Life together en Los Desamparados De Alejuela
Alex agreed to meet me at the airport when I flew back to Costa Rica. I forgot to mention to Alex that the son of the man who I was going to rent an apartment from was supposed to be meeting me at the airport as well.
When I stepped out of the airport in Costa Rica, there were two men there waiting for me. I forgot to tell Alex about the other guy, so the whole time Alex was waiting for me, he was suspiciously eyeing another man with a sign that had my name on it. He told me that he had thought that maybe I was two-timing him.
I laughed at the sight of two men awkwardly waiting for me and explained to both what had happened.
I rented a little furnished studio apartment for a week in downtown Alejuela. There were chickens and turtles in the yard out back and a little kitty with a loud-motor purr that visited the apartment.
Alex and I were happy to be together as we lay in each others arms on the bed in the apartment. We had said goodbye before, not knowing if we’d ever see each other again.
What a relief it was to continue our troubled, but still sweet love affair. Alex and I shared a naturalness and comfort in being together. We went shopping at the market. I loved being back in the Costa Rican markets with lively Latino music playing. The US was so controlled, quiet, and lifeless in comparison. Here doing everyday things felt free, more lively. I paid for all the groceries and Alex helped me choose foods and helped teach me to cook beans and rice Tico-style. This had become our new, silent pact- Alex dedicated his life to teaching me to survive in Costa Rica, and I paid for everything. At the time it seemed fair, and living in Costa Rica was cheap.
Alex and I often sat in the plaza next to the church with the palm trees waving overhead. We’d sit close together and watch the children playing, notice old men sitting and passing the time, or comment on young couples holding hands and walking through the park.
Since Alex had quite his job to go to the beach with me three months before, he had had a series of part-time jobs that didn’t work out. He didn’t have a job, so he spent all of his time with me, teaching me how to survive.
I was living in a foreign daze at the time. I didn’t care at first if he had a job, I just wanted to cherish each moment together in the park, cooking beans together, or just being. It was a time when I wasn’t thinking about the future or past. I was deliriously intoxicated, stupefied and happy living one moment to the next.
We saw a flyer advertising a furnished apartment in the Desamparados , (hills above Alejuela) for one hundred and fifty dollars a month. It had a tiny living room, kitchen, and bed with a sink out back to wash your clothes by hand, and a clothesline to hang them on. There were around eight little apartments that shared a grassy courtyard with cages of doves. There were bushes in the courtyard with bright orange and purple flowers. It was the simple, lovely Costa Rica that I cherished. The landlord acted like a caring abuela to everyone; sometimes offering homemade food or a word of advice.
In the apartment next to ours was another foreign couple. He was an American in his thirties, and she was a Vietnamese girl of around nineteen or twenty. We could hear her trying to ask in her simple English for a shirt or other items. He was her sugar daddy. He would listen every night at 6 to an Evangelical talk show that he piped in through some sort of Ham Radio. It sounded like he was picking up a channel being transmitted from a faraway part of the universe. Alex and I would laugh every time we heard it, and Alex would mimic the impassioned words of the Evangelical leader.
It was a little life, but precious in its ingredients. I was happy, loved and living in an imaginary bliss.
I got a job teaching English classes to businessmen in San Jose. I’d commute around the city everyday, traveling to businessmens’ offices to give classes. The pay was around eight dollars an hour, which was ok to survive in Costa Rica.
That, and Alex was doing most of the cooking --beans, rice and fried eggs is pretty cheap.
After Alex and I settled into our apartment and I started doing my 6:30 am bus commute to San Jose, I began to wonder how long Alex was planning on playing my housewife. I couldn’t complain in some ways. He got up at 5:30 am, made me coffee and breakfast, cleaned the house, and made dinner at 6 in the evening when I returned. It was a long day, and I enjoyed having someone taking care of me. I wondered how it was possible that I ended up in a Latin American country and found a guy to cook and clean for me. This was not at all the macho stereotype.
However, it also wasn’t something I wanted to go on forever. My idea of a relationship was two people working, contributing, and sharing the cooking and cleaning. I couldn’t see myself as the sole provider.
After our first month together, I started asking Alex about getting a job. He said he’d asked around a little, and that it was difficult and took a long time to find work in Costa Rica. I was alarmed at his slow pace. Whenever I was out of work, I’d spend all day, everyday looking for a job. I was a little upset, but told myself that I was in another country and couldn’t really know how it worked here in Costa Rica. Alex told me that sometimes it took around a year to find a job. “What!” I thought. He also asked me to ask one of my executive business students about a job in their factories. This didn’t seem like a very dignified way to look for a job, so I refused to do it.
I suppose this was my first glimpse of Alex’s shady, mooch side. Instead of taking note of the real situation, I often made excuses for him that he was poor and from a country with few opportunities. I brushed everything under the rug so that I could remain in bliss and have someone take care of me. I couldn’t make it in Costa Rica without Alex’s help.
It wasn’t an ideal relationship, but we both got something out of it-companionship and survival. We were using each other, but it was on both sides, and we genuinely adored one another. I had money to pay for him, and he had time to help me. For around four months we lived with this arrangement.
