Girlfriends are expensive!

Roberto and Luis seemed to be helping each other out by taking photos.  Wondering whether they were hesitant to ask somebody else to click for them, I offered to take a photo of the two of them, with the volcano in the background.

"No. It's ok. We like photos alone" Roberto said while Luis chuckled.

After a few seconds, Roberto expanded on it. "We don't want people to mistake us. We don't want a photo of us on Facebook. Friends will make fun."

I couldn't help laughing at the way he phrased it.  They too laughed.

Women are way more confident than we men are.  As friends, they hold hands, pose cheek-to-cheek, dance together. All as friends.  No way is that immediately interpreted as being gay.  With us guys, in this part of the world, we are so careful about it.  Insecure. Paranoid.  When I travel in India, I am always amazed at boys and young men holding hands, with arms over each other's shoulders, ... I am sure I, too, walked around that way back then.  Practices are so cultural and contextual!

"Given that you are medical residents, and good looking young men, how come you are not traveling with women?" I asked them.

To quite an extent, talking like this with men at any age is easy.  No guy in his right mind will ever mistake such a question.  I would think that guys, straight and gay, at any age, would love to talk about the female of our species.  The females were mysterious to me when I was becoming aware of them many decades ago, and they continue to be a mystery even now.  My guess is that even women don't understand women.  Perhaps the purpose of life is a simple one--to understand women!

Roberto and Luis laughed at my question.  Then Roberto said "girlfriends are expensive.  They want gifts. Then they want marriage. And kids.  And then it will be a divorce. More money.  I want to travel first."

Lots of young men and young women--and middle-aged balding men too--traveling alone these days.  It has become possible to travel any which way we want anymore.  Life has changed a lot, for the better.  I stood for a while looking at the crater and taking photos when I heard the guide, Alberto, calling my name.  It was time to move on.

During the hike down from Poás

The following morning, I went to have breakfast at the hotel.  I missed the tasty and home-made breakfast at Andreas' and Connie's.  If Charlie Chaplin could eat a shoe when hungry, I certainly can devour old bread and drink horrible coffee.  Ok, that was an exaggeration!

Three women were having breakfast.  Two were more than a decade older than me, and the third was at least a decade younger than me.

"Did you have a good vacation?" I asked them.  It was clear from their bags that they were checking out.

They were indeed moving on to the next place on their schedule.

"Where are you from?" I asked them.  They were all from Hamburg, Germany.  And, of course, the question bounced back.

"From the United States. I moved from India a long time ago."

"Where in India?" asked the younger one.

"From the southern part. The city is called Chennai."

Out in the wild ...

"I love India" she said.  "My boyfriend is half-Indian.  He has family in ..."  She couldn't recall the name of the place.  "It is a place with Communist government."

It had to be Kerala or West Bengal.  And given the wanderers that Keralites are, the odds were not in favor of Bengal.

"Is it Kerala?" I asked and she was excited.  "Yes, that is the one."

"It is a pretty place.  Have you been there?"

"I would like to.  But, it seems like my boyfriend's family want him to marry an Indian woman, and I cannot pass of as an Indian" she laughed.

No way, indeed, for that slim, tall, blonde to pass of as an Indian.

"Wrap a sari around you, cover your hair, and get married" I joked.

"My eyes will give it away." She had a quick comeback.

I suppose it is to avoid complications like this that Roberto has decided against a girlfriend.

During the hike down from Poás

It seems like the German has found what she was looking for, but her journey hasn't ended.  Roberto is looking for other things in life.  We are all travelers in life looking for whatever we are searching for, and our paths intersect.  We share stories. We laugh. And we move on to the next intersection.  Sometimes with people from the previous intersection and other times by ourselves.

I remembered the intersection at Orosi Lodge.  When I returned to the room, I sent them an email:

Good morning, Andreas and Connie.
I miss your breakfast and coffee. Miss it bad. I have to wait to reach home to make myself something comparable :(
Thank you so much for your wonderful hospitality, and an absolutely friendly and welcoming nature. Tell your son I loved his sense of humor :)

The girls smiled for me at my last meal in town

I don't go comparison shopping if my mind has found something that I am truly happy and content with.  I didn't look around for more as a teenager, and didn't later in life either.

