where we together weathered many a storm, laughin and singin till the early hours of the morn

I'd like to say that everything has been overwhelming; that I simply have not had a second away from the fast paced life of an international traveler to sit down and record each more exciting event. Truth is, I'm a vagabond who will bring two books, a pen and paper, and a ton of music on a 15 hour bus ride and do nothing but Think. I've spent a lot of time Thinking lately, and I'm not sure whats become of it, except a big blank spot in my blog. I'll try to fill it up.

Rewind: San Jose.

In the Rewind, Replay, Revisit, I'm sure to miss out details. Such is the nature of playing catch-up. I lived in San José. I had favorite places, to sit and to run and to consume alcoholic beverages. I had friends. I'm pretty sure that equals life (review: run, sit, consume, be friendly). I even had an occupation, something of a daily schedule, and random aquaintances, like the shoe-store girl who continually but politely refused my thinly veiled amorous advances or the large shirtless dudes on the first floor who always greeted me while re-fixing their souped up motorcycles (how many times can you take the same bike apart??). I even knew my way around (this is a major accomplishment in a city without street names or numbers, no addresses, nothing. It's MADNESS).

My time in San José was somewhat disjointed. While the time kept on ticking, it took me a while to find my rhythm.

After moving into my apartment and completing half a week of work, I headed for the pacific coast for a three day weekend, with a truly international crowd made up of my roommates intern colleagues from the Inter-American Court of Human Rights. (Colleagues is a classy word they use in the real world for co-workers. Someday I will probably have to be part of that world). Jackie (Mexico), Catalina and Luisa (Colombia), BreAnn (the only compatriot of mine), Pedro (the lone Tico), Daniel (my MexiRoomate), Irene (Italy), and I hastily packed our sunscreens and sandals and headed to the 4am bus, which would take us to Puntarenas for the 8:00 ferry, which took us to Paquera, where we boarded a local bus bound for Montezuma amongst a fury of confusion and mid-day heat.

Finally hopping off the bus after what was about an 8 hour trip, we walked the 40 feet to the beach. The hot sand demanded that we keep our footware on for the next 50 feet to a shady bar, where we immediately ordered a round of cervezas, quickly consumed before one by one migrating to the water like baby sea turtles (or something. Only faster. And in less danger of underfed seagulls). Later on, I had my first Michelada, which is a popular if unruly-tasting tica concoction: beer, lime juice, usually some hot sauce, in a glass with a salted rim. Something like refreshing, something like disgusting. Its hit or miss. In Montezuma, the Michelada was cold, and I was happy.

We made a call to find a camping spot down the beach, and walked about a kilometer to the south in the shade of the palm trees lining the white sand before hitting a cheap spot to put up our tents. Pedro and I occupied the tent Ryan and I had picked up for 20 bucks at the black market in Lima way back in February. Cozy, and hot as hell at about 8 am. I entertained myself with a guitar and the massive rolling waves until heading into town to pony up the 3 dollars for a nice typical casado, with plantains, rice, beans, salad, and meat.

For whatever reason (perhaps an addiction to internetting while abroad), I stopped in to one of the many internet cafes (there are almost as many internet cafes in south america as shoe stores.. Per-capita statistics might be astounding) with Jackie and Catalina for a fix. Among several emails was one from my mom, one I had sort of been expecting, explaining that my grandmother (her mom) had passed away, and asking when I could make it to New York for the funeral. Put a damper on my sunny day, brought me back to the states for a not-so-spectacular reason, and gave me yet another reason to sit on the beach and Think.

That night, I thought that I was pretty damn lucky to be spending that dampened evening with a great group of people that I'd just met, people that I can now call friends (oh, my. how a death all of a sudden injects profundity into a previously carefree blog entry.) Jackie, Catalina and I went right from the internet cafe to purchase the johnny walker red we would split on the beach later on, with the whole group lounging on blankets in the sand under the stars. I poured a shot out on the sand, sloped heavily in the darkness at low tide. Like Lincoln Duncan, i was thankin the lord for my fingers, a cheap guitar, the availability of ice and whiskey and plastic cups, and most of all the company. There were a few songs we all knew (Redemption Song, Wish You Were Here), and a few I just felt like belting. The waves were loud. I'm sure I wasn't bothering anybody.