Alex showed me how to wash my laundry by hand, soak the clothes in a bucket, agitate with your hand, rinse and hang. The abuela landlord would give Alex recipes for homemade gelatin and other things. I’d spend my days off in the hammock outside of our apartment studying and practicing Spanish by asking Alex absurd questions that he’d patiently answer as I practiced. He didn’t usually correct me, and this made me think that I knew how to say things correctly. I would try to say something to someone at the local store and they would give me a funny look, barely understanding.
Alex had learned how to interpret many of my three word, backward attempts to speak. He had no interest in learning English. I guess he didn’t see the point since we were living in a Spanish speaking country. He wasn’t studious. He preferred lessons learned on the street.
Every weekend Alex would travel back to his hometown two hours away to visit his family. He told me that his brain felt all scrambled-up switching back and forth between his normal Spanish and the weird language that we communicated with.
His grandpa once told him, “Cuida la Alex,” (take care of her,) and he did, to the best of his ability.
The drinking wasn’t a problem during our months living together. He smoked pot during the day and I chose to ignore this habit since it didn’t seem as bad as drinking and he was pleasant to be around when he smoked it.
Our artificial home-spun bliss lasted for about three months. We had exchanged “I love you’s” and had grown close, but the dormant problem of alcoholism appeared again.
On Friday nights I took a Salsa, Merengue dance class. It helped me learn to dance and feel a part of Costa Rican community. Alex stayed home.
One Friday night I noticed an empty beer bottle in the kitchen. My heart froze. As far as I knew, he hadn’t been drinking since we moved in together and because of this we had managed to keep the peace.
“Were you drinking?” I asked him.
He made up some excuse as to why there was an empty beer bottle in the kitchen. I tried to be calm, but I was afraid of the problems that alcohol would bring.
A week later Alex and I decided it would be nice to have a TV and fan in our tiny abode. I gave him the money I saved to go get a good deal on a used TV.
That evening he came to pick me up at my dance class. He was staggering drunk. We rode the public bus home together and he was explaining in a loud, drunken voice that he had only drank because he was so sad that I was thinking of leaving again. I asked him what had happened to him buying the TV that day. He admitted that he used some of that money that I gave him to spend the afternoon drinking. Alex was drunk and a little out-of-control so I hushed the situation and took my anger to bed with me.
When I woke the next morning I tried to ask him over and over “How could you do it?” I asked in disbelief. “How could you use that money that I saved to drink?” I really couldn’t understand how someone I loved and trusted could betray me, our union, and do something like this. I was naïve about the patterns of addiction and alchoholism. I didn’t want to believe the truth that was being shown to me-that the addict or alcoholic would betray anyone to fulfill the need for the substance.
Alex promised to get help by going to narcotics anonymous meetings for people who are addicted to drugs and drinking. I had to face that the pot-smoking was just as much of a problem and addiction as the alcohol.
I realized after that night that I was in over my head. If my sole support in Costa Rica was capable of stealing from me and betraying me, that meant I had no one and would have to leave. I started making plans to leave within a month.
Alex was desperate to make me believe that he could go to meetings and everything could be ok again, but I didn’t trust him anymore. I wasn’t sure which was worse: to be alone in a foreign, somewhat dangerous city or continue to live with someone with a drinking problem.
I made a plane reservation to fly back to the US in three weeks. “What have I gotten myself into?” I asked myself. I had trusted Alex with my life and now I didn’t even trust him knowing where my wallet was.
I was horrified and sad. He tried to explain what had happened, but my Spanish was too limited to understand any in-depth explanation.
I didn’t tell him that I had plans to leave. I was afraid of things getting even more out-of-control. I felt alone and vulnerable. I pretended that things were somewhat repairable just to keep the peace until I could fly the coup to safer ground.
Alex had been living with me full-time but after the incident I told him that he needed to live at home and he could visit and we could work things out.
Before he left, Alex made a desperate attempt to get me to stay in Costa Rica and make everything equal between us. While I was working he hocked my gold-plated crucifixion necklace that I had won in a raffle.
He told me when I got home that he did it, and asked me to believe him that he used the money to try to get a job. It was an ironic act and I wasn’t really going to miss the necklace. However, it confirmed the desperation and deterioration of our previously blissful life together. I didn’t believe anything he told me anymore. I told him he needed professional help and the situation was too much for me. He told me about a place he had gone to for two years in his adolescence. It was a drug rehab center where kids go and live to try to recover from alcohol and drug abuse. The seriousness of his problems with addiction as I let it sink in that I was living with someone who had serious enough problems to have lived in a rehab center for two years.
Alex wrote me a letter saying that I was the light in his life that had loved him, believed in him, and inspired him to continue to recover from addiction. He asked me if I would go with him to take him back to rehab where he would voluntarily admit himself to try to recover completely, both for himself and for our relationship.
I wanted out of the whole crazed mess, but I had loved him and wanted to help. I went with him to the rehab center. We held hands in the courtyard feeling sad. I agreed to go see him the following weekend before I flew back to the United States. We cried and I left him there, walked down the road, and caught a bus back to Alajuela alone. I felt very sad and very alone.
