"Enough is enough,” I said to my friend as we drove back from dinner with her (bilingual) family. “I need a lover, or perhaps a job. How else will my Spanish ever get better?”

There was a pause while she waited for the oncoming cars to pass.

“You could always take some classes,” she said finally, accelerating around the corner. 

I laughed then, but the next morning I sat bolt upright in bed. The sky was light but the sun still an hour from rising behind the mountains. She was right. Why had I not even considered lessons?

And that’s why I now spend my three hours each weekday morning sitting across the table from Grace at Casa Conversa in Santa Ana. Out the window I can see the Poas Volcano in the distance and the noisy yiguirro birds interrupt our wide-ranging conversations. This is the national bird of Costa Rica - the clay-coloured thrush, in English. And in a country rich with exotic fauna and colourful flora, it would be hard to find a duller bird. But its song is quite magical. 

Grace is in her early 50s, with two boys in their thirties, two grandchildren, and an 8-year old third son, who is actually her grandson, the son of her eldest boy. The one who is in jail. The one who impregnated a 14-year old girl, and then once released after serving his time for that crime, got himself caught up in a bar fight where someone died. Grace just shakes her head when he comes up in conversation (and her whole family is regularly a topic of discussion). He was a llorono, she said. Such a cry baby, made a fuss about everything, even when he was a young teenager.  

Grace has been teaching English for more than 25 years. She’s met people from all over the world, and been invited to visit some of them. Her (other) son, supported through one of her alumnae, did his secondary school studies in Vermont. Such a amazing opportunity that left him completely bilingual and comfortable in both countries. There’s a woman in Chicago who takes classes online three times a week. “She says it keeps her young,” explains Grace. She will often tutor a whole family, parents and children both, during their temporary postings to the country. Listening to her stories, her life seems so real, so vibrant. It’s very earthy and interwoven with people, both friends and family. 

Last week, I had my toenails painted by Grace’s sister Tatiana, aka Tati. It’s one of a few things she does. Many Ticos seem to have several businesses on the go. The following day, Tati was going with her husband on holiday to Albany, New York, a place she had worked for seventeen summers selling rafting tours. Her husband is a clown, an actual clown, and has a store where he sells accessories, party favours and teaches apprentices how to be clowns. He’s also a courier for one of the well-known restaurants in Santa Ana. Entrepreneurial, as I was saying. 

They all live together down an alleyway off the main road. The eastbound road that is. Santa Ana has two one-way roads parallel to each other. It’s quite efficient but does mean that traffic races along. You can’t hear it from Grace’s compound though. The narrow passageway from the street is long, with buildings on both sides, and the small, semi-covered courtyard at the end is surrounded by a half-dozen rooms and apartments, cheek-to-jowl. These include Tati’s nail salon and beside that is her own dwelling, next to her mother’s, all interconnected within. In front, along the alleyway, are a series of rooms that they rent out. Grace’s area, where she lives with her youngest son, is up a flight of outside stairs near the kitchen. There is only the one kitchen, shared by everyone including the tenants. In a corner of the courtyard there’s a small, netted trampoline, along with a scooter and a table. There’s not really space for any noise to get in.  

Cramped as it is, how lovely it must be that there is always a relative to invite over for coffee, a friend to lend a handful of chiles, or someone to keep an eye on a grandchild. And while it's spanking clean (the Ticos are super hygienic), the television plays an inane music channel, dampness lurks in the corner, and there is a lot of painted concrete. But there is also such a friendly warmth that I felt like coming over to cook everyone pancakes. Tati's two-year old grandson was in the salon with us, playing with stickers, wandering over every now and then to stick one on me. Tati's daughter, Nicolas' mother, was there to start, but left with a teenager, the son of a friend who had died recently on a motorbike. It's family at its best, and I felt honoured to have been invited into their home. 

I'm quite comfortable in this culture. I’m not surprised by potholes, or the beggars at the traffic lights selling lollipops, or pencils, or bags of juice. The erratic driving and search for specific ingredients in diverse supermarkets is just part of the fun. I feel as though Costa Rica is in transition, though, hovering between being a developed and developing country (I gather that first and third world countries are terms no longer in use). I hope it manages to keep the best of both worlds.  

