A couple of days ago the 3 of us took a daytrip, a test drive if you will, to the beaches northwest of Nicoya. Once we got off the main highway, I started to hang my head out the back window like a dog snuffling up all the bright, moist, lush swathes of green grass leading into fields and rough-barked oak trees.
We passed two boys riding a white horse down the road, the older boy letting the toddler in front hold the reins, serious and watchful, the baby alight with joy. Further on, a man in a blue shirt herds a dozen white cows from atop a handsome chestnut horse, dog at his feet.
So full of life, this country. Pura vida.
We stop so I can take photos at a cemetery in the hot sun, then hit the road again and pop open the first cold beers of the day, with Tupac pumping on the radio. I learn how to say Crank It! in Spanish (Volumen!).
We drive through a shady hollow and past an old couple sitting out on the porch of their blue house, in matching rocking chairs on either side of their open front door, he{s talking and turned slightly towards her, his skin dark and his hair white and bushy.
AT lunch, I learn that Jose is studying business administration and plans to work in HR. The big question facing all the young college graduates when they finish school is, do they move to the capital city, San Jose, where the jobs are, or stay in Nicoya which they love and face a much harder time earning a living. Cesar has already decided that he{s going to stay in Nicoya when he gets his law degree, because he loves it here and doesn{t like San Jose. But the tattoo artist and his wife moved to San Jose from Honduras because there{s much more work there, and they love it.
Back on the road, listening to great music from Calle 13, a Puerto Rican rap band. We pass a field where ducks and white egrets feed in the puddles at one end, and horses graze at the other. A slender young man with brown skin and periwinkle blue shorts stands, arms akimbo, watching the birds.
Finally we{re driving through the town of Potrero, a sleepy little Tico town with good restaurants (looks like) and lovely scenery. The road is graded dirt, pretty good but Jose is keeping it slow, driving about 20 kph.
We drive right up to Playa Portrero, past a breezy soda that would be every gringo{s dream but that doesn{t even merit notice from Cesar and Jose. It{s an ordinary little beach, with a man wading in with fishing nets at the far end. He seems to be fishing with the pelicans swimming nearby, but I can{t figure out how. I wade out in my dress to talk to him and take pictures. He shows me the best spot to see the pelicans roosted in a tree on the cliff above us. Later I take his picture with his wife in front of their tiny shack on the beach; they{ve been married 30 years.
We leave Playa Portrero and head north toward Playa Azucar, which I said I wanted to see, but when we crest a hill and they see that we´re a good 10km from the beach by dirt road, they turn back to find a closer beach. This turns out to be Playas Danta and Dantita, two lovely black and white sand beaches fronted by mangroves, not marked on the map or in Lonely Planet and with no other people on them. We while away an hour, the boys sitting on tree trunks and chatting while I play in the magically limpid waves.
Yesterday was Jose{s birthday and he stayed at home, so I finally got my nerve up to ask if I could borrow the mountain bike that´s been in front of the house all week. Turns out it belongs to a friend of Cesar´s and it´s in baaad shape - like a bike that´s been to Burning Man and back, the mechanisms are all caked with the fine clay dust of Nicoya. Only a few of the gears work and the seat is way too far from the handlebars for me, and hard as steel, but the brakes work and the tires are solid so off I went, with the requisite warnings from Cesar to take care (¨Cuidado!) and that it´s very far (muy larga) and dangerous (muy peligrosa) (which I have come to think must be the standard Tico response to any question regarding transportation between where you are and anywhere else). We have agreed that Cesar is my little brother but he acts more like my big brother, which is fine and dandy with me, I love being taken care of.
It turns out to be a lovely ride, a 25-30km loop along small roads through some of the tiny towns on the outskirts of Nicoya. One town is marked only by a school, another by just one house. I stop and talk to a farmer planting corn in his field the old way, with just a gourd full of corn kernels and a long stick with which he makes a hole and drops the seed, then covers it with his feet. He asks if I´m single and if I´ll go dancing with him. I say I think we should meet for coffee first and discuss our career goals, and the romance founders from there.
School lets out, and for a while I´m riding with dozens of children in blue school uniforms. Some of them smile and wave, some shout rude things about my mother (I think, who knows), some simply stare.
I got back to the house safe, sound and proud of myself for my big ride, and with my butt bones so sore I can barely sit.
In the evening, Jose helps Cesar and Karolina do the big 2-week grocery shop, since Ernesto has the family´s only working car, and then Cesar, Jose and I go pick up Marcos and head out for an evening drive to drink beers on the beach at Samara, about 40 minutes south of Nicoya. Jose is a good driver and has great tunes, but he drives very fast on these tiny, dark roads, and I see why traffic accidents are the number 1 cause of death in Costa Rica. (Foreshadowing NOT.)
Playa Samara is glorious - it´s a new moon so it´s very dark, and the tide is very far out. I leave the boys to their beers and their conversation and walk out barefoot on the velvety soft wet sand for what feels like hundreds of yards, into the perfect water, just deep enough that I can feel the pull of the riptides around my ankles. The air and the water are both the perfect temperature, so that there´s no physical discomfort whatever - neither too hot, nor too cold, something that strikes this northern Californian as a miracle. There´s no one else on the beach, and I´m so grateful for the 3 men at my back, who make it possible for me to be here, alone, in total safety.
I love listening to Costa Ricans talk - when they get going, they speak a rapid patois that sounds more like Italian than Spanish, it´s so expansive and so full of laughter. And they are so kind to one another, and to me.
I am, of course, hopelessly infatuated with Cesar, who is an absolute dreamboat of a man, and the best talker of them all. SIGH. It´s a young person´s country, though - women my age are grandmothers.
It´s an interesting place to reflect on growing old as a single woman. Compared to Ticos, I have so much money, but my life must seem so empty to them, because the center - la familia - is missing. My life doesn´t feel empty to me, but it certainly plays into my deepest fear.