I worked in the city giving classes for another week. On the following weekend I took several buses and traveled for over an hour to see him. He looked upset, haggard, and angry when I saw him. He said he was angry that I left him there and was going to leave the country. He didn’t seem to understand that I couldn’t stay even if I wanted to. Inside I just wanted to get the hell out of Costa Rica and this situation that had blown up in my face.
He announced he was leaving the rehab center and going back to Alajuela with me. I told him that it wasn’t a good idea, but he insisted. He walked down the road with me with bags in hand. When we walked through the local park he ran into a friend of his, an older man that he knew from rehab. He was telling the friend the situation and telling him what a terrible person I was for leaving him. The older friend told Alex to get control of the addiction, keep going to meetings, and take responsibility for the situation.
I said good-bye to Alex and caught the next bus to get the hell out of there. I had been trying to help him and he had resorted to blaming me. I didn’t know it could get that bad.
We walked our separate ways down the streets of Cartago. I was walking, crying, and thinking that I wouldn’t see him again. I wondered how something innocent and loving had gotten so ugly and out-of-control so quickly. I was fleeing Costa Rica the next day on the plane.
My attempts at making it with Alex, or on my own had failed.
After being gone for a few days, Alex came back to Alajuela and met me in the park. We didn’t greet each other with the smiles that we had had before- no more of the innocent adoration of the past. We were guarded with each other now and sat rigidly on the park bench together. I finally told him that I planned to leave the country in a week. He started crying and asked me in Spanish, “Is this the thanks I get for taking care of you and helping you?” It almost worked to make me feel guilty, but I knew in my heart that I hadn’t just used him, I had loved him, but the problems were too big and left me too vulnerable to stay in Costa Rica alone. I flew home.
Six Months Later….
After leaving the country for six months I decided to go back, but only after finding a situation where I would have a stable job and community of ex-pats. I did succeed in becoming fluent in Spanish. I didn’t ever make things work with Alex. It was one of the best experiences of my life so far and even when it was bad, it was worth it.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Chapter 7, Costa Rican Romance
From Costa Rica to Burly, Idaho
I flew from a warm, tropical land to the dead of winter. My sister offered to let me stay on her potato farm in Southern Idaho while I gathered myself together and decided what to do next.
I went from beaches and palm trees, to the open farm country, and sagebrush covered hills of Southern Idaho. My body went into shock since in Costa Rica it was balmy and warm, and in Idaho it was snowy and frozen. I couldn’t stop shaking except when I stood in front of the fireplace.
I was miserably sad. I missed my home and family that I had lived with in the rainforest, and my troubled love, Alex.
I bundled up in a wool hat and winter coat, and went for long walks down the empty country roads. I was trying to make peace with the intense loss I felt after leaving Costa Rica. I had been living my dream in every way, and now I was alone on my sister’s farm while she went on a ten day vacation. I missed Alex desperately and called him. I was never good at letting go.
In the meantime Joe, my ex-boyfriend, called me wanting to know if he could come see me. He bought a ticket to fly from Boston to Southern Idaho. There had never been complete closure to the end of our relationship.
Joe knew I was seeing someone in Costa Rica. He wanted to come anyway. We were such fellow dreamers, artists.
He arrived several days later. I felt the same mixture I always felt when I saw him, mesmerized and afraid. He had a magic about him. He would enchant me with this magic and make me feel special, but it never lasted long. It always ended in disillusionment when he would focus his magic on another woman.
We spent several days doing what we liked to do together: hiking up barren snow-covered hills and staring out over the valley while we sipped tea from the warm thermos we brought with us.
We were both writers, and lovers of the peace found in nature’s solitude. We had everything in common except that our personal natures collided. I am generally quiet, soft, shy and patient with an edge, and he is loud, outspoken, energetic, and brusk, with a quiet side. We repelled one another except in rare moments when we aligned perfectly in peace to watch a bird fly through the forest or in perfect passion. Overtime these moments became more and more rare and our effort to stay together was a tearful, frustrating mess. We not only kicked the dead horse that was our relationship, we also insisted on dragging it behind us until we collapsed and separated, exhausted.
Sitting atop the valley and looking at the river snaking through the valley below, we realized again that here we were, sharing a peaceful moment of perfection, but we still didn’t really like each other and never would. It was over. My eight months away in Costa Rica was enough for us to see and accept that it wasn’t ever going to work out.
I missed Alex who, even with his problems, was continually sweet, funny and adoring. Joe flew back to Boston and I was glad it was over, and thankful for meeting Alex, who helped me escape from Joe’s devastating spells of enchantment that almost did me in.
I grew lonelier and lonelier in my ten days alone on the farm. I tried to look into jobs in the US, but my heart was hooked. I decided to go back to Costa Rica.
I flew from a warm, tropical land to the dead of winter. My sister offered to let me stay on her potato farm in Southern Idaho while I gathered myself together and decided what to do next.
I went from beaches and palm trees, to the open farm country, and sagebrush covered hills of Southern Idaho. My body went into shock since in Costa Rica it was balmy and warm, and in Idaho it was snowy and frozen. I couldn’t stop shaking except when I stood in front of the fireplace.