Next morning I woke early for a hot run down the beach. It felt good to sweat, and even better to float high in the salt water and cool down. Running down the beach, I'd hit upon a pretty endless stretch of entirely unpopulated white sandy beach. This is the Virgin Beach you see in those brochures (at least I thought so... since then I've been on several others that were even more quintessentially tropically exotic). The girls tanned, Luisa and Irene wearing the Sombreros Volteados, typical colombian hats, of the type that would later frequent Daniel's head during our trip south to colombia. I thought some more, did some yoga, and hoped I wouldn't get sunburned. We stayed another night in Montezuma, a relaxed evening eating mangos before heading to bed early for the long trip back to San José on Monday.

The trip back was spectacular, as the 4:30 ferry back from Paquera to Puntarenas catches the sun setting over the bay sheltered by the Nicoya Peninsula. Rocks and cliffs cutting an angular horizon while the costa rican sun god does its thing up above. It was a colorful return to san José, where I'd pass a couple more days in limbo before heading to New York for a hectic homecoming.

Of Brief Repatriation

My week in the city was satisfying and stressful, emotional and eventful. Juxtapositions everywhere - my mind and body and guts were split in half with the whirlwind. Arriving saturday night and taking the bus and train up to apartment 8b at 140 West 86th Street, I was exhausted and happy to head out for a Bass Ale and a burger with my parents around the corner on Columbus Avenue. I was glad to see them- I was glad to see a lot of people during my quick week home, a real blessing that came as a result of a loss.

In my hasty game of blog catch-up, I'm not sure I can do the emotional part of this trip justice. The funeral meant tears, meant reunions and realizations and runny noses. I clutched some kleenex behind the podium and lump-throatedly hugged blood relatives and one-time aquaintances. My aunt and one of my mom's cousin's also spoke, calmed me down a bit. My dad and I steadied the vases of flowers in my uncle ron's car for the 8 block ride down Broadway to my grandparents apartment, which will probably smell like scotch and cigarettes for years. I hope so, anyway. I took off the yarmulke I felt not-so-strange wearing during the funeral and put on a happier face to eat the Jewfood my uncle Mike had provided for the post-funeral get-together. Rughulla (how do you spell) and bagels and locks went well with the cheap scotch and soda left in plastic bottles in the cabinet for all to enjoy. The conversations are too many and I think too much to put into words here. I'll say it was a good send-off, and all the scotch was consumed.

Later that week, we organized all of my grandparents things, moving them out of the apartment they had rented for 40 years (rent controlled.). It was something like packing Lives away into boxes. A somber experience, but dotted with discoveries at the bottoms of drawers, pictures and letters and report cards.

I myself pillaged the apartment for a wealth of household furniture (which will find a home as soon as I find a home in DC) the most exciting a dashingly handsome danish made dining room set with chairs and sideboard. My grandparents waited two years for it to arrive after ordering it, and my grandma was beside herself when the sideboard didn't fit through the door. They were considering getting a crane to slide it in through the window until it was somehow successfully maneuvered up the 8 flights and into the dining room (Ryan - the Ryan from South America- and I made the reverse trip in the service elevator, not very much worse for the wear.). I like to think that they'll be happy as I play cards on their fine furniture, roll around on their rugs, and make martinis in their classy shaker. I somehow managed to parallel park a UHaul truck in Manhattan, a miracle despite decidedly superior parking prowess (I reserve rights to shamelessly boast about parallel parking, for no reason whatsoever. I figure if a guy can ever toot his own horn, its right after his grandmas funeral.), and Ryan and I moved a remarkable volume down to the street on the carbs provided by greasy NYC pizza (thanks again, mom! you're welcome son!) and hit the road some time in the afternoon, to drive to DC, where the furniture now sits in a storage unit on Rhode Island Ave, NW, along with my future.

