A realisation and three anecdotes

There was far too much reportage in my last two posts. Apologies. It can be difficult not to when I go on exciting, physical adventures! But now, back to emotional discoveries and meaningful stories.

I realise that Community, with a capital C, isn’t something I can just create. I will find it as I join in, find work, share activities with people...and go to birthday parties. I was at a delightful one this weekend, two nights and a full day at the beach. Yet, I feel unsettled with people I don’t know. It’s flotsam from the many months alone during the pandemic. 

New people can make me anxious, but equally I sense that my untethered year might be disconcerting for them. It’s exotic and unusual, and I don’t fit into a definable slot. So when asked where I’m from or where I live, a certain wariness (or is it weariness?) comes over me. How much do they want to know? Are they really interested or is it out of their comfort zone? 

Rather than spin out my uncommon adventure, I tend to downplay it, figuring people don’t want to hear of my existential questions. But mulling it over now, I think I’m selling myself short. Things out of the ordinary are grist for the story-making mill and I should be celebrating this. Am I concerned that it will sound like bragging? I’ll blame that on my British heritage and move on. 

So here’s my resolution: I am going to take the bolshiness from my misspent youth and combine it with the awareness, experience and wisdom I have now. 

It’s a new year’s resolution made one month before the start of spring. Why not?

Nature’s rumbling tummy

We had an earthquake in the wee hours of Friday night. It measured 5.2 on the Richter Scale, enough to wake me from deep sleep. Weirdly enough, I enjoy them. Costa Rica has lots of shakes, averaging 350 a month, but most are just tremors, often unnoticeable. Friday’s was a middling one; nothing to worry about. The room shook, I was shifted from side to side in my bed for just a few moments, then it subsided. 

I lay awake for a while, initially wondering if it would continue and then, when it didn’t, my thoughts turned to Turkey and Syria, who have just had two more earthquakes. I felt a sense of guilt in my comfortable bed, listening to the howling wind outside. I was reminded to be grateful. I know, it’s an over-used sentiment these days, it makes some people roll their eyes. A number of years ago, I tried writing five things down in a little notebook by my bed. Five things that I was grateful for from that day. It didn’t appear to do anything. Perhaps I’m late to enlightenment, but it feels more real now. I’m older, I’ve seen more of life’s challenges. I do have much to be grateful for, not least this travel opportunity. But also friends, family, physical health, financial stability, the nature surrounding me. Birds. Homemade cake. My girls!

Addendum

The winds have been so strong throughout Costa Rica that no aviation fuel could be landed at the docks in Limon – the country was 24 hours shy of running out before the winds subsided. Can you imagine if the planes couldn’t be refueled after disgorging all the tourists? Chaos. I bet this sort of things goes on behind the scenes in countries around the world, and we never learn about it.

Unexpected moves, of a different kind

I had a 30-year old flirting with me at the beach birthday party on Sunday which, once I got past my astonishment and realised what he was doing, amused me to no end. It wasn’t at all inappropriate, he’s an adult after all, but oh my goodness, so young. The smooth skin, the tattoo on his arm, the wide-eyes and sideways glances! I am not a Cougar, there will be no follow-up on his insinuated suggestions, but it was fun. Flirting is so enjoyable, perhaps I’ll make it my new past time.

Miaow!

And yet another earth-shaking event

On the drive back from the beach in Tomatina, Justine’s feisty red subaru, we were stopped halfway up a curving hill on the two-lane highway parallel to the Pacific Ocean. I was only a dozen cars back, so I could see there was some sort of activity going on. A truck backed up, a man got out. A few other men milled around. Road works, I assumed, turning off the ignition and gazing at the forest on both sides of me. I looked over again, the man was climbing back into the pick-up. Excellent, I thought, let’s go. But the truck only moved forward a few dozen metres before stopping again. Another man appeared and ran, properly ran, towards the pick-up truck, with a real sense of urgency. Two seconds later, a massive tree crashed down across the road. Leaves flew everywhere. Branches snapped. I felt the forest become silent.

It was so unexpected. 

Then one man appeared with a chainsaw, others came with machetes and brooms. It was a road crew. This was an organised act. I watched, amused, as they tidied up. It took a while. For me this was such a Costa Rican experience, and a reminder of the importance of letting go. Shit happens. Unexpected delays occur. Enjoy the interruption (whilst acknowledging that it can be difficult for the chronically late or the people juggling multiple jobs and those who deem themselves too important to be inconvenienced – the same ones who exhale impatiently while in line – but they did pause to let an ambulance and a fire truck through).

So an add-on to my resolution from the first section: I want life to interrupt me, I don’t need to control every moment.  I may be rootless (sin domicilio fijo), but I’m grounded.