I was miserably sad. I missed my home and family that I had lived with in the rainforest, and my troubled love, Alex.
I bundled up in a wool hat and winter coat, and went for long walks down the empty country roads. I was trying to make peace with the intense loss I felt after leaving Costa Rica. I had been living my dream in every way, and now I was alone on my sister’s farm while she went on a ten day vacation. I missed Alex desperately and called him. I was never good at letting go.
In the meantime Joe, my ex-boyfriend, called me wanting to know if he could come see me. He bought a ticket to fly from Boston to Southern Idaho. There had never been complete closure to the end of our relationship.
Joe knew I was seeing someone in Costa Rica. He wanted to come anyway. We were such fellow dreamers, artists.
He arrived several days later. I felt the same mixture I always felt when I saw him, mesmerized and afraid. He had a magic about him. He would enchant me with this magic and make me feel special, but it never lasted long. It always ended in disillusionment when he would focus his magic on another woman.
We spent several days doing what we liked to do together: hiking up barren snow-covered hills and staring out over the valley while we sipped tea from the warm thermos we brought with us.
We were both writers, and lovers of the peace found in nature’s solitude. We had everything in common except that our personal natures collided. I am generally quiet, soft, shy and patient with an edge, and he is loud, outspoken, energetic, and brusk, with a quiet side. We repelled one another except in rare moments when we aligned perfectly in peace to watch a bird fly through the forest or in perfect passion. Overtime these moments became more and more rare and our effort to stay together was a tearful, frustrating mess. We not only kicked the dead horse that was our relationship, we also insisted on dragging it behind us until we collapsed and separated, exhausted.
Sitting atop the valley and looking at the river snaking through the valley below, we realized again that here we were, sharing a peaceful moment of perfection, but we still didn’t really like each other and never would. It was over. My eight months away in Costa Rica was enough for us to see and accept that it wasn’t ever going to work out.
I missed Alex who, even with his problems, was continually sweet, funny and adoring. Joe flew back to Boston and I was glad it was over, and thankful for meeting Alex, who helped me escape from Joe’s devastating spells of enchantment that almost did me in.
I grew lonelier and lonelier in my ten days alone on the farm. I tried to look into jobs in the US, but my heart was hooked. I decided to go back to Costa Rica.
Chapter 6, Costa Rican Romance
Last Night Before Departure
I had only planned on being in Costa Rica for eight months and around Christmas time it was time to go home. I didn’t want to go, but I hadn’t planned on staying any longer. I decided to leave.
Alex had come to San Jose to spend the night with me and go to the airport with me to say goodbye. He bought a bottle of boons and drank most of it. Although I had become agitated and upset over his alcohol dependence during our last 2 months together, on our last night I decided I didn’t care much.
We caught a bus early in the morning to the airport. Alex looked a little sick, but he made his usual attempt to smile and joke as we rode on the bus cuddled close.
I told him I didn’t know if I’d come back to Costa Rica. I had only planned on being there for 6-8 months and that time was up.
The bus arrived at the airport and we got out. Because 9’11 had just happened a few months earlier, security had tightened and Alex couldn’t enter the airport. We had to say good-bye outside. We hugged to say goodbye, but couldn’t let go. We were both crying, almost sobbing. I didn’t want to let him go.
We finally let go of one another. I got on the plane and tears rolled down my face as the plane took off and headed North.
I had only planned on being in Costa Rica for eight months and around Christmas time it was time to go home. I didn’t want to go, but I hadn’t planned on staying any longer. I decided to leave.
Alex had come to San Jose to spend the night with me and go to the airport with me to say goodbye. He bought a bottle of boons and drank most of it. Although I had become agitated and upset over his alcohol dependence during our last 2 months together, on our last night I decided I didn’t care much.
We caught a bus early in the morning to the airport. Alex looked a little sick, but he made his usual attempt to smile and joke as we rode on the bus cuddled close.
I told him I didn’t know if I’d come back to Costa Rica. I had only planned on being there for 6-8 months and that time was up.
The bus arrived at the airport and we got out. Because 9’11 had just happened a few months earlier, security had tightened and Alex couldn’t enter the airport. We had to say good-bye outside. We hugged to say goodbye, but couldn’t let go. We were both crying, almost sobbing. I didn’t want to let him go.
We finally let go of one another. I got on the plane and tears rolled down my face as the plane took off and headed North.
Chapter 5, Costa Rican Romance
Trying to Break-up in Cartago
We met in a little pueblo near Alex’s home and spent the night there. The weekend had confirmed my lingering suspicions that Alex was an alcoholic. Every time we went out to eat lunch or dinner, Alex was fixated on finding somewhere he could drink beer.
Everywhere we went in San Jose or Orosi it was the same-he had to drink.
I knew all about co-dependant relationships, since my relationship with Joe, my ex, had had many of those unhealthy qualities.
I didn’t want to make it my project to save Alex or start threatening him to change. Up to that point our relationship had been pure freedom and no rules, threats or expectation. We had accepted each other as we were.
As we sat together on a bench in town I tried to explain to him in my patchy Spanish that I saw that he had problems and that we couldn’t be together. I was caught off-guard by his reaction. He began to cry. There, in the middle of town, for the whole world to see, he started to cry and told me that he wanted to get better. He said that he knew programs that he could be in, and he would do whatever it took to get better so that we could be together.
