The First Application

One down...  After an absurdly stressful week (in typical finals-week style panic) I submitted my first graduate school application!  I can't count how many times I decided that I didn't actually want to go to graduate school because it would be much simpler to stop where I was than figure how to sidestep the obstacle.  It will be much easier from here, I hope.  I've learned so much, and this momentum should sustain itself.

Interesting lessons revealed thus far:

1. Simply because someone agrees to write a letter of recommendation--with very advanced notice--does not mean that said person will write said letter.

2. I should have at least one extra person who is willing to write a letter of recommendation.  Just in case.  Two or more is better.

3. The people at the admissions office DO NOT CARE that the person writing the letter of recommendation might not follow through.

4. The people at the admissions office DO NOT CARE about you or me or your application or mine.

5. Although the due date may be stated as December 15th (implying that the applicant has until midnight), the due date is actually 4:30 pm central time on the 15th, or 2:30 my time (it may also be necessary to look up time zones).

6. Writing a personal statement is difficult, and people who say they whipped it up and sent it out are lying or wrote terrible papers.

7. This process is expensive: between $50 and $100 per application with transcripts and GRE scores. Robbery.

8.  Do I really want to go to graduate school?  Sure, why not.

9.  Each application is different, especially regarding the scholarship instructions, so it is necessary to strenuously wade through each.

It's just another set of hoops through which I must hop, skip, and jump.  I'm getting better at it.

Anywhere But Here

As is to be expected, I am working on my personal statement for the umpteenth time, now distracted while writing about travels in Europe.  Let me out!  I want to get away from Seattle and the monotony that is my life.  I have visions of myself in Budapest, on Castle Hill overlooking the Danube, dripping sweat in the morning and dodging hailstones in the afternoon.  I see myself in Tarifa as I shield my eyes from the sun, looking across the strait of Gibraltar to hazy Morocco, where the Mediterranean and the Atlantic meet, the wind whipping the sand against my skin with a gentle violence found only in nature.  It's Christmas Eve and I'm in Lisbon, cobbled streets lit with thousands of tiny lights as multitudes of people laugh and talk, bustling past, small puffs of breath slowly dissipating in the clean, icy air; I stand transfixed, smelling, feeling, hearing the spirit of the city.

I want to be there now.  Anywhere but here.  More and more frequently, I find myself daydreaming about traveling.  Partially, it's an escape from the many things I dislike about my life right now.  This will be my first Northwest winter in two years, and it's going to be a hard one.  Mostly, traveling is the one thing that I can think of that would make me happy right now, that I would want to be doing.  I suppose I'll need to be a bit more creative.

Quarter Century

My birthday is tomorrow.  I'm not sure that I had some life goal or plan before twenty-five but if I did, I'm sure I've not achieved it.  Life check.  This year, it will not be the past-year examination but rather a life check about how far I've come and where I'm going.  Where I'll be at twenty-six.

I still work a job where I am micromanaged in nearly every aspect.  I still have a job where I serve people, defer to them, wash their dishes and clean the bathroom.  I earn slightly more than minimum wage.  I spend forty hours each week in customer service.  For those who have done this, you know.  For those who haven't, please be extremely nice to the person behind the counter and as helpful as possible.  Tip well.

I digress.  This can't continue.  I'm beginning to apply to graduate school--a huge step.  It's difficult, the most challenging task I've undertaken recently.  Still working on that personal statement, but it's hard to muster the motivation after an early shift on my feet, having played barista and smiled for eight hours.  I'll get there, I'm getting there.  In a year, I hope to be attending an LIS program.  Certainly, I know I'll get there.  And if I don't, there is absolutely no way I can continue the way I am now.

Twenty-five seems like a good age.  I hope it is.

The Wide World Calls, Faintly

Working on my personal statement for the University of Wisconsin.  I've been writing it for about two weeks now, alternately hammering and sewing it together to create some positive picture of myself for a panel of people I've never met.  First, I don't want to.  Second, if this is hard, what about graduate school?  I've become lazy!  Whenever I hear people talking about schoolwork, I think, Fuck, I don't want to do that again.  Third, (I'm not sure where this list is heading) I want to adventure.  As I struggle to incorporate my incredible travel experiences into the essay, my mind wanders to Tanger, Tarifa, Brussels, Barcelona, Budapest, Montezuma, Mostar, Monteverde, Leon, Lisbon, London, Liberia--spanning continents, time, life.  Then, the daydream turns to places not yet explored.  St. Petersburg, Santiago, Sapporo, Brisbane, Bogota, Montreal, Mexico City.  Can't lie: I hate this weather.  But more than that, I want to travel!  I feel the world calling me again.  Last year at this time, I was preparing for the trip to Costa Rica (which turned into the trip to Central America).  This money I'm saving...  Does it have to be for graduate school?

I'm feeling it again.  As the winter chill sets in, so does the need to experience, explore, see, learn and do.  Not write about why I should be accepted into some advanced-degree program.  Take me away!

Alcoholics Anonymous

Last week I went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with one of my most favorite people in the world. It was partially out of support, partly out of curiosity. The only experience I have with AA is through literature and cinema. And life is never quite like in the movies (or is it the other way around?). Lo and behold: exactly like a scene from any number of films. The atmosphere is so strange that there is no need to exaggerate it for the big screen. I felt like Marla Singer--a voyeur--until tears formed behind my eyes during the story from a man who wanted to feel normal. His brother, his friends, his colleagues; they were all living life and he didn't know how. Another man spoke about self-possession, that for the first time ever he was discovering himself and controlling his life. Another, about sanity: each day that he stayed sober was less insane. A woman, unemployed for two years, spoke about squatting in her own home with her daughter.

Although I have not experienced addiction, and am thus unable to relate on that level, each story affected me on a personal level. Empathy, that of a human listening to another human describing deep and lasting pain, fear, anger, resignation, hope. I can't imagine the daily struggle that each individual at the meeting must face. The overwhelming urge to use whatever drug of choice, the self-loathing. Each person mentioned living each day at a time, not thinking about tomorrow. I try to live by this but for very different reasons.

The experience was emotionally draining. My companion said that after a few meetings, you stop listening to everything, that it has less impact. I was relieved.

A Tall and Unstable Stack of Emotions

Today is weird. Yesterday was weird. Maybe tomorrow, too, will be weird. I'm trying so desperately to get a grasp on my life (a very firm hold, preferably around the throat); each time, nearly tangible, then gone.

So, at work today: I spent the better part of an afternoon (of a very, very long day) listening to Elliott Smith and feeling sentimental. Perhaps the maudlinness was inspired by the myriad memories associated with the music--intense relationships ending in painful break-ups, confused college years, solitude in Spain--or the realization that this month, this year is quickly coming to a close. It's that birthday time of year again and I will be twenty-five. The number itself doesn't intimidate me so much as the need, or desire, or compulsion, to evaluate the year past. I'm not quite sure of the accomplishments, failures, or lack thereof (evidence of stagnation). I'm also not quite sure if I'm ready to delve into this quite yet.

Which leads me to... the next emotion: anxiety regarding the graduate school thing. Enumerating each stress-inducing part is unnecessary. Suffice it to say that I'm afraid of not being accepted at any school and (either independently or as a result of) going about the process incorrectly. Unfounded stupidity that won't leave my brain.

I finally left work and was biking home through the neighborhoods--cautiously--when a woman came relatively close to possibly hitting me as she left her parking garage and waited to turn left. She probably would not have hit me but I could see it happening in detail. She saw the car in front of me pass, checked the other direction and was about to pull out. She saw and stopped but if she hadn't looked again, she probably would have hit me. So many drivers, myself included, would not have checked again upon occasion. I don't know how to make myself more visible and I hate being on my guard, constantly, for reckless and inattentive drivers. I hate envisioning multiple and varied collisions between surrounding motor vehicles and myself. This incident (non-incident) brought everything back: the accident, the frustration with the insurance company, the near-constant feeling of being ill-at-ease and tense while biking. So, I started crying. While biking the short distance home. I had to stop once to wipe my face and compose myself. The emotions could have been sadness, anger, frustration, despondency, I'm not sure.

I reached home, unscathed, cried a little more. Felt better, chatted with the roommate, looked at the mail. Opened a letter from the City of Seattle to find a subpoena to act as a witness for the case brought by the city against the stupid woman who hit me with her car. Disbelief, irritation, and resentment. Why can't this conclude itself ever? A touch of perplexity. Why is the insurance company only willing to accept 75% liability if there is a case brought against her by the city?! For the love of everything! Exasperation.

Not sure what I'm feeling now--better. Thanks for listening, all.

The Aftermath

I'm sitting here, it's Tuesday night, I'm eating an apple. I've designated the next few hours to researching graduate schools, so of course I blog instead (another thing I've put off for a week). I don't understand how I've been back in Seattle for nearly a week; time is rapidly escaping me in an utterly incomprehensible way that leaves me feeling panicked and far from being in control.

I made some decisions during the trip to Utah and now I feel the necessity to move in the direction of their implementation. Yet, there is the stumbling block of HOW. And I do feel as though I am stumbling along the path of Life at the present, bumbling along, semi-conscious of what I need to be doing to get where I want to be. That's a difference, though: I know where I want to be (more or less, work with me, please). Because the half-formed ideas that have been rattling around in my head are coming together into something coherent. And now I just have to get there.

I wish I could say that this trip was what I needed, but I'm not quite sure. It exposed the restlessness, the discontent, these issues that have been plaguing me under the guise of a meaningless, stifling job--which is only part of a much larger situation. I realized and finally admitted to myself that I wasn't happy with most aspects of my life. One possible solution is to shake it up completely, toss it in the air, and quickly reassemble the pieces as they fall before they re-solidify into more of the same.

