Fasturdays

I went to Costa Rica because there was a beach town called Santa Teressa I was told was far enough away to be perfect.

It was new year’s holiday. At night, I danced on the sand with hundreds of strangers. I rode a motorcycle along an unnamed ocean road to find bar than never existed. There were waterfalls. I surfed then drank fresh coconut. I did moonlight yoga. I heard the jungle. I sat at a roadside shack with coffee and papaya and watched the mopeds and rickety trucks and bikinis and bustle flow by. I lifted weights at “Life Guard” (never sweated so much in my LIFE) which tapped me into a fraternity of bar bell connoisseurs that still surprises me. I left videos for friends. I ran over bridges in a rain forest to the sound of storms and howler moneys. We were chased by authorities.

I was not alone. At night, the windows kept open and we stayed up late with the sheets off. In the morning was a tiny rental car, there were open windows and long roads with stomach-clutching drop offs in to volcanic ravines filled with clouds. Everywhere, the coffee was good, sometimes great. I think I left a shirt on beach somewhere by accident. Across the country, everyone smiled. I laughed quite a bit.

On the plane home I reached into stuffed backpack and took out some cocoa beans and decided I wouldn’t save them until I got home.