I think I was nearly crying then too. Both, because it felt so good, dangerously good, to be needed, and wanted, and because I really wanted to be with him. I really wanted to believe that he could get better.
I agreed to keep seeing him, but it was the beginning of “conditions,” and the end of the carefree puppy love-affair we had been playing in.
We met in a little pueblo near Alex’s home and spent the night there. The weekend had confirmed my lingering suspicions that Alex was an alcoholic. Every time we went out to eat lunch or dinner, Alex was fixated on finding somewhere he could drink beer.
Everywhere we went in San Jose or Orosi it was the same-he had to drink.
I knew all about co-dependant relationships, since my relationship with Joe, my ex, had had many of those unhealthy qualities.
I didn’t want to make it my project to save Alex or start threatening him to change. Up to that point our relationship had been pure freedom and no rules, threats or expectation. We had accepted each other as we were.
As we sat together on a bench in town I tried to explain to him in my patchy Spanish that I saw that he had problems and that we couldn’t be together. I was caught off-guard by his reaction. He began to cry. There, in the middle of town, for the whole world to see, he started to cry and told me that he wanted to get better. He said that he knew programs that he could be in, and he would do whatever it took to get better so that we could be together.
I think I was nearly crying then too. Both, because it felt so good, dangerously good, to be needed, and wanted, and because I really wanted to be with him. I really wanted to believe that he could get better.
I agreed to keep seeing him, but it was the beginning of “conditions,” and the end of the carefree puppy love-affair we had been playing in.
Chapter 4, Costa Rican Romance
Romantic Nicoya
We boarded the local ferry like two kids running free. It was a warm night, but the breeze coming off the ocean cooled us off. We had had a few beers while we waited for the ferry. This gave the boat ride the perfect combination of excitement and ease. We sat up top the ferry. It was the highest deck and there were only flat benches to sit on. There were older couples holding each other in romantic embraces, some kissing. The moon was reflected off the water and the dark outline of Nicoya Peninsula coud be seen across the bay.
We held each other and smiled like uncomfortable kids in love, and surrounded by romantic couples kissing on the deck. I was drunk with romantic love, foreign enchantment and a few beers.
We spent the night in a cheap motel. When I woke up the next morning, I started speaking English to Alex, then stopped mid-sentence when he smiled at my gibberish, not having understood a word that I said. I switched over and tried to speak to him in Spanish. It was the beginning of learning Spanish through a foreign romance. The few words I could find in the Spanish/English dictionary would have to be enough.
That day we took a local bus a few hours to get to Playa Tambor. After putting our things away in an inexpensive motel we walked down to the beach. The bay was enclosed enough to calm the sea so that only long, flat waves gently washed ashore.
We walked past the sand beach to a rocky outcropping with a bar on wooden stilts out at sea. We drank a few beers on ice with lime slices and listened to Spanish songs, savoring the moment.
Never in my life had I felt so in the moment: a series of wonderful moments.
We left the bar with a nice warm mid-day buzz. As we walked down the beach I pulled on his arm to join me in a swim. He expressed that he couldn’t swim.
There was no current in the bay. It was more like a big pool, so I motioned for him to wade only up to his waist with me. I had him lie back in my arms and float on his back in the water. He relaxed and floated as I held him up gently, letting the long, slow waves pass under him. Somehow this became symbolic of our whole relationship, until one day I would have to let go of him in the water.
After drying off we had one passionate kiss that led us to our motel room. We had sex that was a bit inexperienced and awkward with me always resisting the urge to say, “Nice try sweety.” Inwardly I accepted the dissatisfaction as part of the deal beause he was sweeter, more faithful, and more adoring than anyone had even been to me. My boyfriend before him had been a passionate lover, but constantly looked at other women and cheated on me. Alex’s faithful adoration was worth the lack of satisfying sex.
As Alex got up out of bed to take a shower he threw his shorts to me and told me, “planche los” (iron them). My blissful appreciation of him was replaced by indignation. I flipped through my Spanish/English dictionary as fast as I could, looking for the word “slave”.
“Yo no soy su esclave!” (I’m not your slave) I insisted coldly. I threw his shorts back at him and explained that he couldn’t treat me like his servant. He didn’t say much and headed for the shower.
The next morning we walked down a country road to catch the bus that was going to be passing by. We walked with our heads close to one another so that we could each have an earphone to his walkman. We were like two teenagers experiencing first love. Something about the inability to communicate fully in each others language made it sweet, and innocent.
Every moment of the trip had some sort of magic, even riding the bus. We rode through the countryside covered with lush, long green grassed fields and African-Savannah-like trees. We passed the occasional simple ranchero home.
The bus hit bumpy areas with potholes and we were thrown from side to side as the bus driver swerved to miss the potholes. Alex mimed being the bus driver, making swerving gestures in the air with his hand and acting like he was switching gears on the bus. He had me laughing as always and even when I wasn’t laughing, I couldn’t stop smiling. It was like being with a Latino Jim Carey.