Female stalkers, er, readers, take note: now that I am happy and content with my solitary life, you have a tough task ahead, but not an impossible one by any means, if you want this single guy to fall for you.  Try harder! Yes, you can ;)

Anyway, where was I? Yes, I have been that way with most things in life, not merely with the affairs of the heart.  With cars. With homes. With shoes.  And, even with restaurants when I travel.

In a setting where the people and language and culture are very different from what I am used to, if I loved the food at a restaurant , then why should I even bother wondering whether there might be better ones out there?

At Orosi, I found one such place.  After my first lunch there, I knew I was set.  I had three more lunches at the same place.  Always the same food too.

My fourth and final lunch was after the energy-draining hours at the national park.  The waitress initially gave me a menu and then quickly corrected herself.  She took it back and said, "arroz con vegetales, frijoles, agua."

"Fritas?" I asked  I loved those freshly made potato fries.

"Si, si" she said with a huge smile.

The older I get, the more I find comfort, reassurance, and joy in genuine smiles.  I am tired of the fake smiles.  I would rather that people don't do fake smiles at all.  I will be completely ok with their pouty faces instead.  On the other hand, a genuinely warm smile from a stranger, like this waitress, is simply priceless.

I sat outside, as always.  There was a large group, a family of eight at the far corner.  We were the only customers.

I walked inside and told the waitresses that this was my final lunch and that I was heading back to the United States.  They smiled again.  The one with the long, thinly-shaped eyebrows had the best smile of them all.

"May I take a photo?"

"Todo?" one asked.

"Yes, all."

Their response was so genuine.  One immediately ditched her hair net, brushed her hair, and tied it differently.  The eyebrow waitress rushed outside and assumed her pose.  I didn't have the heart to ask her to come back in, because my plan was to take a photo of them all with the chef too.  I followed them outside.

After clicking, I went back in and said I wanted to take a photo of the chef.  She, too, smiled!

The food tasted excellent, as all the previous three were.  I was sad that I wouldn't see these women again.  Life is about the different people we meet. Some we like. Some we don't.  Some like us. Some don't.  Some stay with us for a while, and others are transient. Memories of these Ticas will stay with me forever.

What doesn't kill me makes me stronger

Walking around at Tapanti National Park was my scheduled activity for the day.

Luis showed up at the appointed time, punctual as always.  It was a lovely drive up to the park.  Luis stopped along the way quite a few times, at my request, because I wanted to take photos, like this:

At the park's gate, I told Luis he could pick me up at 1:30, paid the entry fee, and was on my own.

A few yards into the walk, I was the only human.

The sounds from insects and birds and the gentle breeze on a muggy morning was my company. At some places, the cicadas seemed infinitely louder than jet engines.  I was the only human around to hear them.

"If I slip and fall in this forest and yell like crazy, but nobody hears me, then will my yell really make a sound?" I thought to myself as I turned into a two-kilometer hiking trail off the main one.

Did you get the point by now that it began to concern me that I was all by myself in a forest in a foreign land?

Yet, I decided to take a side trail!

The narrower side trail was not going to be easy with all the watery, mossy, rocky, surface.  A few minutes in, I wondered whether I should be cautious and turn back.

Which is exactly what I did.

Which is also when I slipped and slid down a few feet, yelling "shit, shit, shit."

Nobody around to hear me, of course!

I picked myself up.  Checked my arms and legs.  All ok.  I returned to the main trail.

Insects started bugging me.

I reached into the backpack.  Momentary panic--turned out that I had left behind at the lodge the pouch that had the insect repellant, anti-allergy pills, the anti-itch cream, band-aid, and everything else that is my standard supply even when I go hiking in Oregon.  I had nothing here.  In a rainforest with all kinds of strange insects.

