01/01/1012 New Year New Notebook

8:30PM. Just came in from the porch. Bob N dropped by, ostensibly to inquire about my health. In reality, he is lonely and likes to talk. I'm a pretty good listener when the topic doesn't interest me. The topic tonight, as always, is Bob, his successes in the old days and his various international travels, including, but not limited to, gourmet meals he has eaten in fine international restaurants. In great detail. “Want the recipe?”

Gypsy is hiding in her room, pretending not to be home. Barb is doing the same, I think.

Earlier, before Bob showed up, I was slightly sunburned and mightily bored so I went walking into Quepos. I saw Jim M. and we talked for a while. I continued toward the Malecon. Only the young guys are out now, sitting on curbs drinking and smoking weed. It doesn't feel as safe as during the day. The kids out at night are a rougher bunch and they don't know me. I buy deodorant at the Farmacia and a pack of cigarettes at the bus station and head home.

I never got as far as the Malecon. They, both gringos and ticos, say stay away from the Malecon at night, that drug deals go down there and a bystander can get robbed, or beaten up, or worse. Some night I want to go there though, see for myself.

Twelve hours ago I was drifting, trying to wake up, when Gypsy called softly through the window. “Alice Lee, are you awake? Do you want to go on a mission today?”

The new rule—my rule—is Quit saying no. Do it. Whatever. “the mission, should you chose to accept it” is not a concept in my current life.

So here's how the day went.

There is an old man, a tico, homeless, who lives on the street and sleeps in a bundle outside the grocery across from the bus station in Quepos. He is called Papi. His sleeping area is protected by two concrete blocks, three blue plastic milk cartons holders and an old tire on its side. A rolled army blanket holds his possessions. A two liter water bottle is balanced on top, as if to alert him if his space has been invaded.

Papi spends his waking hours and, for all I know, his sleeping hours too, wearing a bright orange school-crossing-guard belt. The kind that has a diagonal strap across the chest. This symbol of his authority is dirty and frayed, but serviceable.

My mission is to find Papi, give him a bus ticket to San Jose and see that he gets on the bus. The odds are pretty good that if I don't actually see him leave on the bus, he will sell the ticket and head for the Malecon to shop. I also have money for him to buy a ticket to Golfito when he gets to San Jose.

According to Gypsy, Papi had voiced a desire to visit his family in Golfito As usual, Gypsy had somewhere else to go, so I am assigned this opportunity to (it's an AA thing) serve, ie: make sure Papi actually leaves with the bus.

It is New Years' Day morning. There is no one in Quepos but the street people, the leftover drunks, people waiting to catch a bus to somewhere else, and me. Papi, who is ubiquitous in Quepos most days, is nowhere to be seen.

All the normal people are inside with their families or nursing hangovers today. Soft music plays out open front doors all along the streets.

I start asking the people who live on the streets in el centro if they have seen him. A taxi driver who sits in front of the station waiting for clients tells me he saw Papi early this morning.

The man who sells feathered earrings of his own design from a portable cardboard display (the earrings are stuck through the cut off side of a big cardboard box from Palí) said he had seen Papi at 6AM. Papi was talking about his trip to Golfito and admitted being nervous. If he went to visit his family, he couldn't smoke there—pot, you know.

I circle the pueblo, coming back to the earring man eventually. He beckons me and says, in a confidential voice, “Did you look on the Malecon? Maybe he went for some drugs. I don't say nothing bad about Papi, but you know , maybe he needs a smoke or something.”

I go to the Malecon, the seawall that leads to the marina and the docks. No Papi. Same story from the sleeping guys on the Malecon, same from the still groggy lingerers. Everyone knows Papi and hadn't seen him since six this morning.

I go back to his sleeping area, check to make sure he isn't hidden in the bed roll, dead or drunk, but no Papi. I left everything as I had found it. I cross the street to the station and hang out until Papi's bus for San Jose has left.