The Spanish lessons are intense - three hours is a long time, but it’s the right amount. I can feel myself remembering the language, recognising more words and pulling others up from the archive drawers in my brain. I feel more confident when I speak. Odd how it never occurred to me to do the same thing when I arrived in Montreal. I suppose I figured I could just muddle along, do my best to make myself understood and all would be fine. And it was, but I could have made it easier for myself. 

 

(too cool for school - was just heading out after class, hence the glasses!)

I’m all over the map emotionally these days, swinging from the profound contentment I might feel walking home from the supermarket to a frustrated anxiety that I don’t know what I’m doing here. But I need to trust myself. A year of discovery was never going to be a walk in the park. The existential questions that I carry around with me are not from here; I lived with them in London, took them on holiday, and tuck them in beside me at night. Sometimes I can look at them and smile because they aren’t being irksome, other times I feel them pressing in tight, pestering me to consider them, mocking me for thinking I’ll come up with answers. 

Of course I realise that geography won't fix a philosophical problem. But it is lovely to wrestle with all my thoughts and ideas while the sun is shining and the parrots squawking in the trees outside. 

Do as I say, not as I do. 

That’s what went through my mind, thinking of my girls, as I followed Jésus down an almost vertical path with dead branches and dirt underfoot and tree branches and vines trying to grab me. This had not been the plan. Rather, I’d chosen to pay an entrance fee to hike in Montañas de Cariblanco, to see if I was really ready to tackle four days of the Costa Rica Camino. A gentle 8 km route seemed like a good idea, if a little managed.

Although it wasn’t actually gentle, but perhaps that’s because I opted for the longer, harder route. Is that a surprise to anyone who knows me? I arrived just after the finca opened at 8 am and was the first on the path. Happy days. I started through fields, terraces really, of coffee plants that were rich with fruit, ready to be harvested, and continued into thicker woods. It was steep, and loose underfoot; I was happy for my hiking boots.

So where did Jésus come from? You might well ask. The plantation was essentially empty, I was the first car in the lot, so it was a surprise to see someone ahead of me on the path to the waterfall. A Tico, similar age to me, short, dark, dressed almost fully in camouflage with a bandana around his head, old hiking boots, a greying goatee, twinkling eyes, smile lines and a machete lashed onto his backpack. Not your average tourist.

A local who moved away from Santa Ana many years ago, Jésus returns at times to hike because that is his passion. He has climbed many of the mountains of Costa Rica, Central America really, as he has lived in Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua and El Salvador. The only countries he didn’t mention were Panama and Belize but most Central Americans don’t consider Belize. Too much British influence. 

Jésus travels off-piste, rather like his namesake, which is why he didn’t have a car in the parking lot. He’d entered a different way, without paying, and was continuing por allí, he said, waving a vague hand towards the other side of the river, beyond the organised paths of Montañas de Cariblanco. Did I want to see another waterfall? 

Before you remind me that this could be the Tico variation of do you want to come upstairs to see my etchings, you must remember that I have decided to say yes to whatever crosses my path, even if that includes a Sunday encounter with Jésus. As my blog states, “I don’t mind what happens”, which requires me to step outside my usual habit patterns. I considered his question. He didn’t strike me as a serial killer, even with the machete.

Of course we ran into trouble immediately as the path across the river was new, so the old one had disappeared, and I wondered several times whether he would have retraced his steps if I hadn’t been with him. Machismo can get in the way of common sense. 

We were so high in the mountains above Santa Ana that we saw no signs of civilisation other than right at the start when we opened a stick-and-barbed-wire gate and skirted the edge of some fields planted with beans and tomatoes. Suddenly some dogs started yowling, yanking at their chains, and a couple of skeletal cows looked over their shoulders at us. Someone came out from the nearby shack, which wasn’t really a shack but more of an open-sided stable with tools, dogs, food, benches, hanging onions, an old cooker, piles of scrap wood, metal and junk everywhere. Basic living in a country where anything grows and there is an (albeit minimal) safety net provided by the state. But it was very rustic and they were poor. My compañero had a discussion with the couple, who were not keen on us, but let us pass to join some vague path beyond their property.