"Shit, shit, shit" is all I could say at this point.  The insects couldn't care.

I kept flapping my arms around to ward off those annoying insects.  I must have looked like I was propelling myself.

Thankfully, nobody was around to see this sorry, and hilarious, sight.

I am simultaneously a wimp and a strong-willed one.  The strong-willed me almost always overrides the panicky me.  I hope that it will be the case until the very end.  I want to die with confidence and in peace, and not ridden by panic and anxiety.

Meanwhile, the logical me wondered whether there were bugs on my back.  I checked it out with my camera!  Into my old age, I will finally stop walking around under the hot sun, and will slowly lose the much darker tan and return to the lighter shade of brown that you can see peeping from under my tshirt.  I am hoping that it will be a whole lot of enjoyment before I, and others, begin to see my face and neck lightening up.

I reached the end of the trail at the top.  A young couple was at the mirador.  A few minutes of courtesy wait later, I approached them with "English?"  They didn't know English.

The woman was sharp; aren't they all!  "Photo?" she asked.  I nodded my head and gave her the camera.

The waterfall at a distance made me forget all about the insects and the fall.  My camera is way too much a toy to capture such beauties far away.  Yet, click I did.

A little later, I started the walk back.  I hated the very thought of those insects all over again.  Yet, despite the fall and the bugs, I knew I was one lucky guy to be there and to enjoy it all.  I walked down slowly to enjoy the scenery, to take photos.

I continued to walk past the park's gate instead of waiting inside for Luis, as we had agreed.

Of a herd of cows lazily grazing at a pasture, one kept mooing at me and continued to walk up to the fence.  She stood at the fence and stared right at me.  We stood looking at each other for two, or even three, minutes.  Perhaps this was my guardian angel, I told myself.  The कामधेनु (Kamadhenu) of the Hindu mythology.

I thanked the cow.  She mooed a response.

That is not the image of Costa Rica I had

"Your ride is here" said Sebastian.

But, the vehicle was no taxi and the driver was not Luis either.

"Oh, that is Luis' son."  He must have read my expressions.  Damn, can't ever hide my feelings, I guess.

From our chats, I knew about Luis' family.  Gabriela was his wife, Emily their daughter, and Fabrizzio the son.  I even knew that the son was a student at the technological university in Cartago.  We traded such information despite our respective language issues.

"You must be Fabrizzio" I said as I opened the vehicle door.  He extended his right arm and a wide grin.

He was a cautious driver for the twenty-two year old he was.  Yes, I knew from Luis that the son was that old.  The daughter is older--I shall not divulge her age, true to the traditions!

"You speak English?"

He vigorously shook his head in the negative.

We reached the organic coffee farm and a bunch of barking dogs greeted me as Luis left.  There were six by my count.

I introduced myself to the American woman working the roaster.  "I am Linda.  We are expecting two more groups. We will begin the tour after they reach here."

At the roasting area of this organic farm

So, I engaged her in small talk.

A friend was recently pretty impressed with my small talk with strangers and wrote in an email "you are gregariously social and anti-social at the same time. Curious."  I don't  find that a contradiction at all--small talk is very different from serious friendship.  I imagine a solid, double-yellow line separating the two.

I asked Linda about the dogs.  "They were all stray. Abandoned. We take them in.  There are more than these six here."  Apparently people abandon the females of the dogs and puppies because they then tend to have litter.  They don't spay or neuter their pets either.

"If you thought that is crazy" Linda continued.  "Every once in a while people set out poison for dogs and all of a sudden you have forty or sixty dead dogs in a neighborhood."

WTF!  In Costa Rica?

One of those dogs, during the tour of the farm, staying away from the warm  sun

Later, I was chatting with Linda's husband about this.  "It doesn't match with the image of Costa Rica I have" I told him.

"Oh, there are plenty that you will find that don't fit with your image of Costa Rica" he said.  "For instance, did you know that San Jose doesn't have a sewage system, and that they dump stuff in the river?  They don't say that in the tourist brochures, do they?"

