There is a giant blackberry bramble by the sidewalk near our apartment, and the harvest has just gone beyond its peak. (It has a rather long incline and a considerable decline, so that doesn't mean the time of blackberries is anywhere near over.) The other day, I saw three people gathering there, which was cute. I harvested enough for an enormous rustic pie last week. I think it's great to have this one communistic thing out there, and it makes me wish there were more fruit trees laden for public consumption. The city probably doesn't create urban orchards because of the fleshy/pitty/birdy mess that they would create, which would at least be a more beautiful mess than the generalized litter and grime of humanity.

In Heaven, There Is No Beer

Back in Seattle, in the rain that is not heavy and warm, but steady, light and cold. The last, stumpy leg of our strange journey was spent in a hotel in Heredia that was designed to look like a Swiss village. It was cozy once we got a fire going- I managed to fill the room with smoke a few times, which ladled on some rustic flavor. On our last night, the staff fled at 5:30, leaving us foodless in the middle of nowhere, so there was kind of a fun jaunt in a taxi down to some BLT sandwiches and one last glob of delicious flavored mayonnaise.

So now I am treating myself to some artistic refreshment via a baroque opera workshop. It's great; a kind of summer camp for nerdy grown-ups.

Pura Vida / Aqua Vita

Not much to report about Costa Rica, I'm very sorry to say. New sensations have included entry into the Italian restaurant and discovery of the junk food smorgasbord by the pool. I got some swim goggles, for to plunder the depths of the pool, but alas. I found nary a hairpin. I did find a band-aid and a piece of seaweed with a hair in it. Still, goggles are a good time. Mine got all weird and plastic-wrinkly when I got them wet, so I could only really see out of the sides. So everything- ocean floor, pool and band-aid- looked kind of like one of those old Man Ray experimental films.

So now I'd like to address the fascinating array of whiskey names that are meant to evoke the past. I give you: Early Times, Ancient Age, Old Grand-Dad, Old Potrero, Old Overholt, Old Oak, Old Rip Van Winkle, Old Pogue, Old Kentucky, Old Crow, and Very Old Barton, for a modest start. Whiskey is OLD! So old.

Fantasy is in the Minds of Those who are not Afraid to Dream

There is a wonderful floor show at this resort. Night before last, we saw the "Boogie Woogie Show," which consisted of five men and two women in afro wigs, dancing not to The Andrews Sisters, but disco. They all had great bodies and a bit of training, I think, but the choreography was charmingly high schooly, for lack of a better word. One of the girls was pregnant- still smokin hot, mind you- and the guys were flaming. My favorite parts were At the Carwash and The Village People montage, which tickled me to the center of my soul. I could not resist a peek at the Fantasy (Fantasy is in the Minds of Those who are not Afraid to Dream) Show, hoping that it would be the same choreography in angel wings. Not too far off! It was a fantasy under the sea, complete with a Little Mermaid reenactment and the coolest jellyfish costumes ever. They had these umbrella-looking things on their heads and curlity chiffon hanging all over- really neat. Then there was an awesome lobster woman. I was reminded of the costumes that my mom came up with for the old Grayland dance revues. Marvelous. Sadly, I will have to miss the White Party Show, because members of my own white party finally scored some restaurant reservations. That's nice, because the novelty of the buffet is finally starting to wear off.

In other news, I think that "(Don't Wanna Be) All By Myself" is the song I've heard more than any other since arriving here.

A few little details I wanted to mention: This place is exactly like a posh retirement community. Golf carts and trucks constantly pass, toting people who don't want to walk the winding walkway to the pool or whatever, or maybe they are just tired of going in circles because every building is identical. The pool is absolutely colossal; boasted to be "easily the largest swiming pool in Central America." You can walk straight out to the beach from there, and find a crowd of tents with wares and pedicures for sale. The actual beach is wonderful, because it is made of shells. Tiny pieces of worn shells, beautiful to see and soft to walk on. Finally, the continuous and necessary presence of this yellow wristband really makes me feel as if I'm being lulled into complacency with all this food and blandness because someone is going to harvest my organs or something. Sure hope not.