It was good to be back on the road again with Ryan - It had been a while since I was offered a sniff of some smelly shoes or dirty underwear (a peculiar attribute of a generally well-mannered gentleman.), and it was nice to be stupid a little bit with an old friend. On the road again, tourists of sorts in our own country. During a quick two night and one day return to my own nations capital, I was able to see a lot of the Good Ones I met during my six month stint there last year. These reunions required a strong effort in the field of partying, a task I was only able to accomplish with the eager encouragement and potable drinking water of my many-time temporary landlord, Jen, (Read: friend who lets me sleep on her couch.. Um, Jen, can I sleep on your couch next month?). I look forward to many more reunions come August. Despite late nite antics, Ryan and I were somehow able to make the midday chinatown bus back to New York, eating prepacked deli sandwhiches in the seats adjacent to the toilet. If not for all the English being spoken, we could have been crossing the Ecuatorian border. Some kid even got his backpack stolen.

I felt a bit like a tourist in my own country, with the hectic travel and even some sight seeing. I headed with mom and pop to Ellis Island, the Grizzwolds together if only for a minute or two. A long line to take the ferry out to the museum that once welcomed immigrants to our country. Still with my head in south america, I passed the time on my cousin rebecca's cellphone chatting with my soon-to-be traveling companion David about his plans to meet me in San José. Movers and Shakers. Looking back at New York was spectacular. My own country has quite a bit to offer as well, it seems.

And so, I packed up, ready to head back to what really was my Real Life (that of the traveling vagabond, carrying my harmonica in a dirty sock) in San Jose for the moment. I stayed the night with Ryan and Jin out in Brooklyn and we ate eggs just like we would have in any south american hostal, except there was pepper on the table and the pans didn't stick. A flight at 4pm shouldn't be too much of a problem, I thought. Ryan assured me I would make it on time.

After waiting about 30 minutes for a downtown train and then another 30 minutes for the bus to the Newark Airport (the one that comes every 15 minutes. Apparently one of the busses had broken down on 5th Avenue), I was a bit worried so I hopped in a cab with a very Euro looking Danish fellow and a nicely dressed middle aged Norweigan. After two blocks in what was Mothers Day Traffic, the cabbie himself (whose English was not as good as many South American cabbies') bailed on us, deciding it was too much for him. We transferred the Europeans' samsonite rollers and my ditry rucksack to a second cab. 45 minutes and two blocks later, I began to realize the weight of the situation as the digital clock on the dash counted ever closer to 4pm. The irony of my international encounter was not lost on me, as I unsuccessfully tried calling the airline on a Danish cellphone. I relaxed a bit once I began to realize that all hope of my catching my flight was lost - or perhaps that was the relief that came from my relieving myself on the side of the road in front of the Holland Tunnel with a hundred stationary cars looking on.

I stepped out of the cab at 4pm on the dot, a buck short of my third of the cab fare. I wasn't especially sorry, and the cabbie wasn't especially miffed. Fortunately, I was able to get on the next day's flight to San Jose. Penniless but not all that pissed, I had to figure out where to stay the night in New York. I'd left the keys to my grandparents' place locked in the apartment, so I planned on heading out to Max Berry's place in Queens, where we had shared beers and watched the pistons loose a couple nights before. I wasn't quite sure how to find his apartment, so I made an attempt to call him from a payphone. I needed a buck in change, so I treated myself to a starbucks chai (roughly the equivalent of a nights lodging plus continental breakfast in Peru) with the bills I'd taken out of the ATM. The cashier hassled me for no good reason, but the chai was tasty. At the other end the baggage claim room, payphone ate my cash as an automated teller explained that I needn't mark the area code to call Max Berry's number. I was obliged to traverse the room again in order to get change again, this time from the international change counter. Re-dialing without the area code, the same automated teller repititiously explained that I'd misdialed. The sound of my second cache of quarters clanking into uselesness elicited an expletive that I sheepishly realized was actually understood by nearby innocent bystanders. In Ecuador or Bolivia, nobody would have known what I was saying. In New York, they understood, but a screamed obscenity isn't exactly an odd occurrence.