We stayed that night in a tourist town called Playa……… The town was packed with European and American tourists. The hotel we stayed in felt like an international youth hostel. Someone asked if we wanted to smoke weed with their group of friends on the balcony. It make me uncomfortable to be around other foreigners and drugs.
I enjoyed the simplicity of my experience in Costa Rica and didn’t want much to do with the vagabond traveler backpack scene. Alex smoked some weed, but I declined. It created a wedge between us. That evening there was loud reggae music blasting into our room and Alex wanted to go join the party. The wedge was growing wider because I didn’t want to party. I just wanted to be in a nice, quiet place together. I started freaking out inside and crying. He wanted to know what was wrong and I found the word “depression” in my dictionary, but that wasn’t really the problem. I didn’t want to see it at the time, but I had started to see how drawn Alex was to drinking and smoking pot, when I didn’t want to get involved in the things that I left in the past.
The night before in Playa Tambor he drug me all over town to find a place to buy beer. When he couldn’t find anyplace open, he knocked on closed doors until he found someone to sell him a six pack.
We drank a few beers under a palm tree that night and he told me how much that moment meant to him. I had a feeling in the back of my brain that the moment he was thankful for was the moment with me, the playa, and the beer, and each weighed equally in his satisfaction. I was very uncomfortable with his insistence on finding beer and the next evening he was drawn to drink in the afternoon and the later at the party.
I was torn between ignoring his dependence on drinking and being honest with myself that the blissful puppy-love between us was doomed.
The next day we took a bus to an even more remote local called Mal Pais. When we arrived we walked down a long dirt road and saw monkeys in the trees overhead. We could hear the ocean crashing against the beach in the distance. This was the most remote point of the peninsula.
Alex found a nice, simple cabina for us to stay in, but something had been lost between our first night together and that night-innocence. Things were strained between us. I started to resent his dependence on beer and he started to resent my resentment. The next time he wanted to get a beer at the cabinas he went alone, and I went to the beach alone to think.
I had never fallen in love and then into despair so quickly. Our last day together on the trip was disappointing. The next day we rode many hours through the remote countryside on buses and crossed back over to the other side to Puntarenas.
I went and waited with him for the bus that he was taking home. He boarded the bus, looked at me out of the window, and waved good-bye. Neither of us was smiling freely as we had before. We waved good-bye feeling a connection, but also a new distance created by problems uncovered and unsolved.
I kept on with my journey up to Playa Ocotal to watch baby sea turtles hatch and head out to sea led by the moonlight that reflects off the sea foam.
We boarded the local ferry like two kids running free. It was a warm night, but the breeze coming off the ocean cooled us off. We had had a few beers while we waited for the ferry. This gave the boat ride the perfect combination of excitement and ease. We sat up top the ferry. It was the highest deck and there were only flat benches to sit on. There were older couples holding each other in romantic embraces, some kissing. The moon was reflected off the water and the dark outline of Nicoya Peninsula coud be seen across the bay.
We held each other and smiled like uncomfortable kids in love, and surrounded by romantic couples kissing on the deck. I was drunk with romantic love, foreign enchantment and a few beers.
We spent the night in a cheap motel. When I woke up the next morning, I started speaking English to Alex, then stopped mid-sentence when he smiled at my gibberish, not having understood a word that I said. I switched over and tried to speak to him in Spanish. It was the beginning of learning Spanish through a foreign romance. The few words I could find in the Spanish/English dictionary would have to be enough.
That day we took a local bus a few hours to get to Playa Tambor. After putting our things away in an inexpensive motel we walked down to the beach. The bay was enclosed enough to calm the sea so that only long, flat waves gently washed ashore.
We walked past the sand beach to a rocky outcropping with a bar on wooden stilts out at sea. We drank a few beers on ice with lime slices and listened to Spanish songs, savoring the moment.
Never in my life had I felt so in the moment: a series of wonderful moments.
We left the bar with a nice warm mid-day buzz. As we walked down the beach I pulled on his arm to join me in a swim. He expressed that he couldn’t swim.
There was no current in the bay. It was more like a big pool, so I motioned for him to wade only up to his waist with me. I had him lie back in my arms and float on his back in the water. He relaxed and floated as I held him up gently, letting the long, slow waves pass under him. Somehow this became symbolic of our whole relationship, until one day I would have to let go of him in the water.
After drying off we had one passionate kiss that led us to our motel room. We had sex that was a bit inexperienced and awkward with me always resisting the urge to say, “Nice try sweety.” Inwardly I accepted the dissatisfaction as part of the deal beause he was sweeter, more faithful, and more adoring than anyone had even been to me. My boyfriend before him had been a passionate lover, but constantly looked at other women and cheated on me. Alex’s faithful adoration was worth the lack of satisfying sex.
As Alex got up out of bed to take a shower he threw his shorts to me and told me, “planche los” (iron them). My blissful appreciation of him was replaced by indignation. I flipped through my Spanish/English dictionary as fast as I could, looking for the word “slave”.
“Yo no soy su esclave!” (I’m not your slave) I insisted coldly. I threw his shorts back at him and explained that he couldn’t treat me like his servant. He didn’t say much and headed for the shower.