I want to leave Seattle. I want to leave Washington. I've lived in Spain, I've traveled extensively in Central America and Europe, yet I have few tangible experiences from within my own country. I've only lived along the I-5 corridor in Washington, and it's time to leave. Graduate school is the prime opportunity.

Now, how to get there.

Upon Arrival in Salt Lake City

I have just arrived in Salt Lake City. Rather, Em, the Subaru (newly christened Rex), and myself have arrived in Salt Lake City. We drove from the California side of Tahoe, through Nevada (passing a whole five towns, probably), and into Utah. It's strange to be here. We arrived after dark, after discovering that this area is in a different time zone than the west coast, scanning the city for the Mormon temple (no such luck, must find it later).

We stopped in Wendover, Nevada--partially because it was the first town we came to after several hours of NOTHING in Nevada, partially because we couldn't stand being in the car any longer, and partially because we figured it was probably the last place we could gamble and drink before we hit Utah (based loosely on rough calculations and guessing as the pixelated map from Google maps showed nothing between Elko and Salt Lake City). We had a Budweiser ($1 schooner), collectively lost $4 on penny and nickel slots, and continued into Utah. Maybe it was the slight buzz or the hours of driving, but the earth became immediately unrecognizable. I don't know what Em was thinking but I felt as if the world had morphed into something complete alienupon entering the great state of Utah. It was a flat, white valley, with nearly nothing for as far as I could see. Disconcerting, to someone raised in the lush and mountainous Northwest. We had entered the salt flats, but it took a little reasoning to figure that out.

I have two days to spend here, and it most certainly will not be enough. This trip has revived my wanderlust--more specifically, to see more of this country. We drove through so many different landscapes, each stunning in its own right. I can't wait to see the island in the Great Salt Lake with the bison and the bighorn sheep (in the middle of a salt lake!? what kind of place is this?).

SLC- a voyage to the land of the Mormons and my birthplace

Instead of last minute packing and preparation and running around frantically, I sit down to write this. I'm leaving for Salt Lake City whenever Em arrives at my house, decrepit Subaru sagging under the weight of all her earthly possessions. I sit here, sleepy and sleep-deprived, surrounded by abundant food for several on-the-road meals.

We have hours of road-trip-to-Salt-Lake-City playlists (mine are titled "SLC Punk" and "SLC Punkier"--neither of which contain any punk), hours of books on tape (one about learning to meditate), hours of driving snacks, hours to hash over the future. I'm so excited for her: this new experience, in a new land. A true American adventure--and I'm along for the ride!

We will be stopping in Eugene to see Em's sister, then on to the Sierra Nevadas to rough it in the rustic cabin of a friend where we may or may not be attacked by bears, then to Tahoe to visit another friend, then on to Salt Lake City! I haven't been there in years. It is my birthplace and holds great significance for my parents. I can't wait to see it now, at this age, with this perspective. I wonder how I will feel--am I romanticizing it? This mysterious land, where my parents met, married, started a family and a life together. During my childhood, it was the stuff of myths, a fabled land of desert and adventure, a time before children. Also an oppressive land, perhaps, where my parents did not want to raise a daughter. I wonder: what would my life be like had we never left? Where would I be now? The question is too daunting. (And the answer obvious: I would have married a jack-mormon as Em will undoubtedly do!)

I'm certain she will arrive any moment now and not be pleased to see me blogging, ruminating on the topic of our impending trip and its implications with my bags half packed downstairs and my teeth half brushed.

I'm so excited. Giddy (lack of sleep?) to be on the road. I don't think I've ever been to Eugene, I've never been to a cabin in the Sierra Nevadas, never been to Tahoe. I wonder what I will find in Salt Lake City--but more importantly, what Em will find. Will it be a starting point for an entirely new life like it was for my parents? Just a blip on her journey elsewhere? I can't wait to see that Great Salt Lake!

Riding Upright

I feel as if my life has been tossed into the air by some unknown force and, as it comes floating back around me, it resembles what it was but not entirely. I guess what I mean is that I don't have a firm grasp of anything that's happening right now. I just got back from a three night camping/biking trip with Em and it is such a rude awakening to be back here in Seattle, working a new job, dealing with insurance companies, passively looking for a place to live, actively worrying about my graduate school plans.

I spent three nights on Lopez Island in the San Juan Islands. The trip was amazing. As with any adventure with Em, I was wholly unprepared in the traditional sense but ready for everything. I just got my bike fixed and hadn't spent much time on it since the accident, so I was a wee bit apprehensive. We parked in Anacortes (up and down a huge hill from the ferry), strapped everything to our bikes with the ten-plus bungee cords I brought, and biked, wove, and wobbled to the ferry. I had a large hangover from a small binge in Bellingham the night before, and barely made it up the hill from the ferry on Lopez.

The first day we biked around Lopez, with a short stop-over in Lopez Village to avoid the short rain shower. The island is wonderful for cycling: the roads are nicely paved and maintained, there aren't many cars, and drivers are careful and cautious around bikers. We did a 30+ mile loop, stopping at several parks. Nothing was hectic, everything was serene and beautiful. It was so relaxing to be in the woods with almost no one around.

The next day, Em and I took the ferry to San Juan Island and biked to the American Camp park. As it was a hot, late summer day, the logical decision was to go skinny dipping. Ideally, it would have been a quick dip in and out but the water was absolutely frigid so we had to slowly inch our way to an acceptable depth. When the water was just covering our knees, Em looked behind us to see if anyone was nearby. A middle-aged man with a ponytail was standing on the bluff taking our picture. Now, we both came to the conclusion that he was just some aging hippie trying to capture a picturesque moment with two attractive women skinny dipping against a breathtaking scene. However, the next time I turned around (maybe waist-deep in the water), he was directly behind us on the shore telling us to turn around so he could take a picture. Em firmly told him to leave; when he continued and threatened to take our clothes, she yelled at him. It was great--even greater, he listened. Creep. That annoyance aside, we submerged and quickly slogged back to the beach.

The next day was, unfortunately, the last day of the trip. We took a scenic ride around Lopez to a different park, Spencer Spit State Park, dawdled, then realized we would barely make it in time to catch the ferry. After an epic race back, we barely caught the ferry (per usual), found Em's car unticketed in Anacortes, drove back to Bellingham. Em is leaving Bellingham forever; with her, she takes my only reason to visit. I said goodbye to Bellingham for what will be the last time in a long time, I'm sure. It's sad. The end of an era even more than when I left, perhaps.

It was difficult to come back to reality but I'm making it. Things will surely begin to fall into place soon.

The Saga Continues

On Friday, I received the bill for the ambulance ride. In excess of $700. Yikes. Yesterday I received the copy of the police report (I am sexily referred to as "pedalcyclist" and "unit #2"). I also learned that my car insurance would cover this, but hopefully the woman's (unsexily called "driver" and "unit #1") insurance will cover it instead. Regarding my own, I made absolutely sure that Pemco knew that I was riding a bike, not driving any kind of motorized vehicle. Apparently, they cover that too because I was struck by a car (a 1998 Ford Windstar van, gold)? It's not entirely clear. Anyway, the whole process is fascinating--hospital, bills, police, insurance companies. I just want my bike to be tuned up so I can ride again!

My injuries are healing nicely; every day I feel better. There are some wicked scabs forming, which will hopefully form into gnarly scars (increasing street cred, obviously).

Here's a short, written in second person [work in progress?]. Any opinions are greatly appreciated.



The Hospital

You can hear sounds of the hospital all around you; machines beeping, people murmuring, hushed voices. Time passes slowly, or quickly; you can't see the clock. You know you are alive and conscious of what is happening, because you can feel the pain in different, distinct parts of your body. Rhythmic throbbing in your ankle, sharp pain in your elbow, dull ache in your neck.

Time means nothing because you are here and you are now. You don't think about what you will do next week, you don't think about what happened today before the accident, or yesterday. Now is all that exists for you and for everyone else.

You feel the hardness of the board against your body, creating a persistent discomfort where unyielding plastic meets bone: the back of the head, the lower back, the elbow. You try to move your leg--the one that doesn't hurt--to a more comfortable position to ease the pressure on your lower back, but you can't. You can't move. You are powerless to do anything against the straps that bind you at various points along your body: head, chest, hips, legs.

You wait, you endure in silence. The sounds of the hospital continue around you. A young girl asks her father what happened to him, does he hurt? A woman fusses over him, telling him to accept the pain medicine. He moans as a nurse dresses his wounds. Footsteps, coming, going, coming. For a moment, you panic. Has the hospital staff forgotten that you're here? Does anyone know that you're here? Where are you? Does the life that you recall really exist outside? There is nothing to link you to reality. You are alone.

Your brother comes, your friends come. Your life returns: it is as you were remembering.

New Experiences

Yesterday was full of new experiences. One the one hand, that's great. During my trip to Central America, I realized that my life is made better by both actively and passively experiencing new things. What better way to learn, change, grow? My life in Seattle (Part II) has been significantly improved by this ethos. So, with every new experience, I try to accept it and learn from it--or at least find the humor buried inside.

So, what can I gain from being hit by a minivan while biking, riding two blocks in an ambulance, being in the ER, and needing crutches (all of which are new and exciting)? I'm still not entirely sure. It was all very interesting, totally surreal.