Here I am at Reserva Conchal, Tamarindo- a big ol´ all inclusive resort. Yesterday, they slapped these wrist bands on us, which means we can have everything- except internet cafe, dammit- for free. Last night at the lush buffet, I felt exactly like a twelve year old, confronted for the first time with an endless supply of rich foods and freezy treats. There was a marimba trio in the background at dinner, and I felt like Donald Duck in a bee costume, flitting from spread to elaborate spread, tasting of as many delights as possible. I don´t know how else to describe it. There is also a swim-up bar in the sprawling pool. I ordered a virgin piña colada and floated around like Baloo. Hey, it´s a cartoony kind of place. Not the kind of vacation I would ever plan for myself, but here we are.

Right now, it´s raining and I´m listening to American power ballads.

Tamarindo is a great big freeway, put 55211.87 down and buy a car...

Back in the enormous Heredia resort. The lobby of this place is ornate, but in the rest, there is a lot of empty space. There have been a couple of weddings in as many days, which is kind of a relief; it makes it a bit less like the resort in The Shining...unless of course I am hallucinating. It's possible. I'm pretty sure the bonny wee bairn is teething; in any case, I am spent from all her incurable angst. If we get snowed in, please say you knew me when.

Speaking of baby Hannah, we took a walk in downtown San Jose while the others practiced in El Teatro Nacional. It reminded me of the ramblas in Barcelona, only without the money. It was a shortish walk, but enough to get a charge of teeming energy. There were people trying to foist pigeon food into my hand (no, Betsy, I did not expose the baby to avian flu for the sake of my own coarse enjoyment!), open-front shops and, so tragically, young women in beautiful traditional rural dresses, begging with coffee cups. It was nice for me to be able to walk through this city with a baby, because the people were kinder in general and the many gaggles of loafing men were respectful. Plus, Hannah never, ever cries when she's out on a stimulating walk- valuable lesson there.

Dramamine Queens at the Hostile Hostel

This morning, we departed Tamarindo at the crack of dawn with one very sick soprano (not me) and a queasy lutenist. We spent most of yesterday on a catamaran, which was fun and taxing. There were a number of crooners, honeymooners and intoxicated baby boomers on board. We were treated to a lot of reggae and either John Mayer or Jack Johnson (I can´t tell the difference. Bead/leather choker music.) We all got out and snorkelled, looking dead in the water but with attentive minds. It was murky, but we could see some pretty striped fish and some bright, darting blues. My favorite part was floating in the shallow water near the beach. The ocean swell would fuzz the sand pattern out of focus, then pull it back in again. On the way back, Nell and I feasted on dramamine, which was so soporific that I dozed off in the punishing afternoon sun.

Anyway, it´s good that we are out of Tamarindo. It seems that our hoteliere grew more and more exasperated with out presence as time wore on, as it required her to put the leftover food inside of tortillas for our consumption, and to place the same pieces of chocolate cake on the table for us day after day. (Aside: when we arrived, she explained that a B&B is ¨more casual,¨ which turned out to mean more casual for the owners and more difficult for us.)

Last night, Hannah was all weepy and the concert was here in the tile-covered hotel, so I spirited her into the entertaining tardes. We strolled past groups of construction workers getting off work, waiting for the bus. Ticos are so friendly. They always smile and say hello. Then you walk by some American expats/tourists, who look right through you with tense, striving faces. I guess colonialism has always been economically derived, but I think there's also an element of purchased authenticity at work. We all want to have something real happen to us, but even more than that, we want other people to know how well we are fitting in, how the sunset effects us more profoundly than most, and that we are the only ones who understand the lives of the locals. I can identify, I guess, because I've spent a lot of my travel times feeling melancholy and alien, wishing that I had some grasp on a place behind the doors of the regular houses. But that's tourism. When you live in a place, you earn it. You know which plants would be considered weeds, for example. It's better to smile like a dummy and accept your role of interloper.

Back at the casa, listening to the owner and staff prepare for the concert/cocktail party over the strains of "Every Time You Go Away (You Take a Piece of Me with You)." There is a crashity exciting ocean out there, but I just don't think I should subject my dainty hide to any more exposure for now. Well maybe, if the tide is high. This morning I managed to get myself raked over some jagged rocks, but it was just a matter of time.