He seemed like he could list more.  But, he did not.  "I have no complaints.  I have had a good life here for thirty years now."

There is no perfect paradise on earth.  Even the best places have their own warts, big and small.  Yet we love them, as the Bard put it:

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red ;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Church. Park. School. Cantina.

Readers from Chennai (the Madras of my days there) might have hastily read the subject line as "Church Park School Convent."  Let me clarify to them that this post is not about that prestigious school in that part of the world.

Wait, wait. Don't go. Stay with me. Read this post anyway.  Please!

Down the valley ...

As we were driving through Paraiso, and as we passed a church, Luis showed four fingers and counted, "church, park, escuela, cantina."

"Always" he added in English.

Yep, there was a park, big enough for a soccer field, across from the church.  Cantinas by the road side, and a school.  A simple formula for life in a Costa Rican town, I suppose.

The layout in Orosi was no different.

Tthe church, originally built in 1743, was across from the park where a couple of boys were kicking a ball around.  The park even had floodlights installed!

Behind the goalpost was a restaurant, and more on the other sides of the park.

The school I didn't photograph because there were lots of kids.  Perhaps it is the American paranoia in me that I will be hauled away by the cops for taking photographs of minors.  Life has become too complicated that way--people seem so ready these days to attribute incorrect intentions to actions by strangers.  I didn't want to invite trouble in a strange land.

The town's layout was so different from what I experienced as a kid in Neyveli.  My school was far away from the temple.  Nor was any restaurant next to the temple.  Our home was, come to think of it, closer to the church than to the temple!

The church at Neyveli

Life in the big city of Chennai now is very different.  It seems like real estate near temples and churches and mosques is prime for eating places.  I suppose people find something for the soul and then a lot more for their appetites.

This big restaurant is only a couple of doors away from a crowded temple at Chennai

The next step in this land use evolution could be the introduction of a drive-through praying and eating service even as the faithful/customer is watching ballgames on the dashboard of a driverless car.  Perhaps an American is already working on that business proposal.  It is also equally possible that the crazy American entrepreneur is a Church Park School alum!

Orosi, after a spell of rains

I am not a Mestizo. I am a ... Gringo!

"Basilica" Luis told me.

And then he said something in Spanish and "ruins."

I figured we were going to the basilica and then to the ruins. "Ok" I replied.

The atheist that I am, it is quite interesting that I have been to more temples and churches than many believers might have.  It is not because of any variation of Pascal's Wager, I should clarify--I am not hedging my bets in case there is a god!  I go because not going will not help me understand the people and their cultures.

At the Basilica at Cartago

Furthermore, if the locals consider something to be important, then I need to understand them.  It was important to Luis that I see these places. 

"Pay?" I asked Luis when we reached the ruins at Ujarrás, wondering whether there would any entry fee.

"No" he replied.  

At least "no" is no in English and in Spanish.  Reminds me of that joke that my brother told me years ago from his months of German language learning at Max Mueller Bhavan.  A German tourist in London goes through the German to English dictionary to figure out the English word for 'restaurant."

There were families having enjoying a picnic afternoon at the park area that surrounded the ruins.  Boys playing futbol. Young women with their beaus.  One young couple was having their photos taken inside the ruins by a professional. The photographer saw me clicking and gave me a smile.

As I rounded the ruins and reached the front side again, a woman came rushing to me and said a lot in Spanish. I never cease to be amazed at how much people don't even give it a thought that I might not be a local guy.  It was the story in Venezuela, Mexico, Ecuador, and here.  I bet I won't be mistaken for a local if I were in Norway!

"No Espanol" I said.

"Oh, Grin ..." she stopped herself from saying "gringo."

I was amused.  She could have said gringo and it would not have bothered me one bit.  I was born a brahmin, have renounced it all.  Been told I could pass of a Mestizo. Now a gringo.  No problems.  I know who I am, whatever others might think.

"Ok. Take a photo?" she asked.

"Sure. Yes. Tell me where to click."