As we walked through, the woman held back a rather ferocious dog and I looked at all the bird cages, probably a dozen in total, hanging from a beam, longing to release the songbirds within. But I couldn’t, so I sent a hopeful wish their direction and followed Jésus through the stable (seems appropriate, and in fact they had a small Christmas crêche in a straw-filled bowl) to continue our trek.

Onward and upward, along vague tracks, then down steep slopes, around massive old trees dripping with epiphytes and up, up, up. For hours. I lost track of time. Until Jésus stopped and indicated a bent-back bough. This was his mark, he said, to get to the waterfall. At this point I was totally reliant on him to get out of this situation. I peered through the tangle of branches and leaves and roots, wondering what the hell he meant by a route to the waterfall, but gamely followed. 

It was insane. Steep and challenging with loose footing, vines everywhere, trees with spines and dead trees that snapped if I grabbed one. I lost my sense of humour about an hour into this section, but we weren’t really talking other than the occasional brief explanation of a plant or to point out a handhold.

And then, ta dah!, a waterfall. Catarata La Mula. Maybe 50 metres high with water shooting out a rounded bowl at the top and falling past the slippery rock. It was gorgeous and green and damp, and we ate almonds, drank water from the river and took selfies. He even shared his pastel de piña as I had very little with me having expected to be gone for only a couple of hours.

“Twenty minutes more”, Jésus promised, and then we’d arrive at the old dirt road that would take us back to the parqueo and my car. With that we headed downstream, following the riverbed for the first few minutes. This is where I fell. One of those too-fast-to-realise moments when the next thing I knew was that I was damp and my head hurt. I had an egg on my temple and some aching parts on my body. My sense of humour, which had returned, slid into concern that I might have done something serious. And what the hell was I doing, anyway, in the middle of nowhere with this cowboy? 

We continued. We had no choice really, and headed back into the jungle, clambering up through the chaotic bushes or trying to slide down a section with chunks of pine needles and dead wood, vines everywhere. At one point, he got out his machete and the tune from “Deliverance” began to play through my head. 

It wasn’t twenty minutes by any stretch of the imagination, but the dirt road did eventually appear, and we walked the last kilometre or so down its steep, stony track. I made it home more than seven hours after I’d left.

So what is my take from this outing? I was fine that I’d agree to do something as crazy as go off hiking with some random Tico that I’d just crossed paths with. I’m content to have made it home with only an egg on my head and about a dozen scratches, bruises and scrapes on my body. There is also the realisation that I’m not invincible, and that more normal events, outings and activities could also be just fine. I don’t bounce the way I used to, as I discovered when I broke my collarbone last March.  

There is also a feeling that sometimes I try too hard, one could almost say I’m too earnest. I have flung myself into full-on engagement with my life, looking for experiences and fun and people. I am feeling my way. And working at it because I want to learn more, and make discoveries as to who I am, where I might belong. My sense of humour has fully returned, and I am enjoying laughter and silliness, although I can be reticent to reach out because I’m unsure, which is tricky. I’m lonely at times. But it’s all part of my journey and the low parts are balanced by lovely meet-ups with friends, the full Spanish immersion classes I have just started, and that amazing feeling I had just a couple of days ago, spinning slowly on the sidewalk in Santa Ana. It all bolsters my sense of wonder, feeds the creative soul and shows me possibility.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, my shopping bag from Auto Mercado hanging over my shoulder and my little Portuguese cork purse slung across my front. The road behind me was chockablock with rush hour traffic while the quieter street leading up to my place was less busy but still buzzing. It was the end of the day, of the week, Friday night, the children still on their summer holidays. There was energy in the air.

It was a sudden stop, that came out of nowhere. A single thought jumping in my head: wow, I am here, I am really here. And there is no other place that I want to be.

I stood there longer than necessary perhaps. Long enough that a passing woman gave me an odd look. But I wanted to fix it in my mind, to ensure that I was aware that I was present. I wanted to register it with every fabric of my being.

The sky was darkening, the pink already become a bruised purple, lights were on in most places but the plants and flowers still showed their colour; it wasn’t quite night. 

This contented feeling is fabulous, and somewhat ever-present at the moment, in spite of the many questions about purpose and home. There are a number of aspects of my life that need effort, I spend far too much time alone, for example, which is problematic but the pandemic left me with an unease about going out on my own. 

