in Lake Nicaragua, including one inhabited by monkeys thanks to an evicted owner of one of the islands who could think of nothing better to do than leave his monkeys behind.

On Saturday, we took a truck up to the top of Volcán Mombacho with the hopes of getting a birds’ eye view of Lake Nicaragua and the islands, but it was so cloudy that we could hardly see 10 feet in front of us. On the other hand, I did enjoy a fine pack of Oreo cookies at the biology station at the top of the volcano. On our way back down, we somehow managed to bump into two other Californians, a couple that actually lives about 20 minutes away from Heather’s old place. The guy was a Nica who was making his first trip back to Nicaragua in 30 years and the girl a realtor with four laptop computers in addition to her Treo. Weird.

Anyway, Sunday morning we went for a Gringo breakfast and walked around a Nicaraguan “feria”: an outdoor market where literally anything and everything was for sale. You want a watch? Someone’s got it. A bootlegged movie? You bet. Clothes, purses, silverware? Check, check, and check. The icing on the cake: in this street that smelled strongly of horse crap and sewage, sitting outside in the blazingly hot sun was a booth selling a mountain of thinly sliced beef. Can you say disease? I know I can.

Our appetites conveniently whetted, we headed back to the airport only to encounter huge, LAX-like lines. Apparently the computer system for our airline was down, which almost led to our missing our flight back. Luckily, we got to the airport about two hours before departure (my grandma would be so proud) and made it onto the plane with about 20 minutes to spare, a little more grateful for what we have in Costa Rica.

So that was our Nicaraguan adventure. Next up: we move in with a Tico family and I wake up at 4:30 a.m. to spend the day in a $5 million dollar home.