I followed her instructions.  It was a large gathering at the other end of the camera lens.  Maybe about fifteen to twenty people.  I clicked quite a few times to make sure they would have at least one or two usable shots.

I continued with my perambulation and finally exited.

I thought I saw a guava tree.  "Guava?" I asked Luis. 

"Guayaba" he said.  

If only the Tico and the Gringo had the same word for the fruit!

On reading Malayalam short stories in Costa Rica

Quite a few years ago, I bought a collection of short stories by MT Vasudevan Nair while browsing the shelves at a bookstore in Chennai.  Translated into the English, of course.  But, not even once was I even tempted to read it.  Not even a page.  I suppose there is a time and a place for a book, as with most things in life.

This setting in Costa Rica could be somewhere in the Western Ghats, too, right?

A few days ago, in response to a post on Facebook, a friend commented about MT Vasudevan Nair.  That triggered me into making sure that I would pack with me the short story collection.

Why did I buy that collection in the first place?  Throughout my life I have read wonderful novels and short stories.  In Tamil and in English.  Original works in these languages, and others translated  from the Russian and Malayalam and whatever else.

From the Malayalam, it was Thakazhi's writings that drew me with the narratives about the regular folks in settings that I could easily identify with, thanks to the visits to Kerala during my childhood years.  MT Vasudevan Nair was a familiar name thanks to my peeping into the arty world and, thus, when I saw that collection, I bought it.  Further, I have always had a soft spot for short stories over the full-length novels anyway.

Mountains, lush green, bananas ... Costa Rica is also God's own country!

I didn't read anything during the flight, however.  It never feels right to me to read when traveling. Too much distraction and discomfort that does not allow me to fully engage with the story and the characters.  I need to be to mentally transported into the world that the author had created.

I didn't start reading after reaching the lodge at Orosi either.  The time hadn't come.

It did come with dark clouds, thunder, and lightning.

I brewed myself a cup of coffee and had that with the pastry that I had picked up before the clouds were beginning to gather.

I was sitting outside on the balcony, on the wood furniture, with my legs on the wood floor, looking at the coconut tree, watching the rains fall on the red roofs and the gorgeous lush green surrounding when it felt like I was in Kerala during the monsoon season.

I went inside, picked up the short story collection, and returned to my place on the balcony.

the short story collection on "my bench" on the balcony

Ah, the comforting smell of papers of an old publication.

True to my habit, I didn't start with the first story, but jumped into a story with a title that attracted me--Red Earth.

With the ambiance, I needed no effort to be mentally transported to the setting that Nair was describing.  I could see the waters. The sands. The temple. The guide. The husband. The drunk.

I wish you were there.

Wait, wait. Is it Orosi or Sengottai?

Sengottai is full of ups and downs.  Sometimes even the street names say that: Upper Street (மேட தெரு) and Lower Street (கீழ தெரு.)  Sometimes it is a gently sloping alley that links these different levels and at other times one has to climb the steps.

Unless things have changed now, the streets had open drainage channels as well--primarily for the rain water.    While not anywhere as clean as I would like the town to be--like many parts of India, open defecation is not out of the ordinary--I still liked to walk around and understand the place and its peoples.  And take photos, of course.

Once when I showed this photo of a part of Sengottai to some, they were pleasantly surprised that the town looked this good.  I suppose it is not unusual for an outsider to show how good things are.

Sengottai, India

I was reminded of Sengottai's streetscape when I saw this in Orosi, on the other side of the planet:

Orosi

Here is Sengottai's main road:

In fact, there is more to the streets too--like how the tree trunks get painted to serve as alerts.  In Sengottai:

And in Orosi:

It is not merely the streets, of course.  The lush green vegetation all around.  The mango trees and the banana trees.  The railing outside people's homes.  The hills.

From an upstairs window at grandma's home, back in the day before new buildings came up, we could see lights at the distant hill.  With very little artificial light after sundown, it didn't take much brightness to reach the window.