So, as I was strapped to a hard, flat thing and immobilized for at least 45 minutes while in the ER, I had a lot of time to listen to the family next to me. The father had had a bike accident too; he had flown over the handlebars and broken his clavicle, with damage to his ribs and some problem with his left lung. The wife was nagging him to take pain medication, telling him not to bike so fast because that was what caused the accident, that he should have called an ambulance instead of a friend to take him to the hospital. The daughter, nine years old, asked questions about what happened, about vocabulary used by the nurse, and (in whispers) about what had happened to the girl next to them.

I was in the ER for a little over 3 hours. In that time, probably ten different people assisted me in different ways, and I was asked about a current tetanus shot and if I was (or could be) pregnant by each of them.

My bike, which I located about 10 feet behind me after I was coherent enough to remember it, seems to be all right. I asked the many kind, helpful people who clustered around the accident if they knew anything about bikes but no one could really tell me if it was severely injured or not. My roommate rode it home that evening, commenting that the alignment was a little off but that was all that she could see.

The woman who hit me was absolutely distraught and functionally worthless when it came to dealing with the situation but there were several people nearby who directed. Normally, I hate being told what to do by anyone but it was very welcome at that moment. The driver jumped out of the minivan, panicked, and darted around, purposeless, in tight jeans and a short blue tank-top. Weird. I'm glad that I didn't have to talk to her. The paramedics arrived, police, firemen, a group of onlookers. Everyone was talking to me and I couldn't even think. Before too long, they hoisted me up and strapped me down and transported me to Swedish Medical Center about two blocks away. Convenient.

In summary, I have a sprained ankle and several wicked abrasions, mostly on the left side of my body. I don't think I'll feel dorky about wearing a helmet in the future because I don't even want to imagine what would have happened if I hadn't been wearing one--my roommate's, in fact. My entire body aches from the impact and it's very difficult to move around. I feel like a cyborg with the walking boot and a gimp when I crutch around. Once again, it could have been far worse.

I am incredibly grateful to the people who helped, the man with the dachshund who called the necessary authorities, the woman who helped me gather my things from around and under the vehicle. My brother tells me that I get street cred, but does that only apply if I had left the hospital bracelet on? And, really, it's funny. The timing of it, the freakish-accident nature, it's all ironic. And who is unlucky enough to get hit by a car while biking? Let's laugh.

The Ginger Pot

Enough about the despicable job. Several intelligent friends have recommended that, because work is inherently work, I should focus on things outside my job that I enjoy. Here's the first assignment from my writing class. Many people have asked me, disdainfully, "Who even reads your blog?" as if it were defined by its audience. That's part of the point, the blog is out there, in cyberspace for anyone who wants to read it without imposing on those who aren't interested. The next question is, "What do you even write about?" Well, if they read it, they wouldn't have to stupidly ask that question. There is no point to this short rant, only that these people have made me think harder about what I want this blog to be. I'm still not sure but I would like any opinions/criticism regarding posts, content, creative writing, etc. Thanks.


The Ginger Pot

He didn’t stop talking and in her mind she rolled her eyes, more out of amused frustration with herself than with him. A common occurrence, the plight of the uninterested who ask questions out of courtesy and the desire to fill a potentially awkward silence. It was also easier than any other conceivable interaction. He turned the piece over in his hand, gazing at it fondly, rolling it from side to side, examining the intricate inlaid pattern, running his hand around it with an almost loving caress.

Her mind wandered. It was only natural, he had a soothing voice and rhythmic manner of speech and was saying little of interest to her. She contemplated his face. That stage in life between middle age and old, she concluded, but was unsure because his face was still very animated in a youngish, almost feminine way. From there, the scrutiny was drawn to his eyes. A clear, deep brown that was punctuated by a few asymmetrical flecks of some hue approximating gold that drew the gaze from one eye to the other and back again. She wondered if in the years to come they would succumb to time in the way that the body as a whole did. It seemed inevitable, that their rich color would slowly be tainted by the watery consistency that would slowly descend upon them. Would he watch them change as the years passed? she mused. Would the weak blue slowly invade from the outside in? Would it be an alarming progression or something that was simply accepted with the process of aging? Is it something that his wife would notice as she looked into his eyes on a bright, overcast day?

She shook her head slightly to return to the present. At least he was the type of explainer who didn’t ask for confirmation or look for listening cues. She just needed to supply a periodic nonverbal sound of assent and look in whatever direction he indicated and she could be left alone with her thoughts.

His hands played over the object, absentmindedly now, tracing the aperture of the pot. What was it again? She hadn’t been listening for a while, perhaps five minutes but she couldn't be sure. Should she just listen and try to piece it together? Or remember? Wait for an unlikely pause and ask questions to get the answer in a way that didn’t expose her inattention or set off another monologue? Think, think, she thought. That was it: a ginger pot, in the style of some kind of metalworking technique--some French word that was heard and quickly forgotten. What exactly was a ginger pot? A pot for holding ginger? She wished now that she had enquired at the appropriate time but it was several minutes too late. She tried to imagine how ginger would be kept in the pot and concluded that it must be powdered ginger to be stored in such a manner.

She tried again to focus on the thing and the accompanying explanation. The detailed pattern of vines and leaves over a brilliant red base with a green plant sprouting from the bottom--approximating a dandelion without the flower (were there dandelions in China?).

“It was our second trip to China. We spent most of our time in Peking but went to Shanghai for a few days. There is this most fantastic open air market in the center of the city that just goes on for blocks and blocks. So many treasures," he said, shaking his head in what she guessed was an intimation of fond memory. "I was so utterly torn between this and an antique vase!” He let out an undulating laugh and continued the oration. "I’m so very glad that Virginia convinced me to buy this gem instead. I try to limit the souvenirs to one per trip or there’d be no room to sit in this house!” He flapped his hand to indicate the cultural artifacts occupying a majority of the flat surface nearby.

He leaned forward and extended the pot to her on his open palm. "Isn't it exquisite? Open it!" he commanded with a conspiratorial wink.

She opened the pot. Inside, a small slip of paper, a fortune. It made a fluttering sound against the metal as she shook it onto her hand. In red ink and surprisingly correct grammar: "Sometimes when the grown-ups get all mixed up, you get mixed up, too." She smiled to herself and turned her attention back to the grown-up.

Thanks for the invitation

I might have the tiny awful habit of complaining to select customers about my job, customers who seem reasonable enough to understand that customer service just sucks. This morning, a customer who used to work at a certain corporate earth-friendly grocery store, came in. He is about my age and we had bonded previously over the connection that he used to work with my roommates at previously mentioned store. He seemed harmless enough, and quite friendly in the beginning, but with each subsequent visit, he seemed more eager to talk to me. I've learned that it is generally a bad idea to become overly familiar with male customers because they don't seem to understand that we baristas are PAID to be nice to them. It's a part of customer service. Friendliness leads to familiarity and the idea that we are friends when, in reality, they are the customers and we are the people who serve them. There is a clear division: the counter. There are rare exceptions when a friendship is actually formed out of common interest and mutual appreciation but the rule is that we are a captive audience and just because we appear interested does not mean that we are.

I had been trying to distance myself from this specific male customer after he asked my name and appeared excited every time I took his order. Today, I cringed when he entered the cafe and attempted to take his order as brusquely as possible. He asked how my day was, I replied with my obsession at the moment--that I might die if I had to work at the cafe any longer. We complained a little about customer service and he headed toward the door. I was by the bar, talking to another barista, when he approached again. I knew exactly what he was about to ask. I hoped that he had some complaint, like all the other customers who awkwardly approach the bar area. Instead, he asked me to lunch some time. My mind raced, I stalled. What to say? The easiest would be to lie, to say that I was dating someone. But I didn't want to lie because I shouldn't have to lie. So I told him that I tried not to date customers. He mumbled that it was fair but that he didn't come in that much, anyway. I thanked him for the invitation and tried not to look at my coworker who was hiding behind the espresso machine, trying not to laugh too loudly.

I don't understand. What would ever make him think that I was interested? Is that socially acceptable? How can I prevent this?

Bottom line: I need a new job, fast. Anything might do at this point but preferably something not in customer service. Anyone?

Hoops and hurdles

I am over, done, finished, through with that test. I did well, and more importantly, well enough to be satisfied with the results and not feel the need to take it again. So, I've successfully squirmed through another hoop. Now what? This was the biggest hurdle for so long that I put almost no thought into what came after. I'm trying to simply bask in the glory of the moment but my mind leaps ahead. [Better indulge it for a moment] Grad school: yes. In what? Library and Information Science: this seems good. But what if I want to do something else? There are so many possibilities and I almost felt as if I could never achieve any of them because I wouldn't pass the GRE. [Asinine] So, here I am. Another crossroads: decisions, decisions! The application process is daunting; the decision-making process, even more so.

I felt calm entering the test. I knew I would do well, I knew it would be relatively easy to achieve what I needed. So then what? Perhaps I harbored the minutest sliver of hope that I wouldn't do well and could use that as an excuse to not. Postpone the choices. But here I am now. Looking forward.

Awesome Summer

Turns out that every time recently that I've tried to sit down and study for the GRE I end up writing instead. It's along the same lines, right? And I enjoy it so much more. So here I am. Blogging instead of studying. The test is tomorrow (tomorrow!) and I don't know what to think. Latent panic, perhaps. I just don't care anymore (lies!) and I can't wait to be totally done with it. Over it. Not to have it hanging over my head, a constant internal battle of: I could study or I could go have fun in the sun. I just want to do well enough that I don't think I should take it again. I've just given up for today--it's too damn hot, I can't think, I want to be near the water or doing something fun or reading or biking or doing anything besides studying for some asinine standardized test that thinks it can rate my intelligence and ability to employ logic and reason. And, yes, I treat the test as a sentient because it claims that it adapts to how well I will answer each question and adjust the following ones accordingly. Bastard.

