Crazy Good Fortune Out of the Blue - 4*
I awoke the next morning feeling more rested than I think I’ve ever felt in my entire adult life. Perhaps it derived from the lack of any responsibilities whatsoever or the quality of the mattress or the obscenely soft, tropical air, but I think this marvelous feeling might have also had an olfactory basis.
Our olfactory senses are often grossly underrated, taking an undeserved back seat to vision and hearing—even taste and touch. Most of the time, it’s a negative sensation: recycled farts on airplanes that have become chemically altered into something toxic and life-threatening, noxious fumes emanating from a dry cleaner’s, that weird smell reminiscent of a dog’s mouth when the dishwasher isn’t working properly … Even when some people find a cologne or aftershave they think is delightful and they douse themselves with it, not everyone is going to agree that the result is delightful. But Eau de Costa Rica was proving a heady fragrance indeed. It was fresh, citrus-y, sweet, but not too sweet, spicy, but not pungent. And with all the rampant plant life, the oxygen content was undoubtedly a great deal higher than I was used to.
After we showered and dressed, we headed into the living room where Jane, Horace, and Paul were lounging and drinking coffee, a rich Costa Rican brew that added yet another mouth-watering component to the mix. Now we could take in the view that we had missed last night. The central valley of Costa Rica lies at about 4000 ft. and is ringed with broadly sloping, massive volcanoes, forming a picturesque bowl at the bottom of which rests San José and the surrounding urban areas. Escazú sits halfway up one of the sides of the bowl, and Jane and Horace’s place looked out at Poaz, Barba, and Irazú. The most recent eruption came from Irazú when President Kennedy was visiting the country in 1963; twenty years later, though, they were more or less dormant (but not dead, which meant that they could theoretically erupt at any time), covered with a thick, verdant pelt of tropical hardwoods, jungles, and grasslands.
In the foreground, flame trees erupted in incandescent orange blossoms, and flora such as schefflera and philodendron that I had seen only in their wimpy house plant versions flourished here in towering, sumptuous, primeval profusion. Poinsettias grew in hedges, magenta bougainvillea flowered so brazenly and fluorescently I needed sunglasses to look at them. For a botanist, it was the equivalent of having gone only to zoos and then heading out on safari and being confronted with crowds of giraffes, hippos, and wildebeests. There was so much to take in, I was close to overload.
This is when Lijia, the cook, stepped in. She had been waiting and watching behind the kitchen door for Richard’s and my arrival, and the swinging door now burst open. Ana bustled out, carrying plates laden with something scrumptious-smelling, bidding us in Spanish to sit down and eat. Everyone except Jane got up and seated themselves at the dining room table, which occupied a portion of the living room, while Jane remained in her chair and received her breakfast there. Horace sat at the head of the table, Richard at the other end, while Paul and I faced each other and I had the panoramic view. Horace began several topics of conversation in his gentle, quiet voice, but Jane, who couldn’t hear him, interrupted constantly, shouting to us from her perch.
“Paul!” shouted Jane. “You should take Richard and Celeste to the Grand Hotel for lunch today!”
“Okay, Mother,” he said agreeably.
“It’s a lot of fun,” she told us, in a husky, confiding voice. “They have this charming little outdoor cafe where you can look out over the plaza and they’ve got great food. The only problem is, they have this little girl there who can’t sing at all come screech at the guests while they’re eating and everyone thinks, ‘Aw, how cute!’ But I think she’s a pest. If you give her money, she usually goes away and you can eat in peace.”
Breakfast consisted of the Costa Rican version of huevos rancheros, eggs simmered in a tasty yet unlikely combination of peas, tomatoes, and ham. Ana also served us crispy, buttery toast and fresh-squeezed orange juice. The humidity was so high that the juice glasses were soon sitting in a pool of water, which caused the coaster to stick to the bottom of the glass until I tilted it to take a drink, at which point the coaster would slide off and crash into the middle of my plate. I took to prying the coaster off the glass surreptitiously with my little finger before I lifted it and figured that Horace must be doing the same, since he didn’t have this problem. Neither Paul nor Richard got the hang of it, though, so throughout the meal, the conversation was punctuated not only by Jane’s verbal volleys, but the clatter and splash of dive-bombing coasters.
