Sámara, May 3

Something I really like about Costa Rica: agua dulce. It’s water that has been boiled for 15 minutes or so with a chunk of raw sugarcane. !Que rico! It’s right up there with the oatmeal drink.

Something I don’t like about Costa Rica: fire ants. Holy $#@&*!! Incredible that a creature that small can cause so much pain—and I only stepped on three of them. I will never again go outside without shoes. !Uy caramba!

I saw The Tourist yesterday on the main drag. (“Main drag”=the street that is marginally less dusty than most, although curiously even more rutted.) The Tourist was utilizing the ubiquitious and crippling double-backpack system (wearing one on the front and one on the back), and he was carrying his trusty copy of “Lonely Planet: Costa Rica” with the cover facing out as though it was his personal shield. The only thing that was missing was the “Burgle Me!” sign. His expression was a cross between confusion and fear—i.e., the cosmic counterpart to the saavy and tenacious gringo I met in Mal País. “Oh, dear,” I said to my friend Corine. “Exactly what I was thinking,” she said.

There was another soccer game on Wednesday, but owing to the fact that we no longer have any Europeans on our team, it was a slaughter, and we were on the block. It was still fun, though, and I enjoyed sitting in the professors’ section. (At this point, I know them better than most of the students—I’m a veteran now. Most students come for two weeks, not two months…)

Thursday night is the big night around here, so of course I headed to Las Olas, my favorite beachside bar and the home of the sacred pineapple daiquiris. It didn’t take me very long to sidle on back to the large, relatively flat concrete floor that constitutes the discotheque part of the bar. Although I’d given up on finding anyone who could really dance as a partner, if there is Latin music, I’m happy. And regaeton makes for an excellent opportunity to practice footwork. At least I can practice that, I thought. If nothing else. [insert sigh here] Imagine my transcendent delight when I FINALLY found a salsero!! The Vince-Vaughn-esque soccer player is also the salsa instructor at the school, and he finally showed his true colors that night. We absolutely tore up the floor for an entire set of ultra-fast, pull-out-all-the-stops, flashy salsa. (Well, considering the pebbly concrete floor, we probably tore up our shoes more than anything else…) I am truly addicted to dancing salsa, I think, because I was on a high for two days after having gotten my fix. It was the first time I’d really danced here. I think Vince and all the Tico onlookers were stunned that I’m not a latina. My gay Guatemalan buddy was shocked when I’d taught him some basic salsa steps earlier that day. “I can’t believe a gringa is showing me this!” he exclaimed. I was just glad he wanted to dance—after all, he’s Latin and gay. Goes without saying that he has a natural talent for it.

Last night I got shanghaied into another dancing scenario—random contest at a bar I went to. It included cumbia and rhumba, neither of which I know. I think they are next on my list, because I really enjoyed giving them a try. The night ended with a bottle of Costa Rican rum, a large chunk of driftwood, a sky full of stars, and a great conversation with a guy from Texas who originally hailed from Korea and who spoke Korean and Japanese. (I’m such a sucker for languages…) Plus, since he’s a military pilot, he’s been everywhere in the world and had some really interesting stories to tell. (For him, Costa Rica isn’t so hot—apparently, in Iraq at midday, it’s 130 degrees in the shade. There is a really good Spanish word for that: insuportable. I’ll take Costa Rica at high noon any day…) We sat on that log at the beach for hours and watched the tide creep up higher and higher and the occasional cow wander by. At least, I think they were cows—kind of hard to see on a beach only lit by starlight. I will really miss nights like that. You can see the Milky Way here. Gorgeous…

I was up at six-thirty yesterday morning despite having gotten home at five. (Got home at three-thirty the previous night… Sleep? What’s that?) Don’t want to miss any of the pura vida while I’m still in it. Spent the morning helping my mama and my hermanas (sisters) spiff up the house, then spent the afternoon alternating between napping and chatting with the locals at the beach. I’m happy to report that no squirrels peed on me this time.

As much as I enjoy living alone in the States, I have to say that it’s also nice to live with a family for a while, especially one as nice as this one. Somehow, having six people in a small house works out. I will really miss them. In fact, since they are so awesome, I decided to participate in an activity that I would normally never, ever, ever do, but I wanted to respect their culture and their way of living, so I did it. Yes, my friends, this morning found me standing in a church pew and trying to sing rock hymns in Spanish. It was quite an interesting experience to be the only American (and the only atheist) in a church full of clapping Ticos. Talk about the proverbial fish out of water… But everyone was super-nice and I got enough of the gist of what was being stand to stand up and sit at the appropriate times. It was interesting anthropogical experience, plus I got to hear my hermanas sing and Eric (boyfriend of the younger hermana) play guitar, piano, and drums. Churches here are quite lively and generally have an entire band on the stage. Also gigantic speakers, which I think is weird since the churches are tiny—they only seat about 50. But there seems to be a phenomenon in Latin countries that people like to have their music loud and their speakers turned up to the crackling point. There are even guys who are paid to drive around on the streets with a massive speaker tied to the truckbed that spews insanely annoying advertisements. That is even worse than the crowing roosters.

Time to go hit the beach, I think. Don’t want to take its presence for granted now that I only have a week or so left to enjoy it. It’s best at night, when you’re tramping through the sand in almost total darkness and you don’t know if you’re about to step onto coconut husks, fallen fronds, or scuttling crabs. Makes for a bit of a slip-sliding walk, especially when you’ve just finished a drink at one bar and are going off in search of another. Some serious legwork is required: John (the hilarious Texan) refers to this activity as “storming the beaches of Sámara.” John is an eloquent man.

May you all be enjoying fresh daiquiris and glorious sunsets—

!Pura vida!