Fed up, I hopped the bus back to the city and took the train out to Queens. Wandering semi- aimlessly through Astoria past some Greek bakeries and barber shops, I was mildly aware of my proximity to Max Berry's apartment when the man himself came up beside me, sporting a leather jacket and a Doctor Pepper. Hours earlier, I had called him from the cab, asking him to pretend to be me and negotiate a new flight. I don't think he wasn't entirely surprised when he saw my backpack roll by the front of the party store from which he was purchasing soda. Another night in the city, un-planned, but with welcome company and a good pizza was quite possibly just what the doctor ordered. After a run in the pouring rain the next morning, I hurried to the airport, arriving about 5 hours before my flight would leave. I passed on the chance for a voucher in exchange for my seat (the flight was overbooked, probably because they put me on it from the day before), a decision I may never live down, but was happy to relax in the airport and arrive back in San Jose late that night. A day late, but happy to jump back into things.

Back in San Jose, the weeks turned over a lot quicker than I'd realized, leaving me behind in a lot of ways. Back into work at ACNUR, I became a regular at the Costa Rican office of Immigration, where I helped the grossly understaffed and underfunded asylum section. The section consisted of two officers who interview and make asylum decisions for the roughly 100 applicants per month, almost all Colombians, some of whom are actually refugees fleeing from the armed conflict, many of whom are economic migrants looking for work. I got to be pretty friendly with Milagro ("Mila", Miracle in English), the more square of the two, with thick dark-rimmed glasses and Sara ("Sarita"), who always wore bright colors and was perhaps not aware of her occasional lazy eye. On a couple of occasions I asked myself "how did I get here"?, when lunching on steak with onions at a gas station with a couple of heavy-set costa rican asylum officials, or when filling out asylum applications for illiterate Colombians. The work at migratoin was interesting, fulfilling, frustrating, satisfying.

The contact I had with Colombians at Immigration paralleled that of my one-time Colombian family from Hostal Toruma. Colombians have a spirit that I haven't seen anywhere else. Now writing this retrospective from Colombia, I can say my previous experience didn't lie - they animated, friendly people despite the conflict in their country. Some time in May, my Colombian friends finally received their visa to move to the U.S., after waiting for 5 months in Costa Rica. A German friend of mine who had also befriended the family at the Hostal, Peter, and I, joined them for a typical farewell dinner before they left. We drained a bottle of chilean red wine and chatted about Colombia until the wee hours... I hope Chicago isn't too cold for them.

Apart from work, I managed to soak in a little culture and keep on Livin. A couple of trips to the Teatro Nacional, one of them to see the National Symphony Orchestra, which, while entertaining, made me appreciate the Kennedy Center and my own country's musicians. I found a rhythm and had several scraps of paper (which constantly fell out of my wallet) representing my phone book and social life. I began to recognize people places, like wednesdays at Lubnan's, the Lebanese restaurant-turned hip electronic music bar or random aquaintances walking through the University of Costa Rica.

The individual nights are too many to recount; it is ultimately the sum that makes a difference. I think the best night, representative of my time in San Jose, was some time in June, a fiesta in chez Daniel and Zack. I always felt cool having parties in college, hosting People Having Fun, but I'm pretty sure there were never 10 countries represented around a keg at my house on Catherine Street in Ann Arbor. I jammed some emergency-type candles in the tops of empty bottles of cheap wine and liters of beer, and somehow managed not to burn the apartment down while manuevering and mingling in a couple different languages. The following morning's carnage of empty litros, candle wax, and mostly-finished bottles of booze would not reveal how genuinely happy I was to be among such good and interesting people the night before. No hangover whatsoever, but my smile muscles were sore. I could write a whole blog entry just about the personalities, but I'd never do anyone justice. You'll have to buy the book.