Paul took us on a tour of the grounds after breakfast, which included the porches, which were inviting and softly breezy, the kidney-shaped pool, and the five acres of lawn that Don Marcos kept immaculately short with a machete. Paul described toads that were as big as footballs, but we didn’t see any. We did catch a glimpse, however, of a blue diadem mat-mat, an exquisite azure-colored bird which possessed a long, distinctive tail feather. Lime trees grew on the property, laden with fat, juicy limes, and the lizards that scurried around here and there looked positively bejeweled, with dazzling emerald green bodies and metallic cobalt-blue heads.
As we strolled around in the limpid, liquid sunlight, drenched in tropical scents and balmy air, we started to drift into Costa Rican time, which is closely related to the dreamy, timeless trance state that Odysseus encountered in the Land of the Lotus Eaters. Before we knew it, it was the luncheon hour, even though it didn’t seem that we had done anything that morning except eat breakfast.
Paul drove us into the city of San José in a red Toyota jeep, a car we would share when Richard and I moved down here. We saw a campesino clattering along the road with an ox-drawn cart, which constituted the main art form in Costa Rica. The carts possessed a red background and were decorated with intricate geometric designs that reminded me of the hex signs that the Pennsylvania Dutch painted on their barns. Inside, the carts usually carried dozens and dozens of slender branches about an inch in diameter that the Ticos used in their grills for cooking. The fences that lined various pieces of rural property were called “living fences,” as the posts that the campesinos used for attaching barbed wired usually took root and sprouted, turning into new trees. The town of Escazú, we noted, was an interesting crazy quilt of old, working farms and new mansions occupied by expatriates—Europeans and Canadians, primarily.
One of the most impressive sights, however, was a mammoth pot hole in the asphalt. It was filled with rubbish—apparently, this was common, as asphalt was a scarce and dear commodity in Costa Rica—and it was so large and so deep that some thoughtful soul had stuck a flag into it to warn motorists to steer clear. This also turned out to be customary, so that some particularly bad roads resembled miniature fairways.
As we drew nearer to the city, we began to see lots and lots of buses, usually garishly decked out with designs painted on the bodies, and all of them named: Marvin Alfredo, Pearl of the Orient, El Gran Garabito, Athlete of Madrid. Taxis began to make appearances, too, even gaudier than the buses, with fringe swinging from the top of the windshield, colorful figurines of the Virgin Mary glued to the dashboard, Styrofoam dice and tassels dangling from the rear view mirror, mud flaps sporting silhouettes of naked, busty women, gleaming chrome hood ornaments, plastic streamers flapping from various antennae, and reflectors plastered just about everywhere.
San José, the capital city, was a collection of more cinder block buildings punctuated here and there by an occasional colonial building with white-washed adobe walls and clay tile roofs. The ever-present grates and wrought iron bars covered ground floor windows and doors, in place, according to Paul, because of the high rates of petty theft. Both cars and foot traffic thronged the streets, and in fact, in the center of town, there really wasn’t enough room for both. Pedestrians spilled out onto the streets where the cars poked along at 0.09 mph, and we were absolutely amazed when Paul managed to find a parking place. As soon as we climbed out of the car, two small boys came racing up to us. They chattered to us in Spanish, which we didn’t understand, but Paul grunted, “Sí,” and handed them each a couple of colon notes.
“They wanted to know if they could guard the car,” he explained, as we walked away. “Always say yes,” he told us, “or they’ll swipe your hubcaps themselves.”
