Donde Estoy?

This is where I start to butcher the espanol, because despite five years of study and half a lifestime spent living within spitting distance of mexico I freeze up when I enter into a real live bilingual conversation. Elwin, my tutor/taxi driver is convinced that I'll be in the swing of it by this Feliz Navidad, and he makes a pretty persuasive argument that it's muy facil. Nevertheless, passing through immigration might have been problematic if the official hadn't been able to tell me in plain English, "Please do not step onto my side of this counter, sir." But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The day began, bleary-eyed and anxious over a cup of coffee with my mom, who was up a little earlier than usual, not only to drive me to the airport, but also to help lift my surfboard bag onto the roofrack of her car (thanks mom!).

What she might not have realized is that i was getting by on two hours sleep, and still only just barely managed to get everything packed in time. Did I say everything? Turns out I couldn't fit a couple things I'd thought to bring. Looks like i won't be violating the tranquility of las playas with my music, as my portable iPod speaker left no room in my backpack for more essential items like toothpaste and deodorant. I also could not efficiently attach my sleeping bag to my pack, which means I won't likely be camping, which is just as well because I need someplace to stach my stuff while I surf anyway.

I did somehow manage to get my two boards packed tightly and protectively into the board travel bag, which I wheeled into the airport at a quarter of eight. I knew Continental would charge me around a hundred bucks to take this oversized luggage; what i didn't realize is that once it exceeds 70 pounds they tack on another hundred. One of the ticketing agents helped me stack it on the scale and we watched as it spun out a very suspenseful, Vegas-like sequence of numbers: 72.1. 68.3, 70.8, 65.9, 73.4. I started to inch towards it, my big toe prepareed to nudge the bag ever so surreptitiously upward, when the scale finalyy settle upon an agreeable weight: 69.7. Whew. As they tagged my luggage and charged me, a second agent apologized for the fee, declaring it his personal mission to convince the airline to drop the profitable practice. He then took me aside and told me about a secret surf spot on the northwest pacific coast of CR that can only be found by sweet-talking local boatsmen. Pura vida. The boards were checked and I was on my way.

I'm here now in a small hotel in Liberia, late enough in the day and far enough from the coast to be disinteresting. The lovely hostess, Marianna, was kind enough to offer me a beer, though, and my new friend Elwin, proudly born and bred in this town I just unsancrimoniously scoffed, has offered to return early in the morning to help me catch my next flight.

I've already encountered an interesting fellow tourist who is here for vastly different reasons, having only decided to come to latin america on saturday, and still managing to beat me to it by six hours. however, I haven't yet decided whether his story is uplifting or depressing, so for now I'll just say I'm excited and feeling very fortunate to be here, so close to the jungle, one with the lizards and insects.