Considering Costa Rica

I am, of course, no longer in Costa Rica. I have, in fact, been gone from its fair shores for over two weeks. I would like, all the same, to attempt some consideration of my time there, my January.

I write this first and with certainty: I was home in Tamarindo. My apartment with Sarah in Seattle no longer existed, at least as our home, and my stuff—the greater weight of my life—resided in storage. A piece of my heart always remains in Hamilton but I have not lived there for nearly ten years now. So, how long did it take for me to settle in a new life, with less than 100 pounds of possessions? Less than a month, apparently—I would guess at two weeks or so. Sure, I was sleeping in a twin bed with shark sheets and sometimes found a scorpion in my laundry pile, but I did not at all doubt my stay in Tamarindo. Home, truly, if only for a month!

I was at peace—I dare say I was happy. I had a rhythm of life that was manageable and understandable and good. I had friends at hand, good friends indeed in the same house. I surfed; I ran, but not much. I worked as much as I wanted. I ate simple food that nonetheless pleased and satisfied. And there was sunshine and there was the ocean and did I mention that I surfed every day? Do you know how good life is when you have surf and avocado and fried plantains every friggin' day? Also, ceviche and sunsets.

We discussed a bit on our trip why Costa Rica is the happiest country in the world (supposedly). I returned, again and again, to the matter of simplicity, at least in my life there. My life in Seattle was busy. I am not at all saying that life was bad—I did love it—but it was full and I am one to be overwhelmed, if you were not aware. In Tamarindo, there was simply not the same quantity of choices and of people about whom I cared. What could overwhelm me? What could disturb this idyllic life?

Well, we all know the matter is not actually so cut and dry, especially so close to ocean—you get hit by waves all the time. But seriously, I do not necessarily assume that I would find a life in Tamarindo, or anywhere in Costa Rica, fully challenging and satisfying. I wonder, more so, how to carry wherever I go a bit of that peace and simplicity and joy. How do I settle in a home?

In truth, I did not leave Tamarindo in peace. How could I leave home in peace—neither did I so leave Seattle. The final week was different and hard but indeed still great. Eric and I had two days by ourselves, between the departure of Theo and Tina and the arrival of Natalie. We enjoyed those two days of relative solitude (and discussed possible enforced "quiet time" next year). We worked hard; we did not dine adventurously.

And then Natalie came and I spent five joyful days with her, walking the beach one day and the next climbing a volcano, against the rangers' orders, in the strongest winds I have ever experienced. We saw countless coati in the jungle and I did not photograph a single one successfully. Natalie started paddling into and catching waves and standing up—glory! We did crosswords in the pool, and we ate and drank and talked and laughed as we always had. These were good times.

The three of us had one final dinner at Carolina's, Friday, before Eric's departure and after the day of the volcano adventure. I was exhausted; I barely had the energy to savor the meal or make conversation. Life! So much life! Eric left for home in Seattle, and Saturday passed peacefully at home and happily in the surf. We cooked dinner and listened to Ben Kweller. Natalie and I awoke Sunday morning and she packed her few possessions. I made raisin bread French toast, with kind thanks to the famous German baker of Guanacaste, and we listened to Rilo Kiley.

Natalie and I said goodbye.

And then I was alone in this big house, and I was alone. Why did you all leave? Jerks. Why did I have to leave, and why did I have to be alone? Departure was so difficult to accept, despite the absence of any remaining friends—I was finally stepping out into the unknown. My trip was entering the new phase of doubt and mystery and solitude.

So... so, I bought a bracelet my last morning in Tamarindo. I bargained the woman down from 4000 colones to 3500 but neither of us had any change so I just paid her 4000 anyway. I felt silly, but the bracelet was comforting around my wrist (and still is). I ate one final lunch of casado from "Green Chairs." I rented a car (which I later nearly lost in a ditch five kilometers lost down a glorified horse path) and I left home.

I drove to Nosara to spend two days with Kristi, Angela and Ella, friends of the Ganzells in Maryland. I surfed a new, better break at Playa Guiones on a new, better board. I caught a glimpse of a different Costa Rica and I was blessed to share the briefest moments with their beautiful family—my many thanks. I rode the bus to San Jose, I spent a single night staying in a "Roman Holiday"-themed hotel room, and then I flew to Bolivia.

Now, I am here. What is life but a series of these realizations, that now I am here? And, of course, in so realizing, I state that I am not there and that you likely are there. Or, well, you're not in Tamarindo but you are somewhere. Neither am I in Tamarindo, nor am I in Seattle. I am not home. I am here—I am somewhere—and I will, someday in some place, be home once again. I hope there are avocados there.