The next morning we walked down a country road to catch the bus that was going to be passing by. We walked with our heads close to one another so that we could each have an earphone to his walkman. We were like two teenagers experiencing first love. Something about the inability to communicate fully in each others language made it sweet, and innocent.
Every moment of the trip had some sort of magic, even riding the bus. We rode through the countryside covered with lush, long green grassed fields and African-Savannah-like trees. We passed the occasional simple ranchero home.
The bus hit bumpy areas with potholes and we were thrown from side to side as the bus driver swerved to miss the potholes. Alex mimed being the bus driver, making swerving gestures in the air with his hand and acting like he was switching gears on the bus. He had me laughing as always and even when I wasn’t laughing, I couldn’t stop smiling. It was like being with a Latino Jim Carey.
We stayed that night in a tourist town called Playa……… The town was packed with European and American tourists. The hotel we stayed in felt like an international youth hostel. Someone asked if we wanted to smoke weed with their group of friends on the balcony. It make me uncomfortable to be around other foreigners and drugs.
I enjoyed the simplicity of my experience in Costa Rica and didn’t want much to do with the vagabond traveler backpack scene. Alex smoked some weed, but I declined. It created a wedge between us. That evening there was loud reggae music blasting into our room and Alex wanted to go join the party. The wedge was growing wider because I didn’t want to party. I just wanted to be in a nice, quiet place together. I started freaking out inside and crying. He wanted to know what was wrong and I found the word “depression” in my dictionary, but that wasn’t really the problem. I didn’t want to see it at the time, but I had started to see how drawn Alex was to drinking and smoking pot, when I didn’t want to get involved in the things that I left in the past.
The night before in Playa Tambor he drug me all over town to find a place to buy beer. When he couldn’t find anyplace open, he knocked on closed doors until he found someone to sell him a six pack.
We drank a few beers under a palm tree that night and he told me how much that moment meant to him. I had a feeling in the back of my brain that the moment he was thankful for was the moment with me, the playa, and the beer, and each weighed equally in his satisfaction. I was very uncomfortable with his insistence on finding beer and the next evening he was drawn to drink in the afternoon and the later at the party.
I was torn between ignoring his dependence on drinking and being honest with myself that the blissful puppy-love between us was doomed.
The next day we took a bus to an even more remote local called Mal Pais. When we arrived we walked down a long dirt road and saw monkeys in the trees overhead. We could hear the ocean crashing against the beach in the distance. This was the most remote point of the peninsula.
Alex found a nice, simple cabina for us to stay in, but something had been lost between our first night together and that night-innocence. Things were strained between us. I started to resent his dependence on beer and he started to resent my resentment. The next time he wanted to get a beer at the cabinas he went alone, and I went to the beach alone to think.
I had never fallen in love and then into despair so quickly. Our last day together on the trip was disappointing. The next day we rode many hours through the remote countryside on buses and crossed back over to the other side to Puntarenas.
I went and waited with him for the bus that he was taking home. He boarded the bus, looked at me out of the window, and waved good-bye. Neither of us was smiling freely as we had before. We waved good-bye feeling a connection, but also a new distance created by problems uncovered and unsolved.
I kept on with my journey up to Playa Ocotal to watch baby sea turtles hatch and head out to sea led by the moonlight that reflects off the sea foam.
Chapter 3, Costa Rican Romance
Meeting the Costa Rican Mother
We had only been seeing each other for about a month, so I wasn’t sure if I should ask Alex, but the impetuous romantic in me decided I had to at least try.
I asked him if he wanted to go to Nicoya Peninsula with me for a week. With English/Spanish dictionary in hand I tried to translate his answer. He said something about wanting to go, but having to work. I asked him if he just wanted to meet for the weekend.
True to Alex’s equally impetuous and irresponsible nature, he quit his job to go with me. I hadn’t met his mom, but I was sure that she would hate me since I would now be connected with her son quitting his job. To make matters worse, we had just spent the night together in the city. In Costa Rica people often live with their families until they get married. At 24 years old, Alex was still living at home. He neglected to call his mom and tell her where he was the night before.
That morning, after asking him to go on vacation with me, he asked me to go meet his mom and ask her permission about the trip. This seemed like a horrible idea, but I reluctantly agreed. We took two long bus trips to arrive at his house in Cartago.
His mother said a stiff, “Hola,” with her hands at her sides when she met me. She didn’t look pleased. She made me some coffee. Alex slipped out and left me alone with his mom and little sister. I could barely understand what she was saying, but I could tell that her questions were investigative in nature. His mom and sister started telling me that something was wrong with Alex, but I didn’t understand what they were saying. I probably didn’t really want to understand what they were saying. I did get the idea that it had something to do with Alex having a problem with alcohol. It was something I had started to piece together, started to suspect, but didn’t have any real proof. They were trying to give me proof and a way out, but love often chooses to be blind.
Alex came back from the store a few minutes later and everything resumed to normal as if we had never had a conversation about him. The whole thing was terribly uncomfortable and left me feeling uncertain of what to do.
I had a nagging suspicion that I had fallen into another one of my romantic disasters, but my heart insisted on Alex even after his mothers attempt to warn me.