I'm just back from four days on El Camino de Costa Rica with Urri Trek. Hence the silence.

Overall? Fabulous. What an interesting way to see the country. It was also tough. Although my actual fitness is definitely up to speed, I would need better conditioning, both mental and physical, if I were to do the whole route. My feet, for instance, felt hot and achy by early afternoon. Taking my boots off at the end of the day was such a relief. Then putting them up on a wall for fifteen minutes miraculously relieved much of the inflammation and discomfort.

I started at stage 3, joining two people who had begun at the Caribbean coast, so I was a little unsure how it would play out. Oddly enough they were both doctors, but strangers to each other, so it was fine. Ed is British, born in Wales and was working in London at two separate medical centres before deciding to spend two months in Costa Rica. He’s a GP, 35 years old, seemingly single and working to improve his Spanish which he’d begun learning during an internship in Mexico. 

The other doctor, Juan José but known as JJ, is a Costa Rican 70-year old retired audiologist. For his last fifteen years he worked at the Children’s Hospital whilst also running a private practice and doing simultaneous translation for conferences (entrepreneurial, as I have mentioned before). His specialty meant he enunciated clearly and he was a pleasure to chat to, although like many men of his age and elevated social position, he did most of the talking.

For the whole four days we spoke only Spanish, which while excellent for my language skills, makes it difficult to be me. Humour is hard in a foreign language, as are emotions. So trying to share an anecdote or an opinion tends to feel wooden, chronological. 

Jairo, the guide, kept telling me the bird names in Spanish but I drew the line there. I can’t remember two different names for a new bird.

I was happy to be between the ages of Ed and JJ. If they’d both be in their 30s, they would have left me in the dust! I am like the tortoise, with one speed. Although not as slow as a reptile, and happy on the uphills, I couldn’t shift the throttle. Perhaps with some training!

El Camino de Costa Rica is an impressive venture. A woman by the name of Conchita Espino came up with the idea of walking from the Caribbean Sea to the Pacific Ocean (Mar a Mar, as they say in Spanish). But more than just a hike, she wanted to support the poor rural, agricultural communities and to promote the interior of Costa Rica – most tourists head straight to the two coasts. The route stays away from major centres and hikers sleep in tiny pueblos or remote communal centres. It felt as if we are meeting the soul of Costa Rica. Every person we talked to, had food from, or who set us up in our sleeping arrangements was warm and friendly and excited to share their community with us.

They also fed us well, and not just rice and beans (although there was a lot of that)! Eggs, chorizo, tortillas, pinto for breakfast. Soup, quesadillas, potatoes and fish, spinach salad with hamburger, piccadillo perhaps and often rice and beans in different forms. We had three large meals a day: breakfast around 6 am and lunch often not until 2 o’clock or even later. Dinner would be at 6:30 and I don’t think we ever stayed up past 8 pm. Top meal? The packed lunch we picked up from Rita in a bus stop in Pacayitas. A banana-wrapped tortilla loaded with piccadillo, beans, rice, chicken, carrots and salad. As a bonus, we even ate the plate! 

Words don’t really do justice to the hiking over many different terrains. The first day we went through an Indigenous reserve, with Lorenza, our rather laconic guide who walked the whole 13 kms in wellies, waiting patiently while we struggled up or down steep river side trails thick with mud and rock. It was the most challenging walking of the Camino, and JJ fell, or rather slipped, seven times (we kept score: JJ “won” 7-1-0-0, with my slip being the only other number on the scoreboard).

Ed, stopping to tie a bootlace, spotted a fer-de-lance (terciopelo in Spanish) curled up in a patch of sun on some dried leaves at the bottom of a large tree. Beautiful, if deadly. Towards the end of that day, we crossed the Pacuare river on a hanging bridge, using a metal “basket” rather like an old-time gondola, with ropes to pull us after the swoop down to the midway point of the river. 

That first night, sleeping in a small cabin on my own, I should have been disturbed by the number of large transport trucks using their air brakes on the nearby road. But almost nothing could wake me after my 3 am start from San Jose and so many kilometres on foot. 

In the next place, again in my own personal cabin, this time an A-frame with a spectacular view over a dammed lake and Turrialba far off in the distance, I left open the doors to the balcony when I climbed into bed figuring I would be safe in my tree-top home. Soon, though, I heard a lot of rustling, and then a thump. Tired as I was, I decided I would sleep better with the door closed, and I’m glad I did as I continued to hear scrambling and thuds. I suspect they were zarigüyas (possums) or perhaps mapaches (raccoons) but didn’t want them making themselves at home inside, even if I was sleeping up in the mezzanine!