Tamarindo. A spent town. A wreck of human outpost that is the logical end result. I mean yikes. There is one restaurant in town that serves somewhat local cuisine. The main drag has a sort of haze over it, like a sea anemone in a hands-on aquarium, touched so many times that it never reacts to anything.

There are schedules to be maintained...even in Costa Rica.

Banished from paradise and plunged into the heart of jaded tourism, lizardy expats and surf lessons. EVERYTHING IS IN ENGLISH. Creepy. So now we're staying at a bed and breakfast, which means that our schedule is dependant on the schedule of our eerie hosts (eleven years in Tamarindo and she doesn't speak Spanish?). I have been spoiled by Villa Caletas. But I must confess that it is most refreshing to be galloping over the uneven streets of clay on a trashed fixed-gear bicycle. This feels like the kind of used up town that could easily be the setting of a terrible tourist knifing... in fact, there was some kid on the balcony of this very internet cafe, showing off the machete he just bought to some sun damaged girls. His eyes danced with violent glee.

The water of the warm Pacific washes over tortuously pocked lava rock, leaving little pools in the hot sun when the tide goes out. These pockets are coated with nerite snail eggs, which look and feel exactly like sesame seeds glued to the inside of a bowl. The nerites, when they hatch, fill each rocky crevass. The surfaces of dry rock are encrusted with the miniscule bodies of dead(?) nerites, which didn´t make it to the dank cracks in time, and they make a sickening crunch underfoot once you notice what they are. Nerites live up to a year. When they die, hermit crabs of all ages (up to a certain point, of course) occupy their abandoned shells.

I have discovered that Hannah, the baby whom I occassionally tend in exchange for all this undeserved luxury, is not only a sweet-natured child, but is also my ticket to popularity among the Costa Ricans. They just LOVE babies! So I´ve been able to practice my Spanish with more frequency when I have one strapped to me.

Costa Rica 3

I have some bad news. Bahoo has passed away. All the cute animals still look like her, though, and she remains a prototype for the small, the sweet, the button-eyed creatures. She had really soft, floopity paws and an intense little green gaze. She was silver and gold, and she will be missed from this world.

In other news, we went to the beach today. There were so many little hermit crabs that it looked like an exodus of pebbles in some places. There were lots of regular type, sideways-walking crabs too, and many big pelicans fishing in the surf. I swam as much as I could without getting a sunburn. It rains every afternoon, so the surgeon general recommended window of time is not a possibility; it´s high noon or nothing. The ocean felt like a bath...with rocks at the bottom. I could only imagine how many tiny beings had to flee in the wake of my big mammal body. The animals here have to be so on top of things. The flies hover with alarming precision. The birds and insects all seem so fleet and accurate. They are well evolved, I guess, because the living (heat, water) is so easy here that competition must be brutal.

The rain is a wonderful thing. The basin of jungle fills up with mist as the storm advances. Sometimes it´s like a solid wall of fog, and then the outlines of trees will appear far away like tracings against the white, and then the haze will shift and swallow it up again.

Hola Costa Rica, Part 2

Here I sit, high on a hill overlooking lush jungle as it tumbles down to the Pacific. Actually, we´re by the big inlet on the west coast, and the horizon shockingly resembles the Seattle harbor. But no, I´m in the most ritzy resort hotel I could have imagined. A place I could not afford if I saved money for years. It is beautiful and soft, but affords me no access whatever to a Costa Rican not wearing a uniform. I hope that tomorrow I can climb down the hill somehow and feast in a roadside shack.

As for tonight, I feasted most notably on passionfruit sorbet with seeds in it. A flavor explosion! Most of the food on offer is either American or French. (Get this- in both hotels so far, there is a French expatriate named Vincent: one the head waiter and one the lead chef. The first Vincent reported that he was on a surfing trip two years ago, fell in love with a Costa Rican and now is married with two hijos.)

So...not exactly Night of the Iguana, as I had hoped, but this is just the start.