We had only been seeing each other for about a month, so I wasn’t sure if I should ask Alex, but the impetuous romantic in me decided I had to at least try.
I asked him if he wanted to go to Nicoya Peninsula with me for a week. With English/Spanish dictionary in hand I tried to translate his answer. He said something about wanting to go, but having to work. I asked him if he just wanted to meet for the weekend.
True to Alex’s equally impetuous and irresponsible nature, he quit his job to go with me. I hadn’t met his mom, but I was sure that she would hate me since I would now be connected with her son quitting his job. To make matters worse, we had just spent the night together in the city. In Costa Rica people often live with their families until they get married. At 24 years old, Alex was still living at home. He neglected to call his mom and tell her where he was the night before.
That morning, after asking him to go on vacation with me, he asked me to go meet his mom and ask her permission about the trip. This seemed like a horrible idea, but I reluctantly agreed. We took two long bus trips to arrive at his house in Cartago.
His mother said a stiff, “Hola,” with her hands at her sides when she met me. She didn’t look pleased. She made me some coffee. Alex slipped out and left me alone with his mom and little sister. I could barely understand what she was saying, but I could tell that her questions were investigative in nature. His mom and sister started telling me that something was wrong with Alex, but I didn’t understand what they were saying. I probably didn’t really want to understand what they were saying. I did get the idea that it had something to do with Alex having a problem with alcohol. It was something I had started to piece together, started to suspect, but didn’t have any real proof. They were trying to give me proof and a way out, but love often chooses to be blind.
Alex came back from the store a few minutes later and everything resumed to normal as if we had never had a conversation about him. The whole thing was terribly uncomfortable and left me feeling uncertain of what to do.
I had a nagging suspicion that I had fallen into another one of my romantic disasters, but my heart insisted on Alex even after his mothers attempt to warn me.
Chapter 2, Costa Rican Romance
Debaucherous Nights in San Jose
Alex and I would meet in San Jose on the weekends to spend time with one another.
“Encontramos en frente del Teatro Nacional, bien?” (We’ll meet in front of the National Theater, ok?”) I said to him on the phone. I always tried to make the conversation as short as possible.
I’d sit and wait for him or he’d wait for me in front of the National Theater. Every time we spotted one another a big smile would appear on both of our faces. Alex defied the Latin American reputation for lateness. He was always there waiting for me when he said he would be. We would head out for some Pollo Asado, (roasted chicken) and a few Imperials. We could say little to each other but still feel connected.
Nights would inevitably lead us to the seedy motel with a row of flags from many nations flapping in front of each rooms mini-balcony.
Our first night at the motel seemed normal and a good bargain: a room with its own balcony for eight dollars a night. While staying there a second night, a new reality came into focus that I wasn’t aware of before. I noticed signs on the wall that gave the hourly rate for the hotel.
“Hugh?” I thought. “People come here by the hour?”
Alex and I started laughing together one night when we heard loud porno-queen moaning coming from a woman in the room next door.
“Es real?” (Is it real?) I asked Alex.
Alex told me it was probably a hooker. This theory was supported, but not proven by the fact that the couple only spent about a half hour in the room. It was either one hot, illicit affair or one vocal prostitute. It became rather sick, but funny entertainment to listen to the couples performance next door as they came and went every hour or so.
Alex also explained that the motel attracted young, secret love affairs and marital affairs. It wasn’t a place to stay while traveling, it was peoples’ final destination.
This made sense in the context of Tico culture where people usually live with their parents until they marry. After making out in the park, well….where’s a couple to go?
Alex and I would meet in San Jose on the weekends to spend time with one another.
“Encontramos en frente del Teatro Nacional, bien?” (We’ll meet in front of the National Theater, ok?”) I said to him on the phone. I always tried to make the conversation as short as possible.
I’d sit and wait for him or he’d wait for me in front of the National Theater. Every time we spotted one another a big smile would appear on both of our faces. Alex defied the Latin American reputation for lateness. He was always there waiting for me when he said he would be. We would head out for some Pollo Asado, (roasted chicken) and a few Imperials. We could say little to each other but still feel connected.
Nights would inevitably lead us to the seedy motel with a row of flags from many nations flapping in front of each rooms mini-balcony.
Our first night at the motel seemed normal and a good bargain: a room with its own balcony for eight dollars a night. While staying there a second night, a new reality came into focus that I wasn’t aware of before. I noticed signs on the wall that gave the hourly rate for the hotel.
“Hugh?” I thought. “People come here by the hour?”
Alex and I started laughing together one night when we heard loud porno-queen moaning coming from a woman in the room next door.
“Es real?” (Is it real?) I asked Alex.
Alex told me it was probably a hooker. This theory was supported, but not proven by the fact that the couple only spent about a half hour in the room. It was either one hot, illicit affair or one vocal prostitute. It became rather sick, but funny entertainment to listen to the couples performance next door as they came and went every hour or so.
Alex also explained that the motel attracted young, secret love affairs and marital affairs. It wasn’t a place to stay while traveling, it was peoples’ final destination.
This made sense in the context of Tico culture where people usually live with their parents until they marry. After making out in the park, well….where’s a couple to go?
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