But whatever. It's all okay because it's turning into Awesome Summer! Awesome Summer is characterized by hot weather, constant activity, good friends, epic adventures, sunglasses, little-to-no responsibility, black berries, mild sunburn, water. I love these sweltering days and sweltering nights where it's light until forever and everyone's outside. Where it's approximating sin to be inside. I love it and I'd forgotten how much I love it.

Fairs, festivals, concerts, joy!

Soon I can enjoy this guilt-free. I will joyfully toss this albatross aside and dive headlong into Awesome Summer.

And/or lack of excitement

I recently had an attack of what I call wanderlust but really may be more symptomatic of a larger, more complex clusterfuck of problems: dissatisfaction with the direction of my life [or lack thereof], fear of the unknown, feelings of stagnation, the intense negative emotions inspired by my current employment situation, general boredom and/or lack of excitement. It's very similar to the set of circumstances that sent me to Central America this past winter. I suppose, second time around, I'm better equipped to deal with this. [Practice makes perfect?] That is to say, I'm not going to rush off on some amazing adventure anywhere in the near future (lack of funds, shall we say), but nor do I necessarily believe that it would be the best course of action. Hmmm.. Running from my situation or working to improve it? (But, traveling is great!) My first inclination was to leave. Quit my job. Move somewhere else. Cut off all ties to my life in Seattle and get the fuckoutofhere. Besides the monetary aspect of the situation, this is not a sustainable way to live my life. The same problems and dissatisfaction will crop up anywhere after a certain point. I can't keep leaving once I hit a certain threshold. As always, a large part is the constant confusion about the future. What do I want to do? What would make me happy? How do I attain that? The fears of a possible discouraging failure in the near future regarding a certain standardized test and the application process.

Rather than booking a one-way ticket to Mexico (Swine Flu!) and scrambling for a travel partner as foolhardy as myself (thanks, Emily), I've been consulting my most trusted personal advisers in an attempt at a working solution. I may be lost but at least I'm not alone. Focus on the things I enjoy and find humor/irony in the things I don't. Thanks to those for their help.

That window is an aberration!

I've had two days of work since my triumphant return from the Swine Flu. Something must have happened. I hate my job (again). It's so boring. It's so pointless, banal. The same stupid shit every day. The same stupid self-entitled, self-important rich snooty Magnolians. Stupid. I've isolated part of the problem: 78% of all the stupid, annoying, awkward interactions happen through the drive-up window. I've also isolated several possible reasons: a) the people who use it are particularly horrible and demanding people by nature; b) the physical aspect (i.e. reaching through two windows, height differences); c) the wind; and d) god never meant for there to be drive-up windows (drive-up window = aberration). There will be an absurdly long line from the window to the street and not a one customer inside the cafe. If these people would simply park, get off their fat asses and walk the 20 feet inside, they would receive their coffee so much quicker. These are the people who are most likely to be on their cell phones as they order (and hold up a hand to say "just a moment" as they pull up). They ask for an entire inventory of pastries (if you wanted to choose between 100 different things, COME IN AND LOOK). They order breakfast sandwiches and pout when they must come in to pick them up. They park 3-4 feet from the window so baristas must fully extend out the window. They mumble into their laps and get angry when they have to repeat something. They order from the passengers side and expect baristas to hear them. They drop their money in the gap. Sometimes they don't even look at the barista.

Good news: the other day I had an epiphany. I won't have to work customer service for the rest of my life. There will be an end. Not soon enough, but it will happen. This thought kept me going, sustained me, overjoyed me, invigorated me, until...
"Hi, good afternoon."
"Vanilla mocha!" (angry, cross-eyed glare)
"Right, ok, it's a grande, right?"
"Vanilla mocha! It's $4.02!" (aggressively waving money from low-sitting car, wayward eye swinging horribly)
"Uhh.."
"Don't you remember me!?" (exasperated wail)
"Yes. I. Remember. You. I. Do. Not. Remember. Your. Drink. Vanilla mocha." (very barely controlled rage; nostrils flaring)
(2 minutes later) With all the will power and self control I possess I handed him his stupid vanilla mocha. He stared at it in disbelief.
"Whip cream?!" (asshole, it's whipped cream)
I very nearly threw the stupid fucking drink at his stupid fucking face.
What is wrong with people? Who even drinks a grande iced vanilla mocha with whipped cream?

So, just a little snippet of why I hate my job and that aberration of a window.

Fever Dreams

I’m running through a field. I look back. The field seems to be the typical green checkerboard pattern of an agricultural valley. Haze. From the direction of the field come several children. I come upon a play ground. They spill into it behind me. Where am I? Shouldn’t matter. They must have seen me run past and followed for the curiosity. It seems like they shouldn’t have followed; almost as if they have sneakily escaped from their kid-enclosure and the close watch of some responsible adult.
I stop short near the overly long metallic slide. There are several pint glasses on the ground. A child picks one up and throws it—awkwardly overhand in an accidental downward motion. It doesn’t travel far and doesn’t shatter as expected, merely splits into several pieces. Someone picks up the largest piece—for what purpose? Is it me, to clean it up before anyone gets cut? Is it her, out of curiosity?
There are several people I recognize from high school. They come closer. Somehow, it seems as if they are responsible for the children. Or should be. I look at the child and say: “This is why no one should have kids until they are at least thirty.” I grin, feeling clever. I look up, look at my audience. Who are these people? Relics from my past, perhaps. I look at the little blond child in front of me. There’s a small trickle of blood on someone’s finger. Is it mine? Is it hers? There’s not so much blood, mustn’t hurt too much. She seems unconcerned. I feel unconcerned. Whose blood? Whose finger? I awake in sweat. There is no blood.

No, it's not Swine Flu.* (But wouldn't that be funny?)

This is the first time I've been vertical for more than an hour in the past three days. Being sick sucks, but it's also SO BORING. And it makes me feel boring. How did I spend my day? Sleeping, writhing with discomfort, coughing, whining, being overly affected by death-due-to-illness in books and movies, angry with the beautiful day outside, too hot too cold too over being infirm. Fever dreams. (Fever dreams are actually pretty neat.) I'm feeling significantly better at the moment so we'll see what tomorrow brings. Plus, I HATE ABHOR DETEST CANNOT ABIDE summer sicknesses! Why!? Can't we all just get over it in the fall/winter/spring and just let summer be summer? And to top it all off: the lurking threat of Swine Flu. The first friendly fatherly check-up:
"High fever?"
"Uhhh.. slight?"
"Cough?"
*cough cough hack* "Yes."
"Chills?"
"Dad, are these symptoms of Swine Flu? I don't have Swine Flu."

So, I don't have Swine Flu. Disappointing, in a way. I mean, I feel this awful, why can't it be something legendary? Truly epic? The kind of story with which you bore your obliging grandkids.

In addition to feeling like shit, being ill puts a damper on my life. I missed the bottling process of the homebrew my roommie started (bottle beer, drink beer, right?). I missed my first creative writing class (been looking forward to for 1+ month). I had to reschedule an interview/orientation for a volunteer position that I have been trying to set up for ages. Missed a dinner with friends. Missed 2 days of work. Damn it! I have no time for this! Not to mention the last week before the GRE: valuable studying time wasted away as I slept fitfully in sweaty sheets. If nothing else, I hope this doesn't adversely affect that. Or whatever. This whole common cold/common flu thing also just tops off a great week of bodily mishaps; the bruises and scrape from a mostly minor bike crash have faded somewhat but are still clearly evidenced on my body. Just get better, really. Already.

And I don't even have Swine Flu!!!


*Swine Flu is a very real and significant threat. Please treat it with the respect and caution exercised by the media. Please capitalize.

Belly dancers in blue and striped men on stilts

I went to the Fremont Street Fair/Solstice Parade/Festival today. I've never been before, as I've never lived here in the spring. I'm beginning to love this city. It seems uptight, a little prudish, for how "liberal" it is. But... It's totally acceptable for people to walk and bike around clothed only in body paint at the Solstice Parade. I had heard tell, I missed naked biker parade at the beginning, but I saw many-a painted penis and breast walking/biking around later. I got to Fremont (25 minute walk from my house) later than desired so I had to push through crowds of people to meet up with friends. Friends who had staked out an amazing spot for the parade! It reminded me a bit of the Procession of the Species in Olympia but this was comprised of groups and more organized. The floats were incredible. The costumes were beautiful, erotic, nightmarish, astoundingly creative. The music, eclectic and generally very good. Everyone around me seemed so happy, enjoying everything. Fair food, mmmmmm. I had a blackened salmon burger and a scone. Mmmmmmmmmm.

Just about everyone I talked to today was there. I haven't seen that many people in Seattle before, more crowded than Bumbershoot or other street fairs. The whole experience was surreal: I'm not sure if it really happened. There's a lot to process. It was great. I'm liking Seattle more and more all the time.

The checkered game of life

Yes, this feels familiar: instead of studying, writing the paper, reading the article, I'm fooling around on the internet. Putting off what I don't want to do while I worry, just a little, about how it will end up. The subject matter is different now (accursed GRE!) but I still feel that tight little knot of anxiety in the bottom of my stomach. I know I can do it, but how? It's always the same. I know I can but I'm not quite sure how I'll pull it off. Two years, and it's still the same. So close, almost, on the verge, of believing in myself absolutely. The other part: I don't want to. I don't want to take this test, I don't want to study. I'd rather read a book, clean the bathroom, be at work even. After two years of not doing anything like this, it's so difficult (hmmm, graduate school?) to make myself study for this. I hate math. Yesterday I went through the verbal and quantitative sections on a practice test (I tried and couldn't make myself do the practice analytical section) and I actually scored lower than I had on the initial "diagnostic" test. Really? Not very encouraging. Slightly more reassuring: that I did fairly well on both, in the scheme of the test, percentile rankings, admissions standards for some MLIS programs. So why am I worrying?