The first few hours of each day were the best for spotting birds, and I added some new ones to my life list: Collared aracari, chachalacas, scarlet-rumped tanagers, the pale-billed woodpecker, an American Kestrel and the crested guan, amongst many, many others. Perhaps I have a little ADHD as I’m much happier hiking when I have something else to do, such as searching for birds. I felt the same with diving which I embraced more whole-heartedly when I took along an underwater camera.

Cold showers marked our arrival at each new place, which is certainly a good divider between the sweat and effort of hiking, and the welcome relief of sandals and clean clothes. Temperature-wise, it was fresh in the evenings, although the most I needed was a light fleece. A bit of grit was needed to get under the cold water, but once in it felt great, and afterwards, I felt so invigorated! No wonder I slept well!

On my last night we each had a tent on the second floor of a wall-less cabin. I could NOT get comfortable at first. The mattress was thin and the pillow just a small blow-up pad. I dozed for about 20 minutes and then got twitchy. Eventually I wandered downstairs to the bathroom, then lay in the nearby hammock for almost half an hour, wondering if I should spend the night here. But I would have needed a blanket, so eventually I went back upstairs to my tent, and I’m happy I did so as I slept like a log for the rest of the night. I woke a number of times and had to rearrange myself to get back to sleep (shift onto the other side, ensuring the pillow was still wrapped in my t-shirt and clothes, then rearrange my scarf around my shoulders to protect me from the smell and feel of the cheap, polyester blankets) but each time fell deeply asleep again. Nothing like hard physical exercise to ensure good sleeping in a tent on a wooden floor. The sound of the nearby Humo river rushing along no doubt helped.

The last day’s walk was the longest – 25 kms – but the one I most enjoyed. We began with a 13-kilometre steady upward climb on a dirt road, which became more of a track and towards the summit petered out to a trail. The other side was shorter and steeper, and led into a cultivated valley lined with cloud-forest. Being a Saturday, we saw half a dozen mountain bikers. Experienced, obviously, as this was not a route for the faint-hearted.

After a delicious lunch, we walked the last five kilometres to the lodge where my fellow hikers would stay, and I was picked up for the return to San José. Thoughts of continuing on to the Pacific Ocean had crossed my mind several times over the four days, but by the end I was happy to climb into the car.

Would I do the whole route? It takes sixteen days, and I’ve only done four, but yes. I’m already making plans for 2024. Get in touch if you’re interested!

I’m trapped in a tropical paradise and need to get over my need for things to run smoothly, and as planned! This is an excellent exercise in living in the moment, enjoying where I am and who I’m with. Finding joy and satisfaction in the little things. Practise makes perfect, they say, but I don’t easily dial down my need for activity, for exploration and the desire to push myself physically. It’s just who I am. 

I’m at the beach, high up on a friend's finca overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The town of Santa Teresa lies hidden below – a place where we spent a number of Christmases as a family. Oddly enough, that doesn’t cause any emotional angst. It’s hot and dry and idyllic and filled with howler and white-faced monkeys, multitudes of birds and even a pixote (coatimundi) up a papaya tree yesterday, batting at the fruit until one came off, then climbing down incredibly quickly – think fireman on a pole – and scampering, with the fruit I presume, into the undergrowth.

It isn’t often that one gets a full week of relaxation in the company of three girlfriends who have known each other for more than two decades. At least, it isn’t for me although I know many women, and I encourage my girls to start this habit, who arrange annual get-aways with their female friends to ski or paint or cycle or practise yoga. 

Women add so much to the richness and health of my life. One thing I’m learning, or having reinforced, during this year of discovery is that people, community and friendships are what makes the world go around. This week has been such a gift.

Highlights:

A midday plunge in a tide-pool to coincide with Mads’ polar plunge into Lake Michigan last weekend. I suspect I stayed longer in the water than she did!

The birds! 

If I don’t go for an early-morning run along the incredibly dusty roads, I’ll wander with my binoculars at sunrise and be overwhelmed by birds. To list a few that I’ve seen (clockwise from top left): black-headed trogon, squirrel cuckoo, painted bunting, long-tailed manakin, Lesson's motmot, plus I've also seen baltimore orioles, a tropical kingbird, hummingbirds galore and various woodpeckers.
(photos not by me!)

More highlights? Sunsets from the rancho, rocking in the amazing Costa Rican leather rocking chairs with my friends and a cocktail, solving the world’s problems, nattering or just sitting in silence. Magic.

The ease of being with people I’ve known a long time, the simple meals we throw together (think sautéed peppers with onions, olives and capers over pasta, or roasted spiced cauliflower with zucchini and pickled carrot salad, or the minestrone soup that I brought from San José), the laughter and joy. Surprised by joy. I love that expression.

"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)