The people waiting for buses on the rows of seats in the station have all been watching this curiously, me talking to all these scraggly guys, walking all over town. “What is the gringa up to now?” I imagine.

After the bus goes, I get a taxi to Mono Azule for the 10AM meeting. As luck would have it Franklin, the taxista, who the day before had told me, with fulsome gesture, how strong he is and asked me to go dance with him (You know the Italian gesture with the forearm in the air struck with the fist on the other arm?) that apparently means a strong wink wink in Quepos. I declined. Anyway, Franklin kindly took me to the Mono, overcharging me only 500 colones, about a dollar, to show his affection for me.

Later, after two meetings, I take a two hour walk back To Quepos and along the Malecon.

Back in town, I see Papi working the street in front of the bus station. Did I mention he has a whistle? A piercing, ear splitting, call a cop whistle.

Up in his face, I go “Where were you this morning? You were supposed to go to SJ and I was looking all over for you. I had your ticket all ready.”

The dance begins. Seems he had been attacked by five ladrones last night and been beaten severely. Papi demonstrates, arms swinging and legs stomping. He hits himself in the face. I was unimpressed. Not a mark on him and no one else had told me of this horrible attack. I say. “I think you didn't want to go to Golfito.”

I strongly suspect that Gypsy pushed him into agreeing yesterday and he couldn't say no to her face.

Papi gets irate. Starts out “I am a man” and after that he lost me.

Observation: All the men here who hang out, live off someone else and don't work have the same song and it always begins, “I am a man.” Makes me think of the white men in the US who seemed to have nothing to brag about but their whiteness. “I got no job, no respect, no ambition and I live in my mama's trailer, but I'm white.” Well, yeah, the Dancin' Outlaw had his tapping, but I'm just saying.

Aside: I do not believe this. Papi just showed up at the front gate yelling, Mami (that's what he calls Gypsy). “Gypsy's not here,” I shout. “Where does she live?” “I don't know,” I lie. “I gotta go.” I go in and shut my door. Papi stands there muttering for a while and eventually wanders away.

Did psychic energy call him. It is mind boggling and a little creepy, but doesn't surprise me. I'm used to the psychic energy in Costa Rica.

All this makes me appreciate my, umm, irregular childhood. I'm more at home with the odd people than with the 'normal' ones and these little adventures are fun.

Last night, New Year's Eve, there was the gringa, Kelly, who was drunk or high and possibly not in touch with reality. She wanted to move into one of the vacant apartments here with us.

She said she was the wife of a Boston cop. She said he beat her. She said that after she finally filed an order of protection against the husband/cop her lawyer advised her to leave town for her own safety. She remembered an old high school friend who had moved here, so she came to Costa Rica. But she said she had no place to live.

Franklin showed up with her in his taxi. The back of the taxi was crammed with her stuff, topped off by a molded plastic lawn chair. Franklin wanted desperately to unload her stuff and leave it here, but Gypsy, who has some boundaries, said no. “You need to see Ramon first, sign a contract, get the keys.” We wouldn't open the gate, so off they went. She hasn't been seen since. Not by us anyway.

I had just started to write this when Bob came to the front gate calling Upe! I have no idea what “Upe!” means but it is the standard way to notify someone you are outside the gate or door and want someome to come out. After Bob left I made notes so I could finish this later and went to bed.

More rockets and fireworks tonight, leftovers from last night I guess. No use letting dynamite go to waste. People are still walking and talking on the streets, enjoying the last night of the holiday weekend. I listen to the murmur of voices, the dogs barking in the distance, the music from the bars. I see Gypsy's light come on, hear Barbara talking on Skype to her husband in the US. Somebody rattles the gate in passing.

I lie awake a long time, thinking about life here.

I wonder if that girl, Kelly, will ever show up. I wonder how long I will stay in this apartment. For now it is grand central station and I love it, but...

I simply cannot do any more edits. Hope this is okay.

the office