In Orosi, from my balcony, I could see the lights at the distant hill.  Those lights moved--the headlights of vehicles coming down the mountain.  Sometimes they played hide-and-seek with me when their lights were blocked by vegetation or because of the curves the vehicles had to follow.

My father wonders why I go all by myself to places where I don't know anybody.  But, he is getting used to it by now, I think.  "Collect a lot of information" is what he said when I called him from the airport before shutting down my phone.

I think I should explain to him that, strangely enough, the more I travel, the more the places seem familiar.  Not the same, but oddly familiar.  Even when I don't know anybody to talk with. And even when I don't have anybody to talk with.

A few minutes outside of Orosi

Costa Rica was beginning to bug me ...

I was starving, as we like to say here in the US, when driving from the airport to the lodge.  But, I didn't want to stop anywhere.  I wanted to reach the lodge, throw the stuff in the room, and then get something to eat.

"Where can I get a simple rice and beans?" I asked Andreas after I had collected the keys.  And I walked up to the place he suggested.

The food was lovely. In the presentation and in the taste.  The trip was getting better with every passing minute.

Rice with vegetables, a salad, and fries

Later in the evening, I got into the shower.  The lukewarm water coming down like rain felt soothing.

The corner of my eye signaled to the brain that there was something crawling along the edge of the tiny shower stall.

I turned around, making sure i didn't bump into the wall.  I hadn't been in such a tiny shower area since my experience in Milan, fifteen years ago.  This, I should admit, was bigger than that Milanese bathroom.

The bug was struggling to get a grip against the wet floor and sides.  And with more water falling, the bug had quite a challenge.

My first inclination was to run out of the stall.  It didn't take long for that to subside.

The second thought was to kill the bug.  "I am in a tropical rainforest area, and I should expect bugs here" I convinced myself.  Thus, I continued to shower while not taking my eyes off the bug.

After I was done, and after toweling myself, I grabbed my glasses and peeked into the shower stall.  I wanted to make sure my myopic eyes were not imagining things.  There it was--some kind of a beetle.

A beetle, different from the one in the shower, here on the potted plant in the balcony, right outside my window--you can see the window colors and the drapes in the background

The morning came, and after breakfast I was off to the volcanoes.  On returning, I rushed into the bathroom.  A long line of small ants is what I saw first, and then I saw a dead roach by the side of the pot. "I hate the damn bugs in the tropics" I cursed at nobody. And shook my leg when I imagined ants crawling up on them.

But, a man has to do what a man has to do especially when he has to go.  Even one who might have fought and subdued a ferocious lion with his bare hands would not have felt as victorious as I did after successfully peeing despite the immediate presence of a dead roach and live ants.

Lunch was spectacular, though I felt violated that "my table" was occupied and that I had to sit at a different place.

The outdoor dining area of my lunch place--this is the side that is away from the road, and not my favorite

At the lodge, I saw Connie chatting with a couple who had checked into the adjacent room.  "I have neighbors, I see."

"Yes, I didn't want you to feel lonely." A sharp, witty woman she was.

As Connie started walking back to the front desk, I told her about the dead roach.

"Oh, I am sure the ants have taken care of it by now" Connie said as she walked into the bathroom.

No roach.  Connie probably thought to herself that I am one big wuss.  If she did, well, she is on the mark.

It was time to shower.  This time, I wore my glasses into the bathroom.  I checked the shower area.  All clear.  I sat on the pot for some serious business.  Across the bathroom, under the sink area was the dead roach.  I suppose the ants had moved it there for safekeeping!  Smart ants!  And a stupid human me!

I showered with my glasses on.  Life was easier that way.

The inside of the room at Orosi, with the entrance door to the right of the switch panel.  No, that is not a real, live, one; thankfully!

Honk if you are a friend

We were a few minutes into the drive from the airport heading towards the lodge when the traffic came to a stop.

"No normal. Accidente" Luis said.

Luis in his vehicle.