The Grand Hotel occupied one side of the main plaza in the heart of the city, a colonial-style, three-story building with cool, covered porches. Across from the hotel was the National Theater, which had been modeled after a famous theater located in Seville, Spain. It constituted the most elegant edifice in Costa Rica and inside, was decorated with Rococo murals, gilt cherubs, and lovely foo-foo trimmings.
We settled into our seats at the Grand Hotel’s outdoor cafe, peering curiously about at the people who passed by. Most people dressed more or less the way North Americans dress, at least, in California: The men wore slacks, shoes or boots, and a short-sleeved shirt, sometimes a Guayavera. The women wore dresses, blouses and skirts, or slacks and blouses, and sandals. No one wore shorts, though, especially women, as Costa Rica was both a modest and religious country, where the Virgin Mary was deeply revered. Even when it was really hot out, women didn’t wear shorts, except at the beach. The majority of people had glossy black or brown hair and dark eyes, although a history of close ties with Germany produced the occasional redhead, and their skin color was light for Central America. Apparently, the indigenous population of Costa Rica, never very large, succumbed in horrifically large numbers to European diseases in the 1500’s, not long after Columbus “discovered” them. Most of the Ticos were of Spanish descent, except for the Jamaicans who had been brought over to build the railroad.
After a waiter had spotted us and come by the table to hand us menus, Paul leaned back in his chair to give us an orientation.
“The water’s usually okay, but don’t eat the salad. And don’t put your lime into your drink after you’ve squeezed it. Order your steaks medium at least, and peel all your fruit before you eat it. Tomatoes are okay, though. If you’re worried about the water, you can always drink beer.” We made occasional polite listening noises while he filled us in. “Now, one thing you should know,” he remarked, clasping his hands and leaning forward onto the table. “They’ve got snakes here.” He gazed at us with a delighted morbidity.
Richard nodded. “Right, they’ve got fer de lances and bushmasters.”
“That’s right. And coral snakes.”
Fortunately, I’m not that afraid of snakes—in fact, I’m oddly fond of reptiles—but this information did give me sort of a scary thrill.
“Yeah, but coral snakes’ mouths are tiny,” said Richard, “and they don’t have that hinged jaw that some other snakes have. So they have to bite you on a toe or finger.”
“If they bite you, you’re dead, though,” said Paul. “Their venom is re-e-e-al potent.”
I figured Paul was doing a snakes-and-snails-and-puppy-dogs’-tails thing, his version of dangling a big ugly green squooshy tomato bug in a girl’s face. I didn’t see any snakes coming at us at the moment, so I settled in and concentrated on what I wanted to order for lunch.
The cuisine in Costa Rica is quite simple, actually. They eat a lot of rice and black beans (“gallo pinto,” they’re called, after a speckled rooster favored by Tico farmers), chicken, tortillas, potatoes, bread, and sour cream. They have some nice cream of vegetable soups, like mushroom and asparagus, and their dairy products, like the sour cream, are quite good. They love lard (sold in those wonderfully disgusting and grub-like cellophane tubes) and put it in just about everything. They also eat steaks, fish (but only one fish, it seemed: corvina, or sea bass), pork chops, and sausages. It isn’t like Mexican cuisine with all the enchiladas, quesadillas, tamales, and tostados. In fact, “tostado” in Costa Rica means what it literally means, which is “toasted.” So you got toast if you ordered a tostado.
Eventually, the little girl that Jane had warned us about showed up, a fairly hardened-looking and ferret-faced child, I must admit, and proceeded to bleat in not a very close approximation to singing. She danced in place, kicking away with gusto in scuffed little cowboy boots while her father strummed the guitar wearing a big sappy grin. Paul hunched over for a while, trying to ignore them, but finally he dug in his pockets and threw a crumpled bill at them, which the father accepted graciously, doffing his hat. They stayed a little while longer and then finally departed.
“Whew!” muttered Paul.
