A Day in the Life

I always sit down with a head full of things to post here and am immediately faced with the "Title" line, which, of course, brings me to a screeching halt. Titles are portentous and creating one is a daunting prospect. So, first the head full of stuff.

Today, on the bus on the way home from the beach I had a political discussion in Spanish with a woman from France who had lived in Venezuela for years until Chavez was elected. Shortly after that she left Venezuela because it was so bad there for ex-pats under Chavez. I think she was a pensionada. Maybe an ex teacher. She spoke French and Spanish so we spoke in Spanish.

We discussed the Nicaragua invasion of Costa Rica and our suspicions that Chavez was behind that. She spoke Spanish with a French accent and the combination made a rich and musical sound.

We discussed the history of Central and South America and a little of Mexico, including, of course, French and US involvement. It never ceases to impress me how much people from countries other than the US know about the world, about history, about current events and even about literature and science. Are we uneducated, uninterested, ignorant or just too busy making money to be concerned. I don't speak about all US citizens, but comparing people of equal education and social status and income level, we, most of the time, fare badly, knowledge wise.

I, of course, was absolutely thrilled and wanted to call immediately and tell someone, preferably Wil, my old Spanish professor, but I resisted. So, I am telling it here.

Some days I feel inarticulate and stupid and unable to learn anything and other days I feel competent and linguistically sophisticated, neither of which are true, ever. I'm just a stumbling, bumbling, Spanish speaking wanabe tica. But I love it, mostly.

I worked all morning and the apartment is finally almost as orderly as I can make it. Order here is limited because I have enough junk to fill two apartments this size.

So, at 11:30AM I headed down in the sunshine to get me some brown on my skin. (See the wanabe tica part) Just as I sat down in the chair the rain began, but I sat under my umbrella and visited with friends who passed by. There were many, some from AA, some from civilian life and some I met in my walks when I lived down here and was here every day. This may be my favorite part of my life now, all the people.

I hear from the vendors and parking guys that the police are being really hard on them now. It is obvious. No vendors on the beach. No guys out parking cars, No towel guy, no drinks guys, no guys to bring meals to your chair. And there are police everywhere, Three were stationed in the road in front of Anita's (coco beach hotel) stopping tourists. I asked them why they were there and they said to assist tourists and give them information. No doubt true, but it is really hurting the local small people, who are struggling desperately now anyway. There are more tourists here than last week, but most of them are backpackers and don't buy much.

I visited with Anita and the girls. Anita had almost a full house. She had the brilliant idea of printing flyers and had them dispersed at the San Jose bus station, the Punteranes station and various other places. And they are bringing in business. She is charging ten dollars per person, but air conditioning and refrigerators, which they all want, of course, are extra. We agreed, less is better than nothing. Algo es mejor que nada.

I rode the bus into Quepos all the way to the station because I wanted to walk through Quepos to see if I ran into anyone I knew. I did, but not what I was looking for. I was trolling for a dinner partner, but in front of the Farmacia Economica I met Clay who told me that Van had dropped dead an hour ago. He, Van, was riding a bicycle on a gravel road south of San Jose with another man and just dropped. In Costa Rica, a body must be buried within 24 hours or sent to San Jose for autopsy. Van was in his 50s, but I think a heart attack is the likely cause. As I write this, the police, Van's apartment mate, Atillio, and Bob N. are at the scene. At least two of them are trying to figure out what to do next. Bob has called everyone on the AA list to issue the "Van has died" bulletin and to solicit suggestions that he has no intention of following. ( Bob likes to be thought important) He has called me three times and I don't know anything about anything.

Bob and Atillio want him cremated, but unless he has given someone power to order cremation, that will not be permitted. He has grown kids in the states, a divorced wife somewhere, and someone has to notify those people.

This gives me pause. It is all very well to say I don't care what happens because I will be dead, which is what Wen said. But what about the kids who have to deal with all this. I will ask mine what they prefer, and if they want, I will give a local doctor permission to have me cremated. I'm hoping no one wants a body or ashes sent to the US. Seems kind of silly and my kids are practical, but I am their mother, so they get a say in it. I'll ask.

At home, my landlady affirmed the fact that the police are being heavy handed with the ticos right now. She has some sort of deal with the parking person in the lot next to Joseth on the beach. He gets the money for one car and she gets the money for the next, and so on. She goes down there every day to get her money. If not, she says, it will disappear. I have seen several of the men who work the beach visit her and sit and talk and seen her feed them. I guess it is possible that she is a local mother Theresa, but I rather think she runs a small time crime syndicate locally. She is obviously respected and treated with deference and everyone knows her.

Shortly after I moved in here, and since I have been seen with her, at the beach, here, and in town, I get special treatment and reduced taxi fares. My beach chairs are cheaper too. Very interesting.

A year ago I used to sit at Marlin and watch the movers and shakers do their deals and consult each other. I tried to figure out who was in charge and thought I had him pegged. The guy in the shirt with a collar who carried a clipboard and a whistle.

After all those mental games, I have moved into what is apparently the mafia compound, sent by Anita.

Anita, it turns out, is my landlady's longtime good and great friend and I was practically ordered by her to move here. I think, to Anita, and, I assume, to Blanca, my landlady, it was foregone conclusion that I would follow Anita's "advice".

So here I sit, sponsored by Anita, sheltered in the arms of the local mafiosa, awaiting developments.

How much better can it get?