With all the twenty years of driving around tourists and being their guide, Luis hasn't bothered to pick up the English language.  I, despite all my fascination with Latin America ever since the visit to Venezuela twenty-five summers ago, haven't learnt Spanish.  I have tried, but no habla Espanol is easier.

So, Luis uses simple Spanish words and phrases, and I use simple English words and phrases.  Every once in a while he uses simple English words, and I use simple Spanish words.  Thus, we communicated a lot.  He loves to chat and I love to ask questions. We know about our families.  We are hermanos.

A couple of minutes later, we had the proof--an accident.  Once we passed that, the speed picked up.

All of a sudden, Luis honked.  I nearly jumped.

I rarely ever use the horn.  Back in Oregon, I have honked only under two conditions.  One, when driving through tunnels.  Well, who doesn't!  The other is in Corvallis when I pass a bunch of old pacifists who hold signs by the roadside, advocating for peace and anti-war.

Other than these, I can't recall honking over the past few years.

Luis noticed my reactions.   "I see amigo then ..." he pressed the horn.

Luis' amigos were constantly calling and texting him.  But, a safe driver that he is, Luis rarely ever answered them when driving.  And, no, those women are not his amigas--they happened to be there, and I decided to frame the shot this way for more color ;)

After that, I noticed Luis honking a lot as we passed people.  Sometimes a passing vehicle honked at us--Luis' friends, I figured.

Once, it was quite a few honks stringed together.  Hiding my mild annoyance, and with a facade of excitement, I exclaimed, "muchos amigos."

Luis laughed.

Sunday afternoon, through the drizzle, I rushed to the market to beat the five-o-clock closing time in order to buy a mango and a  ginger ale.  On my way back, it was a tad more than a light rain.  I was enjoying walking in the warm rain and recalling the rainy days of Neyveli and Sengottai when I thought I heard that familiar horn.

I turned my attention towards the road as the vehicle passed me.  I saw Luis waving at me.

I have a amigo in Orosi. His name is Luis.

Luis' taxi over a very scenic bridge that had lots of holes on the surface--holes big enough for a kid to easily fall through into the river below!

Smile first. Flirtatious pout later.

I had barely checked in at the Eugene airport when I realized that I hadn't packed along the Lonely Planet guidebook on Costa Rica.

Maybe it is for the better, I decided.  I had done enough prep work and maybe I will simply go with the flow, I convinced myself.  After all, it is not that I can blame anybody else--one of the hassles of a single life!  And, of course, I shall not point a finger at me for forgetting it. ;)

I had read in the guidebook about a Swiss woman having set up a pastry shop, not too far away from the Orosi Lodge that was run by the German couple.  I wondered if the European geography would get reflected with a pasta place run by an Italian further down the road. (No.)

Without the guidebook, I still managed to find the Swiss pastry shop.  Only a dolt could have missed that and, thankfully, my IQ is a tad higher than that.

The Swiss bakery corner of the town's main drag

There was nobody at the counter when I walked in.  I scanned the display.  Strudels and empanadas and a lot more.  This woman has assimilated into the life here, I thought.

A woman first poked her head from inside, and then walked towards me.

That was no Swiss woman. She was a local.  I wondered if the Swiss thing was a facade.

The woman had a gorgeous smile and sparkling eyes.  For someone working in a pastry shop, slim as well.  Perhaps in her early thirties.

I pointed to the one that said mango and chocolate. She asked me something in Spanish that I understood as whether I was planning to eat there or take it with me.

"Aqui no" I said.

She smiled again. 

I wonder if women too find something special about the way some men might smile.  Well, I am sure there are some men who charm women with their smiles alone.  I know very well I am not one of them.

"Dollar ok?" I asked her.  And produced a one dollar bill.

She took that and gave me the change.  And smiled again.

"You have a beautiful smile" I told her.  I have gotten to a stage in life when I no longer stress about whether or not a genuine compliment from me will be misinterpreted and misunderstood by a stranger. It is their hassle if they twist things, not mine.

She smiled and said "no comprendo."