Test day: July 7. Just under three weeks. I can't believe I'm actually doing it. After thinking about it (abstractly) for months in Spain, trying to motivate myself in the fall, thinking about it (more concretely) in Central America, here I am. It's been building up over these months, now in to a looming spectre of possible failure. My brother's roommates--unlikely source of reassurance--put the issue in perspective. It really doesn't matter much at all ("Hell, I plan on taking the LSAT lots of times", "Lie, say you've only taken it once"). If I do poorly, I can retake it. As many times as possible (and lie). A mediocre score will probably be fine for admissions. It just doesn't matter that much in the checkered game of life (which, by the way, has given me and my peers an unrealistic version of how life will play itself out, especially after college--fuck you Milton Bradley).

Standardized testing: what a wonderful way to measure an individual's intelligence, ability, capability, talent, prospect, worth. It's just a test, another hoop through which to jump, another hurdle to pass on this road through life. Rather, on the road that I'm choosing for the current moment. Once I pass this step, I will have to make all sorts of decisions. Where, when, how. If I actually want to commit the time money energy to do this. But these will wait until after July 7.

A Life

And time keeps marching on. It tugs me along with it, whether I like it or not, but toward what I'm not sure. Maybe I'm just not meant to be content with stagnation. Mediocrity. Life will not allow me to sit back and be a barista forever. (Life? What is this life?) For the first time in perhaps ever I feel like I absolutely control my future. It can be what I want it to be because I have the power and the faith to realize it. This is nearly one of the only decisions about the course of my life that I've made on my own. I don't regret the path I've taken here (centering around educational choices which perhaps shape my future more than most anything else) because I've learned from it and gained tools to change for the better. But to think that my future is in my hands (my hands) right now. I look at my two hands. I get to decide. And if I fail it's okay because it happens. I'm not overly preoccupied with "failing" because that's opportunities for knowledge experience learning.

It's absolutely exciting while being occasionally overwhelming. My breath catches as I consider possibilities about the future. Short term. Long term. Ever. I yearn for the happiness I see in my future. (Future, what is this future?) I have time. I believe I could be satisfied, content in the appropriate job and I believe that I can find it.

I've taken significant steps toward taking the GRE. I've taken a practice test to establish my preparatory needs, begun to study a prep book, registered for the test. July 7th. I'm not in a real hurry to begin any more higher education. If I don't do well, I have time. But I think I will do well enough (practice test and “word of the day” examples indicate yes).

I have made moderate progress toward finding a volunteer position as part of a literacy program. I hated teaching (“teaching”) English to indifferent Spanish adolescents. I want to help willing students of any age to understand my language so that they can communicate effectively in the dominant language of this country.

This wanders, wanders. I've been told to stop apologizing so frequently. I'm not sorry that this rambles along in muddled thoughts with barely intelligible transitions. We'll see how I like it tomorrow.



P.S. Nearly all the postcards I sent during my third(ish) week in Costa Rica from San Isidro are finally reaching their destinations. I knew it would happen; incredibly, it took four months and they're arriving about simultaneously. Why?

What would Jerry Pournelle write?

I still lack a clear objective with this blog. Now that my travels have come to a definite pause (as could also be said for the previous Seattle interlude between the two most recent adventures, but this time more deliberately) I want to continue writing but I'm not sure what. How. I need somewhere to direct my excess mental energies. I've kept a constant journal for the past two years but blogging is an entirely separate outlet. Yes, I'm writing about my life but I'm writing for a possible audience (who actually reads this anyway?) so I care to write it well. Perhaps I'm trying to open myself to anyone who cares to listen (read), to express all this confusion about who I am, where I'm going, who I want to be and maybe (just maybe!) arrive at some kind of working conclusion.

Writing is a haven where I can release what I'm thinking feeling wondering, go deep within myself to see what's buried in there at that exact moment. To bring forth these formless things in order to shape them in to something coherent. The blog is much more accessible than the rambling journals. Through this manner of reflection I realize how much I want to know myself, over and over. This immutable motif in my life. In the blog I can type my ideas nearly as fast as I can think them. I review, edit them to create a intelligible story to and about myself. This blog is a public record of my life. I ask: Who even reads it? Then: Who cares? Writing, for myself or for an audience, is the best way I can express my feelings thoughts opinions in any articulate or comprehensible manner.

What do people write about in blogs? I don't know enough to write about music or film or politics (is that selling myself short or being realistic?). That I have traveled extensively must count for something in this life. I sat down to write this post about [delayed] reverse culture shock. To return to the subject which I dealt with on my return from Europe. My brother told me (drunkenly, on the night of his 21st birthday) that each time I go on one of my "excursions" (his word) I come back more calm, more "chill" (again, his), more accepting (mine interpreting his). I asked a close friend if I had changed: a solid No. How is it if two of the people who may know me best can't even agree on this? If we are experiencing constant change, how much change is enough to be more dramatic, more special, notable? I feel different than when I left. Is it some change inside me? Is it a different attitude? A different perspective? My physical environment? The weather? There are so many variables working together on this. I wonder: is my attitude toward my living situation so powerful as to effect this much difference?

I'm so happy. I hate to write it as if to jinx it (superstition is powerful even for those who don't believe it) or is it as if to admit it? As if to reconsider it later and decide I wasn't actually happy? Can't I just accept it for what it is and enjoy everything? This looks like one of my journal entries: more queries than explanations. I dealt with the problem of my future when I came back from Spain. Now I'm dealing with the enigma that is me. Trying to figure out who I've been, who I am, who I will both unconsciously and purposefully become. Trying to figure out why I'm so happy and do everything in my power to remain so. This is all I want out of life. I must find the means to this end.

I'm going to take a creative writing class through North Seattle Community College beginning at the end of June. I'm incredibly eager to do something like this. I've been telling people: in order to maintain motivation and in order to gain support through other people and involve them in my life. I'm not sure why. Mostly positive with one ambivalent response. I would love any and all opinions, suggestions, input about this blog from any and all of you readers out there. Whoever you may be. [Is there anybody out there?]

Seattle! The big city (revisited)

I've been home for over two weeks now. I have my old job again, a place to live, a bed. The foundation for a home. I've been homeless since I left Bellingham, over a year and a half ago. Since then I have had the internal struggle between absolute freedom to do as I please (move, leave) whenever I please and the desire for a home, a place to belong, a life, a routine. This whole situation is what sent me to Central America in the first place. Now, so many people ask me what my next travel plans are. I tell them not to encourage me. It's a plausible life, something that I know: work travel work travel. I graduated nearly two years ago. What do I have to show for it? I'm a barista, like when I graduated. But I've also spent over half of the time in different countries. Learning, living, loving, leaving.

I've been told by a friend that my travel blog posts are good but my "home" blog posts are much better. The original goal of the blog (oh-so-many months ago now) was to let kith and kin know what was happening in my travels in Spain so I wouldn't have to mass e-mail. Maybe make them work a little for an update. When I mention some major instance from my travels and my audience doesn't know to what I am referring, I generally respond, "Didn't you read my blog?!" It's a bad assumption to make, as most don't read the blog and many whom I don't see often do (i.e., friends of the parents). To know that anyone reads it is utterly flattering. I do appreciate any and all comments that come my way.

I know that making Seattle my home will take time. Patience. I felt alienated in Bellingham when I first moved there at the beginning of college but after 4 years I didn't want to leave. I just moved to Ballard, which seems like a city-within-a-city (I'm all about things-within-things that may or may not be microcosms) so I'm hoping I can make it my own Bellingham. I want a home. I think I have satiated that wanderlust for the time being and want to feel comfortable somewhere. I want somewhere to call home. I want a reason to stay.

As usual, this entry is simply a jumble of random thoughts that probably shouldn't be read by anyone. Thanks for reading.

Solo cabras comen la ropa

Here I am, back in San José. I fly out the day after tomorrow, back to home (wherever that may be), back to reality, back to my future. It's all there waiting for me, more or less as I left it. I'm not sure if I'm actually any closer to any conclusions, any plans, but I've had an amazing trip so that must count for something. Although everything is nearly the same as I left it, this return (homecoming?) is entirely different from last time. I feel a sense of... I'm not quite sure. It certainly isn't panic and dread, what I felt about 7 months ago when I returned from Spain. That recently? That long ago? I feel optimistic about my future and the plans I've sewn together while I've been here (near the top of Chirripó, precisely) and I'm excited to continue my life in Seattle. I miss my family and friends and dog a lot. I'm looking forward to sleeping in the same bed for more than 3 nights in a row, having hot water more than once every few weeks, being free of insect bites, having more than 4 shirts, privacy! But I'm going to miss so many things, specific to Central American and more generally about travel. Trying new food (weird meat), seeing amazing new things each day, learning, sharing a common bond with everyone at every hostal, challenging myself, living quite simply, riding chicken buses, having only three valuables (camera, wallet, passport), having all my possessions in a backpack.

