The bar at the Gran De Oro hotel in San Jose, Costa rica, is curved slightly so that it is easier, without craning, to ask where one's neighbor is going to or coming from. The bar was two-toned with a darker Mahogany wrapping an in-lay of Pochote that had several eyes and figuring and looked like a long surf board. The actual work space for the bar keep was lower in a pit so that he was eye to eye with a seated drinker and the angle made him look always exasperated and tired.
The Gran De oro is one of two or maybe three hotels a traveler would want to stop in before getting out of San Jose. San Jose sprawls in a bowl of avocado green mountains. It is not a malevolent city, like say, Dhaka or Caracas. It is, in my estimation, worse. Like so many touchdown airport cities, it is sullen, dull and uninspired.
"Puedo Tener uno caipirinha, y por my esposa, uno mojito." I ordered for both. "CAIPARINNNNNNNNIA," the bartender trilled back at me twice as i mimicked back an exagerated tilde to him and he back to me for an uncomfortably long cycle.
Michael, a dot commer, married to an Infectious Disease Physician, sat to our left. She had hair parted in the middle and lip gloss that was reminscant of early 80s models. I wondered if the look was a conceit or if she had become stuck in time like an insect in amber. A tall, Brahmin gentleman who looked like Gore Vidal mixed with V.S. Naipal, sat between us. "I have land by the airport for sale. If you wanted to divide it and you knew what you were doing and had the energy, you could make a killing," he said to no one in particular. "Luckily, I don't have the energy and I don't know what I am doing," I replied.
He had been in Medellin visiting his girlfriend and had stopped in to visit his investment, which seemed more like an albatross than anything. The fan whirred above him, casting shadows on his white hair and eye bags and the black and white photos on the walls of banana plantations and train depots filled with Coffee bags ready for transfer. I was reminded of the quote, "The bars were temples of expatriate dreams and regret, where stories were currency and the best tales got you another round." Yes, we should get out into the country.
Michael wore a fedora without pomposity or irony. It worked and made me feel like, between his fedora and the Doctor's lip gloss, they were the typ of personas by design that one sees in expat bars. Michael had taught English as a second language in the mountains years ago and in the time between then and now had done well in Palo Alto. They were on their way back from their home in Manzanillo. Several servers, in their startched waist coats, stopped to greet him with hugs. "Hola Senor Michael, Que Tal?"
The last time I had been in Costa Rica was 5 years ago. I had entered into a deep mid-life crisis after a life failure and was not in a good place. I sat on a beach on the Nicoya peninsula looking out at boats bobbing on the horizon. The top of the water shined metalic which matched the taste in my mouth. I was hungover and the weight of the middle part of my life felt heavy on me like chainmail. I looked at the water and wondered for a brief moment how to do it. I stood up and walked to my car to call my wife on the way back to my hotel. I ordered an Imperial and a steak. That was the first day of my second chance at life. Costa Rica was, and is, a birthplace for me and I will always return to her with gratitude and thanks.
5 years is an eternity and a blink of an eye. We were in country touring hotels and meeting with vendors to see who I wanted to do business with. We started at Hacienda Alta Gracia in the mountains inland from Dominical then moved to Kura hotel in the hills high above Uvita and on to a treehouse in Santa Teresa that was fantasy and perfection. One morning we walked smack into Gisele Buncheon on the jungle path to the beach. "Hola," She said. "Hola," we replied like it was par usual.
The sous chef at El Cultivo garden restaurant at Hacienda Alta Gracia, served our second course of Burrata with smoked tomato skin and basil from the garden. He explained that his grandmother had taught him the technique of smoking over coffee wood to impart different flavors and to layer the acid of the tomato with smoke to let it seep into the fat of the cheese. He took us on a virtual tour of his stops at local vendors. The mushroom farmer. the lobster fisherman. The beef producer.
Another server, Gilbert, poured more wine and added that he loves landscaping. "I love the art of the textures and shapes I can produce." A guitarist played a Martin plugged into a Marshall 15 watt. The timber of every cord mixed with the smoke from the coffee wood and the frogs and the candles lighting up my wife's smile made for a feeling that was the exact opposite of the last time I was in Costa Rica, and made me feel vibrantly alive and happy.
In Uvita we visited Playa Pinuelas. We were the only humans on the beach. I swam out into the green water, sipping the salt water then diving under opening my eyes. Stacy swam out and wrapped her legs around me. I kissed her and thanked her. Later in the day we walked the trails at Hacienda Baru, searching for Sloths in the trees and scarlet mcCaws flying overhead. The trail exited onto a long tan beach. Above the sand the air was heavy, layered with moisture so that the air hung with the wight of each molecule. There were no other humans for miles. There were no horns or phones chiming. There were no people face-timing or playing their thumping music. There was noone I wanted to tell to shut the fuck up for one brief moment. It was just space, quiet, calm. Peace.
We had been searching for a sloth for days. We even went to Alturas Animal Sanctuary to visit Mocha, the 2 toed sloth who was parylyzed. I was happy to see that she was still alive since my last visit. We had seen toucans and parrots, giant blue butterflies and many agoutis, but no sloths. We drove straight up the hill to our hotel. As we rounded the corner into the parking lot we noticed 3 people looking up to the trees. Sloth! We got out and cooly walked over. It was a mother sloth and her tiny baby held tightly to her chest. She moved like a slow motion animitronic. Everything subtle. No wasted movements. It was a life highlight to show Stacy a sloth in the wild.
We drove north to Puntarenas to catch the ferry to Paquera on the Nicoya Peninsula. At the ferry station a lady tended to a charcoal fire, placing skewers of marinated chicken on the grate. She waved a fan as smoke surrounded her face. She had been in that spot 15 years ago doing the exact same thing in the exact same spot.
Though, the road from Paquera to Cobano and most all of the way down into Santa Teresa has been paved, the Nicoya still has the worst roads in Costa Rica. After weeks of rain, the potholes seemed to jump out like muddy sirens. After a jostling drive through the hills of Delicias, past white Brahmin cows and cranes perched on fences, the green hills gave way to jungle that slid down to the gold sand beaches of Santa Teresa.
I had rented a treehouse for my cousin and he was nice to invite us for Thanksgiving. We sat by the pool watching capuchin monkeys gliding through the trees. I rose to walk through the house. The light from the setting sun penetrated the wood slats hitting the walls behind me and focused attention on one structure or another so that ones eye was always engaged. Hermosa Treehouse. Wow.
We had Imperial Beers and Texas Ranchwater. Grettyl, the cook, barbecued lobster tails, made ahi tataki and sashimi with my cousin's catch and set the table for Thanksgiving. We said grace around a long teak table as howler monkies howled and toucans sang. I laughed at something my cousin said. I looked around the table sitting with my family and was glad that I was back in Costa Rica, able to share it with people I love.
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