"Muy bueno" I said while pointing to what I thought was my smile.  Apparently she didn't know I was smiling.  I told you--I am not one of those men with a charming smile.  My smile is not even recognizable as a smile!

She pouted a friendly pout and put on a sad face.  Now she looked really lovely.  

"Gracias" I said and she replied yet again with a smile.

I had that with coffee in my room, while sitting on the balcony and watching the clouds wrap around the volcanoes.  Life couldn't be better.

Literally, the view from the balcony, in the mornings before the clouds roll in

The following day, I swung by that pastry shop equipped with the word that Google had taught me. Sonrisa, or something like that.

It was a different woman this time.  "Hola" she said.  

Out of habit, I said "hello."

She figured that I am a foreigner.  As I scanned the display, she asked me what I wanted.

"Everything looks good" I said.  

"This is mango ..."

"Oh, I had that yesterday and it was very good."

"I think I will try the pineapple one" I said.

The plastic wrap she gave me had the pineapple one, and a strawberry one.

"The strawberry is my gift to you" she said.

I am sure my response conveyed to her my thanks and excitement.  She smiled.

"So, are you the Swiss woman?"

"Yes, I am. I have been here for eight years."  She smiled and added, "I like it here."

Only a smile.  No flirtatious friendly pout?  Because she is a Swiss and not a Tica?

The room where I stayed. You can see a part of the balcony railing through the window. 

Why say "I am hungry like a bear" when in Costa Rica?

For the longest time, I couldn't make up my mind on what I wanted to do when in Costa Rica. I didn't even make hotel reservations--I had yet to feel that special feeling about a hotel.

One day, it happened.  The Orosi Lodge, in a small little town, situated in a valley not that far away from San Jose, felt just right.

The Orosi Valley, from a lookout point in the hills.  Luis stopped by the roadside so that I could admire the scenery

I was now set with the hotel.  Correction. A lodge.  In my email, I wrote:

I prefer the upper floor room for the view from the balcony.

Because of the description that two volcanoes are visible to the naked eye right from the balcony.  And, one volcano was active.  Who wouldn't want such a view?  Jimmy Stewart's character in Rear Window would have way preferred this, with Grace Kelly by his side, right?  Well, I suppose if Grace Kelly is by one's side, any man will find even hell to be pleasant!

Orosi Lodge--I stayed here for the first four nights

Andreas was at the desk to check me in and hand me the keys.  As he started talking, I remembered the information that the lodge was owned and operated by a German couple.

"Where in Germany are you from?" I asked him.

"Bavaria."

I told him about having been in Munich many years ago when the taxi driver asked me to look up at the famous Bavarian sky.  Andreas beamed a smile and said "blue sky with white clouds."

After walking around the town a bit, I returned to find a woman at the desk.  "You are the wife that Andreas said might be here?"

"Yes. I am Connie" and she extended her arm.

The next morning, I was up even before sunrise and knew I had a long wait for breakfast time--Andreas told me that they opened up again only at seven.  Lucky for me, the doors opened even before 630.

"Guten Morgen" I said walking in.

Connie wished me in German and Andreas said "buenos dias."

Andreas and Connie--the owners/operators of Orosi Lodge

I told them that almost thirty years ago I had taken German classes in India, but only for four weeks.  And that I don't remember all too well a phrase they had taught me.  I uttered that German phrase, which, from their reaction,  I knew was all messed up.  "That was supposed to mean 'I am hungry like a bear'" I said with a chuckle.

"What things they teach, eh" chimed in Andreas as I sat down at a table for my breakfast.

Freshly scrambled eggs with cheese and tomatoes, with bread and jam, and juice. And coffee, of course.   All wonderfully tasting.

I had another validation of the special feeling I had when making the reservation for a room that came with a balcony view of two volcanoes.

Towards the left edge of the range, the highest point is Irazu, which is quiet for now.  On the right, after the dip, is the active one.  While not visible in the photo, one can clearly see right from the balcony the plumes rising from the volcano.  In a later post, on going up Irazu, I will provide the "smoking gun" photo!