Two days ago the inevitable happened. Something that Emily and I have been joking about for the past several weeks. My money and credit card were stolen from my locked bag (Emily's too). We had been saying that if our money/credit cards were stolen at this point it wouldn't be so bad because we had so little time left and getting wired money one time wouldn't be too bad. And it happened. Although the guy--who I even had a conversation with in the hostal room--did see fit to leave my debit card and several smaller colones bills. Nor did he steal the passports in the same pocket of my bag. I can't be sure if he was being somewhat kind in this regard or really had no need for my debit card (although he took Emily's), passport or colones of small denominations. It's also a huge mystery as to how: the bag was locked and everything looked normal. At any rate. I had to the cancel the card in the middle of an internet cafe with a terrible connection and two children running around me, yelling. Afterwards, our friend Chris who we met on Ometepe bought us dinner and all was fine.

Besides the petty theft, I enjoyed San Juan del Sur. In fact, in spite of the theft, and that the water was turned off for the entire city for over 24 hours. No showers, no toilet, nothing. Apparently it's common to lose water for several hours at a time. I spent an amazing day at a beach north of the city, Playa Maderas with Emily and three people we met on Ometepe. It was basically deserted, white sand, blue water, no trash. The best beach day to end a trip filled with awesome beach days. A beautiful sunset, with only the neon pink sun in the sky, slowly descending past the horizon. (No green flash, unfortunately.) It was eerie, the flaming sun alone in the sky; I've never seen a sunset like the ones in San Juan del Sur.

I've already begun planning my next trip: 3 months (or more) in Mexico and Guatemala, with a one-way ticket to Guatemala and then heading north. I'm fairly certain no one reading this is very thrilled to hear this. Clearly, it's just a fantasy. But how incredible would that be? I'm finding that I need to have a future trip in mind (even as I'm not quite finished with my current one). It helps me feel free. It's helping me go home because I know I can do this again in the future. Traveling in Latin America is so cheap and not frightening (as I had previously thought). Everyone I've met here who went to Mexico absolutely loved it. Anyway. This thought, this fantasy, may help me go through with my plans for the immediate future. I will have time for more travel. I will be able to afford it. I will never be trapped in a life that I hate, so trapped that I can't get away and go to Mexico. I am excited to come home and move on in my life knowing that this will not be my last adventure.

Nicaragua (Nic-ar-ag-oo-a)

This country is incredible. I've been here for a week and a half so far and I absolutely love it. It's so different from both Costa Rica and Panama. A bit dirtier, a bit louder, hotter. I love the street food, the chicken buses, the currency. I spent several days in Leon: the most beautiful city I've seen this entire trip. It's not very touristed yet so it was easy to walk through the streets (sticking to the shady side of course) without being hassled or hustled--no more than the locals are hustled by the regular vendors with baskets of various food and drink on their heads. I went to the central market there several times and each time I found something amazing. Refrescos naturales (fresh juices) in all sorts of strange flavors for 10 cordobas (50 cents). Dulce de cacao, a type of sweet with cocoa. The largest papayas I have ever seen in my life. Delicious home baked pastries of all kinds. You're allowed to walk all over the roof of the cathedral (unsupervised) for great views of the city and all the neighboring volcanoes, provided you don't ring the bells or run around on the domes. I would have spent more time there but it was just too hot. And I'm near the end of my trip so each day must be carefully planned (yikes!).

I then spent several days in Granada which is also beautiful but entirely filled with tourists. It became overwhelming with everyone offering taxis, buses, hammocks, vases everywhere, even in restaurants. I was dying slowly from the heat--seriously, I've never been this hot before for an extended amount of time--and suffocating from all the attention so it was a relief to go to Isla de Ometepe. It's a huge island in the middle of the Lago de Nicaragua, a huge lake with sharks. The island is in the shape of a figure eight with a volcano on each side, one larger and one smaller. The natural beauty there is incredible. It is not highly developed or overly touristed yet so my entire stay was very relaxing. I stayed at Finca Magdalena, a coffee farm at the base of the smaller volcano, Maderas. One day Emily and I climbed the volcano with a group from the Finca. The hardest 6 mile hike I've ever done (not to mention the terrible shape in which I find myself cardiovascularly). The trail passes through several kinds of forests with great views of the larger volcano, Concepcion, and there's a muddy lake at the top in a crater. The second day I took a bus to Ojo de Agua, a natural spring that was turned in to a swimming area. I tried to swim in the lake on the way back but it was pretty dirty and too shallow for hundreds of feet from the shore.

I'm now in San Juan del Sur on the southern Pacific coast. I've been hearing opposing opinions about this place for several months now so here I am to judge for myself. The beach looks nice? It's hot.

Al Norte

I'm back in Liberia, as a necessary stop on the way to Nicaragua. I left Jenny in Montezuma, waiting for a shuttle to the airport. It was great to see her--I can't believe it's been almost a year since I said goodbye to her in Coria. We spent a long time reliving our Spanish experiences, talking about some of the intolerable people we knew there, missing the food; we probably bored Emily to with it. The three of us went to Monteverde and Montezuma on the Nicoya Peninsula.

Monteverde was amazing. When I was trying to figure out what to do when Jenny came, she told me the only thing she really wanted to do was go on a zipline. We did a canopy tour which lasted about 3 hours and consisted of 14 ziplines and a Tarzan swing. I was pretty terrified before we began (heights not being a personal strength) because I had no idea what to expect. We had picked the tour at random the night before, bleary-eyed after 5 hours on the bus (as I am at the current moment--what's new?). We got in to these ridiculous harnesses and helmets-- yeah, that's right, safety is ridiculous-- and worked our way up slowly, starting on small lines. The longest one was 750 meters long, spanning an entire valley. The wind is so strong up there and the whole experience is surreal, gliding (swinging, flying?) so high above everything. The scariest thing was the Tarzan swing. I didn't know what it was before we started the tour, and Jenny knew what it was but didn't know it was going to be on the tour, or we may have chosen differently. It's just a huge swing, where you jump (drop, plummet) from a platform and free fall before swinging impossibly far (and, in my case, coming very close to a tree). I'm not quite sure how I managed to step off the platform but the swinging itself was so much fun and I'm certain I had a -eating grin on my face. It sounded painful while others were doing it (screams, not of but of pain) but I think it was just the guys that had problems there (hah!).

That afternoon we went to the Monteverde National Preserve. We did a whirlwind tour of the area and unfortunately didn't see very much wildlife because we didn't go in the morning (no quetzals, alas) but the trees there are incredible. They're so tall and everything is so green. The weather was beautiful--ironic, that I finally have good weather in a cloud forest.

Next day we went to Montezuma on the Nicoya Peninsula, spectacular beach. Best one I've seen yet.

Tomorrow to Nicaragua!

Guanacaste

I am in Liberia, Guanacaste; it is entirely different from any other part of Costa Rica I've seen yet. It's dry, incredibly sunny (as the guy at the hotel said: "por la mañana, hace sol; por la tarde, hace sol; por la noche, hace sol), hot. Not at all jungly or humid like the rest of the places I've been. And there are sabaneros (cowboys) everywhere! Herding horses down the street, riding through town. It's very interesting. I've always had an aversion to cowboys (Marlboro man, anyone?) but I really enjoy seeing these ones around--especially because they're actually doing something and aren't just hicks wearing cowboy hats spitting tobacco.

The landscape is beautiful. It's very stark but so green near the rivers. Today I went to the Parque Nacional Santa Rosa and saw a tropical dry forest with the tree of the region, the Guanacaste. The budding/flowering season is completely different from our own ("spring" doesn't mean flowers or leaves necessarily) as some trees lose their leaves during the summer, the dry season, to conserve water. Thus the budding happens in winter, or the rainy season. It's strange to see leafless trees everywhere while it's so hot and sunny.

Yesterday I went to the Parque Nacional Rincón de la Vieja (Corner of the Old Woman, literally). It was amazing: by far my favorite park in Costa Rica. It has fumaroles, mud pots, steaming, sulfurous pits of boiling water. The landscape is striking, with some of the strangest trees I've ever seen. All against a backdrop of tall ridges and impossibly blue sky. I hiked to the Catarata Escondida (Hidden waterfall) and for most of the hike I believed that it couldn't exist because there was no water anywhere and it seemed simply impossible. But I found it, it was possible, and there was an incredible view into the valley below where the water fell several hundred feet beneath me.

I really like this region but the heat is very intense and there are so many biting bugs so it seems good to leave soon. I'm meeting Jenny at the airport in a few days and I can't wait!

Cascanueces

Back in San José. It's strange to be back here after 2 months. I guess I should count myself lucky for not having to come back here sooner as it's the main transportation hub in the country. A lot has happened in the last week or so. I made it to Punta Mona with little mishap--well, less than would be expected on a hike through the jungle with unmarked trails with our entire packs in ankle- and calf-deep mud with a map drawn by someone who had attempted it, gotten lost, and was later told the way by someone else. After about 2 hours of hiking through muddy, mosquito-infested trails, Emily and I came upon a farm. It didn't really seem like the right place, but I assumed that there weren't very many residences out there. I asked the guy working on a shed, "¿Dónde estamos?" to which he replied "Punta Mona", sealing any doubts I had about the place. He seemed a little agitated by our presence and asked us to wait down on the beach for the dueños to come back in about an hour. So we went down to the beach, skinny dipped for awhile, ate our "lunch" (oreos, crackers, peanut butter) and climbed back up to the farm. The same guy came back and seemed even more agitated. After a long series of awkward questions, we finally determined we were in the wrong place and that the farm we were searching for was farther down the trail. When asked the location of something, who gives the geographical feature? I found it hilarious but the guy didn't even crack a smile. He pointed us down the trail. Another hour of slogging through mud, but even deeper, wetter, stickier. At one point Emily's shoes were sucked into the mud and she had to a) balance rather gracefully to avoid tumbling over with the weight of her bag and b) walk in her socks in the mud to extract her shoes (with several loud sucking sounds). This was also hilarious and I did my best to avoid that area. We finally arrived in Punta Mona (the actual organic farm, not the geographical feature which we had been hiking on already for several hours).