It’s something I realised recently, in conversation with a lovely, wise woman. This section, this chapter, call it another volume if you like, of my personal book of life began in 2019, when my divorce went through. In actual fact though, because of the pandemic, it wasn’t really an opening chapter but rather a mere prologue of possibility, of expanding horizons and new ideas which were then shut down by the enforced isolation. 

Sometimes I forget to accommodate the effect of that time. Fiona was with me during the first lockdown in 2020, with Justine floating in at some point in June, but they both left in July. Autumn began with me alone with Wonky, and the country started to agitate in the growing damp darkness as tiers of restriction and laws the government clearly ignored were inflicted on us. Christmas “wouldn’t be cancelled”, according to Boris Johnston, until it was. I remember a lot of quiet, and long evenings on the sofa with Wonky tucked into my side.

That new volume, then, cracked its covers in 2019, but the initial surprisingly energetic and exciting few months were a mere tease. The pandemic changed time, it affected choices and the restrictions created unease within people. Those two years of solitary living, with just my brindled beastie for company, changed me in ways that I don’t like. And yet, here I find myself, standing in the middle of a sidewalk in deepest Santa Ana, Costa Rica, turning in a slow circle to take in the sky, the people, my surroundings, feeling that there was nowhere else that I want to be at that moment.

Life is good.

Chaotic Wires 

(not unusual here)

 

Some Recent Photos:

My new place, photo taken from the garden 

View from my bedroom window

The Escazú Market, on a Saturday morning

My haul from the market, including brussell sprouts grown here!

An amazing door on a little local house

A successful wine outing!

I had such noble intentions as I sat down early at my desk early this morning. I’ve had a couple of busy days what with moving my base to Santa Ana and unpacking, then an idling day yesterday with friends tootling about town eating lunch at Cumpanis (worthy of Instagram, if I did it!), buying a lemon tree (yes, an actual lemon tree in the land of limes, but not for me) and having an impromptu beer at a Canadian microbrewery near my new place. I love that Canadians pop up everywhere, doing interesting things. We even ran into a woman I used to know from playgroup when the girls were really young. I topped off this fabulous day by going out for dinner with friends. So all-in-all, a day that left me content. Like happiness, contentment isn’t ever the goal but rather a by-product.

Today, though, I needed time at my desk. I wanted to take that great feeling and spill it onto the page. I had big plans. I wanted to tackle the idea of shame and guilt, those nasty feelings that are often planted in shy and vulnerable children at a young age. The Catholic church has a lot to answer for. 

For instance, why is “shameless” even an insult? We should be shameless, we should aim to not ever feel shame. This is an emotion that doesn’t just limit us but actually drags us backwards. Women, in particular. Was it guilt that drove me to my desk after such an idyllic day yesterday? Perhaps. 

But the words didn’t work today. The sentences I strung together were as devoid of life and emotion as the dusty sermons I used to listen to at St. Basil’s in Toronto. The sun was streaming through the glass of the patio door beside my desk, the parrots were in full throttle. Why was I demanding that my muse perform at such an early hour on such a beautiful day?

I threw on a semi-clean shirt, stuck in some earrings and put a hat on my head. I needed to produce a dessert for a barbecue later today and as I am in Costa Rica where the world wakens early, I could walk down to Auto Mercado for the ingredients. 

And wham! such joy again. Very few cars, an unexpectedly large number of cyclists, an almost-empty supermarket with everything I needed and a few things I didn’t, such as a tiny cast iron frying pan to heat tortillas. The little chat with the cashier gave me the satisfaction I was looking for. An unsuccessful search for a pitcher in another store (it’s astonishing what is open at 7 am on a Sunday here) ended in a laugh with a store clerk. On the way home, half a dozen people wished me buenos dias. All the while the sun was rising higher in a clear blue sky, the lush greenery laced with magenta bougainvillea and bright orange flame flowers blew in a gentle breeze. 

My day already felt launched when I came through my gate and stopped to chat to two cyclists who were just clipping into their pedals. One turned out to be a running coach, originally from Boston but now living in my complex with his wife, and the other a cycling guru. 

Serendipity. I stepped away from the "must-dos" and "shoulds" and ended up experiencing life. Who knows where this random connection will go. But that's not the point, is it?