Soon, our lunch came and proved quite tasty, if plain. I had ordered gallo pinto with sour cream, and the dish had been liberally garnished with eye-poppingly fresh cilantro. We sampled the local brew as well, which was gratifyingly cold and potable. After we finished, Paul signaled the waiter and mumbled, “La cuenta, por favor,” which meant, “The bill, please.”
However. I did not know this. I was just learning the language and my seventh grade Spanish consisted mainly of asking how to get to the library and commenting on how cute some guy was. I did know that in Spanish, “qu” was pronounced as a “k.” So I asked Paul how “cuenta” was spelled. Because, I said, if it’s q-u-e-n-t-a, then wouldn’t it be pronounced “kenta?”
Unfortunately, Paul, never having been much of a student as he was somewhat intellectually lazy and able to get by admirably using his native intelligence, assumed that I knew what I was talking about. I had been a good student. So when the waiter hastened over to the table, Paul amended his request and said to him in his Texan Spanish accent, in a much louder and more confident voice this time, “La quinta, por favor.”
As it turns out, “la quinta” is a small farm. It wasn’t really all that hilarious a mistake, but as it also turns out, the Ticos love to laugh. They love it more than anything. They will seize upon any occasion whatsoever to laugh themselves silly until they’re staggering around and ready to collapse, even over jokes they’ve all heard a hundred times and have memorized themselves. So the entire wait staff, along with the other diners, just roared while poor Paul reddened. They laughed and laughed. They were still laughing about it as we left. Paul was a very good sport, I must say, and only brought it up about twenty times afterward. I felt bad for setting him up, but at the same time, it’s always nice when people enjoy themselves as much as the people in the café did.
Having had plenty of downtown San José, with its throngs of people and suffocating clouds of diesel-fueled exhaust, we decided to head home. We found Jane ensconced in her throne in the living room, reading a dog-eared paperback. Horace, a writer, was working in his study. And Ana was quietly cleaning. Jane asked us if we had a good time at lunch, which we answered in the affirmative, and then she told us she had plans for the next few days. We were going to the coast, to a resort that they knew and liked.
She and Horace would fly, since the trip was somewhat long and arduous by car, but she thought that it would be fun for Paul and Richard and me to drive, see more of the country. I was at that stage in my life where “long and arduous” translated into “very, very exciting” so I skipped delightedly to our room and started packing for the beach.
I didn’t even think to get nervous until the next day.
Above: The Grand Hotel
*Intro:
At the end of 1982, both Richard and I had been out of work for a year, despite constant looking, and the best we had been able to come up with was scrounging for odd jobs. It was an economic climate much like the one we’re in now, and we were feeling both dejected and panicked about what the future might hold for us. We certainly could never have imagined what happened next.
This is chapter 4 of the memoir I wrote about the year-and-a-half that Richard and I spent living in Costa Rica. It was quite the adventure, living with a an eccentric and flamboyant heiress** from Dallas, her elegant and erudite husband who wrote Westerns, and their handsome, bad boy son, whom Richard used to babysit. Oh, yeah, and next door resided the safe house for Eden Pastora, aka “Commander Zero,” leader of the Contras who were waging a civil war with the Sandanistas in Nicaragua at that time.
This was a particularly golden era in Costa Rica’s history, before it became “discovered,” even before the introduction of television there, really (it started coming in during the time we lived there). It was wild and exotic and magical and amazing.
So twice a week, I’ll be excerpting a chapter from Crazy Good Fortune Out of the Blue until I’ve told the whole tale. I hope you enjoy these stories!
**Jane, sadly, passed away not long ago, but she left a legacy as colorful as she was. In 1984, she commissioned one of the largest environmental sculptures in the Western Hemisphere, a set of standing stones in Arlington, Texas that were designed and built by sculptor Norm Hines. Caelum Moor has been a source of enormous controversy over the years, which I’ll write about one of these days. In the meantime, feel free to Google “Caelum Moor” and see what turns up. It’s fascinating.
Monday, March 30, 2009