I spent two days at Punta Mona, during which it rained on and off the entiretime. I had a great time, though. It's an organic farm which is sustainable and mostly self-reliant. Basically, a commune of a bunch of hippies from the US and Canada who wanted to escape our sociopoliticaleconomic system. Communal, vegetarian meals (absolutely amazing) with produce from the farm, yoga at 6am on an open wooden platform from which you can hear the jungle, the ocean, the rain, the birds, the howler monkeys. I would have stayed longer but the weather was terrible and I was getting tired of staring out at the beautiful Caribbean through a sheet of rain. The hike out was less eventful, took about half the time because they lent us rubber boots. It would have been impossible otherwise because of the (even) increased mud from several days of constant rain. I saw many red dart frogs on the trail.

I spent two nights in Puerto Viejo, hoping that the weather would clear. One day was mostly sunny with several unannounced downpours. I did manage a bit of beach time. That night, the last night there, I was awoken at 2am to painfully loud reggaeton and lots of shouting. I was a bit disoriented and it took a few minutes to realize that there was a man outside shouting about how he had a right to do what he wanted in his own home, etc. I went out to the balcony to see what the fuss was and everyone from the hostal was out there too. Some guy (stoned? as the Norwegian girls suggested because they had never seen someone high before; drunk, more likely) was outside at the entrance of the hostal yelling and shaking the bars while several of the ticos staying at the hostal were trying to reason with him (I have no idea where the owners were: not where they should have been, caring for their hostal). We were all peering down the stairs when there was a gunshot. Mass exodus of gringos and europeos back to the dorm room. We all got in bed, absolutely shocked and completely unsure of what to do. Not that there was much to do besides stay in the dorm room and listen to his music. A little while later, some dumb American staying in a different room went out to the balcony and threw a bottle at his house, hitting the tin roof and making a really loud noise. The music stopped and we all waited to see what would happen. The guy retaliated by throwing several things (bottles?) at our tin roof. Loud, but not that scary as they were obviously not gun shots. Obvious to me but the two Norwegian girls ran to my side of the room and threw themselves under my bed and the one next to it. Eventually some women outside started arguing with the man and he turned the music off. The Norwegian girls climbed out and went to bed. All nine of us in the dorm left the next morning.

Nothing so eventful here in San José. Yesterday I went to the Museo de Arte y Diseño Contemporáneo where I stumbled upon a "summer festival" and so got to see the National Symphonic Orchestra last night for free. I haven't seen an orchestra in years and this one was really good. They played about 9 pieces, among them 2 from the Nutcracker (Cascanueces--is it Christmas?), 2 from Harry Potter (yeah, I don't get it either), and several Costa Rican songs during which everyone around me cheered and shouted a bunch.

I'm happy to be out of the rain and looking forward to impending trips to Arenal, Monteverde, Irazú, Liberia.

2 water taxis, 4 buses and 3 border crossings

I'm back in Costa Rica after 2 water taxis, 3 buses and 3 border crossings (as the title suggests--I'm waiting for the 4th bus currently) today. Three times across the border because on the first trip across the rickety bridge there was no one on the Panamanian side whose job seemed to be stamping passports. So the jerk official on the Costa Rican side made me return to Panama for a stamp (this time with a line pointing to the obscure office), thus making me cross that stupid bridge between the two countries three times. It's obviously old and has oddly placed planks and is filled with people, so the multiple crossings made the whole situation even more annoying. I'm coming from Isla Bastimentos in Bocas del Toro, which is highly preferable to Isla Colón, the main island there. It's so strange to go from absolute tourist trap (albeit with excellent Indian food) with 40 hotels to an island with no cars or roads where the nightlife is nonexistent and the "street" is quiet by 9pm. There was a consensus among all the travellers on Bastimentos as to how horrible Bocas Town on Isla Colón was. A bunch of 20-year-olds Americans who can't drink at home so they come here to form little cliques in the hostal. Very strange. I also had some amazing food on Bastimentos. There's a Thai restaurant run by an American man and Thai woman up this slippery, muddy slope into the jungle. It was delicious--as I had been lacking Thai food for 2 months now. I also had some of the best fish of my life: red snapper with a "Caribbean sauce". I don't even know: riquísimo. I met some pretty cool people there, too. Three Texans who had graduated from UT Austin (Texas, I know, scary but) who basically convinced me to go to that university instead of the one in Montreal. I am just kidding but I've had great luck with finding out about possible grad schools while I've been here. Saw a British guy I'd met a couple weeks ago in Boca Brava. Three hilarious Germans who are in Panama studying bugs and other creep critters who taught an enthralled audience about various tropical diseases we had never heard of (Chagas disease, anyone?) and how long we could go before we lost a limb or our life after various types of snakes bit us. The mating habits of small, introduced lizards. The weather wasn't great and the beaches weren't very accessible but I really enjoyed myself.

So, back in expensive Costa Rica. It's going to be a shock, I'm sure. Getting used to this currency again... I'm going to miss Panama. I loved the country and especially some of the food. Ceviche (also found in CR), hojaldres (fried dough which sounds kinda gross but excellent), rice and beans with coconut milk (also CR I think), various type of fresh juices (superior to CR), that "Caribbean sauce". I wish I could have spent more time here and gone further south/east. I'm excited to be back here too; tomorrow Emily and I will attempt to hike in to Punta Mona, something of a communal organic farm where someone we met a long time ago now is staying. I do hope we don't get bitten by a terciopelo or get lost in the jungle!

Por fin.. ¡el caribe!

Yes, finally, finally, finally I am on the Caribbean. Clear, clear water; white, white sand. I'm in Bocas del Toro, a province in northeastern Panama, on Isla Colón. I have yet to see much of the island (urgent laundry needs and evil freezing night bus from Panama City and epic journeys yesterday on bumping diabolically painted former US school buses). I spent part of Carnaval in Panama City; it's not extensively celebrated there but the city does block of part of a major road that is lined with food and beer vendors, blaring awful reggaeton in competition for one's business (how this is meant to attract anyone is a little beyond me), where little and not-so-little kids throw confetti and spray silly string in your face. Fun for awhile but old very quickly. Next I went to Portobelo, on the Caribbean coast. It was pretty awful to get there: in an effort to avoid Colón, I got off the stop before, Sabanitas, in order to catch the bus from Colón to Portobelo. Brilliant, if every other panameño hadn't also been trying to go from Sabanitas up the coast. After missing 2 buses by not shoving children out of the way fast enough--as everyone else seemed to be doing--I got on the bus. In the midst of a very intense argument between two women about the shoving, I believe. It quickly degenerated into personal insults about each other and their mothers, while everyone waited for them to calm down. The bus ride was fairly awful as it was one of the brightly painted former school buses, and me wearing my huge bag in the midst of a pushing crowd on a crammed bus. Eventually it cleared enough for me to set the millstone on the floor. I met some Canadians who were headed to Isla Grande, a little further up the coast. I arrived in Portobelo to trash everywhere and pounding reggaeton (f'ing everywhere) por todos lados. Emily and I had reserved a room but it was about 2 feet from the main square with the music and we had to shout even in the room. Fortunately, there was another hostal away from the music. Portobelo would probably be a nice place to visit not during Carnaval, with ruins from the colonial fort. We had planned to go to Isla Grande for the day but was told (mostly incorrectly) by a Swiss guy at the hostal that the last bus returned at 1pm. Decisions decisions: to return directly to Panama City or hope to find lodging on the isla. Swiss guy said go to the isla, which is what we ended up doing. Isla Grande was picturesque, with tons of Panamanian families on vacation. There were very few white people, the exact opposite of my current location. We met up with the Canadians, who all attend McGill University in Montreal, who all then convinced me not only to visit them there but also to attend grad school there. This entry is going nowhere fast so I hope to move on to a slightly less touristed island tomorrow, perhaps. I did not make a fool of myself during Carnaval, for the record.

Panama City

I am so glad the second farm fell through (I guess that's relatively accurate?)--I am enjoying Panama so completely. To think: I didn't even consider the possibility of coming here. I must admit, most of my preconceived ideas (disease and bug infested) about Panama come from partial truths about the construction of the Panama Canal and the many people who died of malaria and yellow fever during that period. Yeah, fully aware of how stupid that is. Anyway. I spent one night in David, the third largest city and dreadful, before heading to Boquete, near Volcan Baru in the mountains. It's a beautiful area and unfortunately couldn't really take advantage of all the hiking in the area due to misinformation from an absolutely insane hostal owner and a storm that closed a trail. Still, enjoyable. Walking the pouring rain, lots of hitching rides back to town. After that, the original plan had been to go directly to the Caribbean side to Bocas del Toro. However, as often happens, other places started to sound too good to miss. I went to Boca Brava, an island on the Pacific, for several days. I'd heard about it from about 6 different people who all told me just to show up, that I'd only have to sleep in a hammock for a max one night. Emily and I were so close to sleeping in hammocks (we even set up the mosquito net, makeshiftily) but luckily found someone with an extra double bed in his room. It was nice to be back on the coast, I hadn't realized how long I'd been inland (weeks and weeks and weeks!). Some of the best fish I've ever had, too, at the restaurant in the hostal. The plan had then been to go to Bocas del Toro, but so many people recommended Panama City, so here I am! Home of the canal, seen briefly from the bus. Carnaval starts on Friday, so I'm excited to see how Panama celebrates! (Hopefully not a repeat of last year, Badajoz...) I walked around the Casco Viejo today, the colonial part. Some areas are completely run down and some are filled with beautiful buildings. I went in the Teatro Nacional, and later returned for a "ballet show" which no one could (or would, perhaps) describe. Emily and I decided that it ought to be good no matter what it was, being in the National Theater, inaugurated in 1906 (!). Shit, it was a ballet recital for ages 2-18. It was terrible. And hilarious. Because, really? As Emily pointed out, this kind of event is hosted in a high school auditorium. Not a National Theater for $10! Not really worth it (in any way) but so funny.

Panama is much cheaper than Costa Rica in almost every regard (salvo transportation). It's really strange to be using the US dollar again, especially because our dead presidents are on the official currency of this country. Panama mints its own coins (balboas), although half seem to be American as well. It was strange to see an Oregon quarter.. so far from home. The money seems so much more real to me, as opposed to spending thousands of something for a meal. I've met a lot of people who are continuing on to Colombia from here. There is no passage overland (in theory, yes, but passing the Darien Gap between the two countries sounds suicidal--FARC, anyone?) so everyone either flies or goes by boat. As happens every time I travel, I want to go with. Go to Colombia and just continue south to see the penguins. Alas, I restrain myself and will reluctantly (hah!) return to Costa Rica via the Caribbean coast, travel for a few days with Jenny (!) and then head to Nicaragua. For a third currency in my wallet. I like it.

A man, a plan, a canal, Panama

So, change of plans. Emily and I are going to Panama tomorrow. The farm situation--fatal (in the Spanish sense, not the English). The owner confused our dates and sent us to her friends' farm for a few days before she'd have room at her own. We (Emily convinced me) decided to persevere and give it a try. Then we got extremely lost trying to find her friend's farm: partially our fault here but also partially hers. We got off in Rivas, where we thought the farm was, then had to walk and hitchhike halfway back to San Isidro. Once we were in the general area, many people misdirected us and we ended up walking up and down a certain hill 4 times, vowing never to continue on to the real farm. Then the owner showed up at the farm we were staying at and tried to bully and guilt us into going to her farm later. It was really unbelievable and aggravating. So, we spent 2 nights at the farm and have now returned to San Isidro (pleeease let this be the last time here!) to plan the voyage to Panama. We have almost no knowledge of the country, so this should be fun!

Chirripó

I'm back in San Isidro (again- it's starting to feel like Cáceres to me), waiting to go to the next farm. Last night was spent in a sketchy hotel where Emily was convinced there were bed bugs. I'm not so sure, as I have tons of mosquito (and other) bites so they all kind of blend together. The adventure to Chirripó was that, an adventure. The hike up, 14 kms strictly uphill, was as difficult as I thought it would be with the altitude. By the end I could barely breathe and it was pouring and extremely windy. Upon arrival at the ranger station/lodge I was soaking and freezing. Emily and I had to rent blankets from the rangers because we (obviously) had come unprepared. I lived in the blanket. The storm got worse through the night, with sideways rain, howling wind. The plan had been to hike the remaining 5 kms to the top that day, but instead we spent it huddled in the common area of the lodge, begging hot water from various groups who had brought camp stoves or gas for the stoves provided (we had neither, of course). Apparently, the storm is the 3rd of its kind in 25 years. What luck. We hiked back to San Gerardo the next day, in light rain and wind in the beginning, and sun at the end. Of course. It was so beautiful and I was angry for most of the descent, thinking about what the view could have been like atop Chirripó. There is next time! Hah, hopefully more prepared, too. The whole experience is ridiculous, to the point of being absurd, and thus hilarious!

La puta gallina

I just finished two weeks at Finca Granadilla Silvestre in Quizarrá. I can't believe the time went so quickly; I've been here in Costa Rica for a month now. Oh, and it's February. Unbelievable. I caught myself wondering if I had ever lived in Seattle--did that happen? Another thought shocked me: everyone, all my friends, family, acquaintances have been living their lives while I've been gone. Obviously. But it hadn't occurred to me. And, could it possibly be winter at home? Seems unlikely.

The farming situation was... hmm. It was a wonderful experience, but definitely not in the way I expected. Emily and I arrived to Quizarrá in the dark, walked halfway to the farm, got a ride for the other half. There was utter confusion when we arrived at the house of Pancho and Rocio, the tico family that takes care of the farm while the rich Canadian owners, Elizabeth and Warren, go between the two countries. We ended up staying in the ticos' cabin, right next to the chicken coup. Basically, we worked 4 hours per day, 4 days per week, starting at 6am. The work was, shall we say, unrewarding. The farm itself doesn't really produce anything to sell, as the shade grown coffee hasn't been producing enough to be profitable. We basically were assigned various tasks to aid in the conservation of the farm and its land (terraces to slow erosion, composting, etc.). Some of the jobs seemed pretty contrived, and it really seems that the farm is funded by WWOOFers. A little awkward. But! The tico family was amazing! Rocio, the mother, is so sweet and patient and hilarious. She would swing by our cabin and teach us to make various tico food: gallo pinto, tortillas, empanadas, plátanos, etc. Basic food was provided: rice, beans, bananas, plantains, oil, sugar, salt, plus whatever came from the garden and we could buy eggs, cheese and milk (from the cow, Tontina). So, there was a lot of experimenting with the limitless food (hmm, should we add some chives, too? dill?). Rocio also showed us how to milk Tontina. Difficult!

The area is beautiful. Quizarrá is in the hills near Chirripó, the highest point in Central America. It's so green, and a lot cooler. The higher hills are constantly shrouded in fog. There are rivers everywhere. One day we hiked up the river to a waterfall. It's incredible. We also spent a lot of time sitting on the porch of the cabin listening to Rocio and her three sons yell at each other, while the youngest, Adrián, abused these puppies. The word "puta" was thrown around a lot...

So, I'm excited to see how the next farm will be. I'm hoping that there is more meaningful farming (by meaningful: productive?) and more to learn. I'd like to improve my milking skills. I'm definitely getting better at dealing with bugs here, as they are a fact of life if your abode is not sealed at all. I only squealed a little this morning when there was a little scorpion (alacrán, love that word) near my bed. I do feel a bit relieved to be staying in a hotel for the night; three stories up and sealed! The next adventure will be an attempt at the summit at Chirripó. Not quite that extreme but Emily and I are going to hike the tallest peak in Central America minus Guatemala or something (it's not saying much) if we can get the reservations. Ought to be funny. I don't know, Corcovado was a success so this should be fine too. Less snakes.

Anyway! I am completely tired of this sweltering internet cafe. I miss everyone! (yes, yes, it's true, once I remembered that everyone still existed.)

Africa tonight

Wow, this country just doesn't stop. Everyone told me how much fun I was going to have.. how did they know? I love it here. Even though the ticos call it "Gringolandia", there seems to be no ill will towards us gringos. Everyone here is so nice, friendly, helpful, and in this way I can't help but compare it favorably to Spain. Constantly. WWOOFing starts tomorrow. I'm currently in San Isidro del General, after a 5+ hour bus ride starting at 5am, from Puerto Jiménez in the Osa Peninsula. I returned last night from Corcovado National Park, where Emily and I had hiked in 20 kms or so to the La Sirena ranger station, stayed in the dorms there for 2 nights, then hiked back out yesterday. The park is absolutely phenomenal. There is so much wildlife everywhere and almost no people or signs of humanity anywhere. Pristine. Most people hire local guides from the area, thus seeing more of the wildlife, but most of the guides were nice and would point things out to us as well. On the hike in I saw several scarlet macaws (beautiful, enormous, loud), coatis (cute, mangy little mammal), spider monkeys. The second night, the ranger and another man who worked at the station took us out in the dark to see what we could see and: 3 tapirs! They were incredible. I've seen them in the zoos before but not from about 10 feet away. They are huge and look so sweet and peaceful eating their vegetation. They didn't even seem to care that we were there. There was also a terciopelo (fer-de-lance) in the station area. Unfortunately, no crazy huge spiders or anything. The hike back was quite funny (I don't know if Emily thinks it's so funny) because we didn't know what we were doing and were misled by the rangers as to what time and where we should cross the river because the tide was at an awkward time. We were told around 5am, at which time the water in the river was up to my chest and I had to hold my bag as high as possible behind me (while still getting it wet of course). Then there was miscommunication between us and it was still dark and.. but we got across. A couple hours of hiking later we had to sit and wait on the beach for an hour for the tide to go down enough for us to scramble over the rocks. Then the colectivo, the transportation from Puerto Jiménez to Carate where we started hiking, was crammed, smelly, bumpy, hot and nearly interminable. It was a long day but definitely hilarious and really enjoyable.

My time in Dominical before going to the park was excellent as well. There were a lot of cool people at the hostal (where we all slept in tents on a balcony, fun!). Beach bumming is the life. I met two ticos who hitchhiked around, scamming tourists (they were probably trying to scam us, we couldn't be sure), with whom we spent several days with, who also taught us how to open coconuts and drink the water and eat them. Delicious. I ended up discussing life, my life, life in general with so many people: an Argentinian, while ducking waves, who had had a nervous breakdown before coming; an American escaping the American dream who completely understood my reasons for leaving, as he shared them too; the ticos who lived on the beach and loved life. I've met so many people here who are doing exactly what I'm doing and it's comforting to here them describe their situation and know that they understand mine without me justifying it. Too much rambling and it's too hot in this internet cafe.

Quickly: Emily and I took a surf lesson, it was exhilirating and so much fun but we failed miserably trying it on our own later. But hilarious. Went skinny dipping in the ocean, what more can you ask for?