one last gasp.

I've resolved to start blogging again. A few weeks ago, as I lay in bed, staring at blown up pictures of South America hanging in home-fashioned hanging plexiglass frames, dimly lit by the streetlight coming in through my not-so-thick curtains, I suddenly and unexpectedly became very sad. I needed to be on the road. I want to do it again. I didn't realize it then, but that night, Tuesday July 24, marked exactly one year since I returned home. Something subconscious recognized that milestone - I only caught up and realized today. In the meantime, I've often reflected upon "where was I a year ago today." I've never done that before - and I think that sort of now-and-then reminiscing either means that where I am today is not where I want to be, or that where I was a year ago was just especially cool. I'm apt to think the latter and just as apt to think that I'll be someplace that especially cool many times in the future. Today I'm content to reminisce, and to plot.

This first entry is a year-late narration of my last couple of days in South America, a story I've told to many times to forget, but I hope in writing I'll remind myself of some of the details that make traveling such an experience. If I do continue blogging, I'll have to find some new material - and I think I have plenty coming from this here country. I don't know about you, but I'm convinced there's a story in every day, if you keep your eyes open.


Flashback: one year.

I'd left off in Bogota, I believe, where David and I had made something of a semi-permanent residence in Hotel Internacional, along a narrow road leading up the hill into La Candelaria, the old town part of the City. We'd spent two weeks there, busy at times and idle at others. A block away, we frequented the hole-in-wall (literally) counter where the best arepas were sold, corn pancakes of all kinds - I was partial to the pineapple and ham, and learned from some bogotanas that arepas with egg were not ideal after a late night dancing. We'd done the flea market, halfway-learned the above-ground tracked bus public transportation system, made friends with the Hotel owners - a mysteriously beautiful thirty-something keeping watch at the counter, while her gregarious son performed his own chores, and the 'old man', I think he was called Francisco. He was kind. He was soft-and-slow-spoken, he took his time shuffling to the front door, which was always kept locked. After our raucous trip to sleepy Villa de Lleva (see last blog entry...), our new room in Hotel Internacional was on the first floor, windowless, but with a bathroom - like many rooms w/bath, the 'bathroom' divided from the rest of the room with only a curtain. Noise and stench easily assaulted the senses of any unfortunate soul in the 'bedroom' region. Most of all, that room was dark. With no windows, we found ourselves sleeping late all too often, after late-night beers and long cab rides home. slowly one would shower while the other listened to the ipod on my mini-speakers, as well-traveled as I, though not as worse for the wear.

On my final day in Bogota, after calling a cab, David and I sat in the lobby, I comfortable in my brown button-down, worn thin and almost-freshly washed. Yet another traveler's goodbye, one last photo - a self-shot in the street next to the cab, holding up a bus and three cars- the road not wide enough for passing. The cabby was chatty, and I was happy to be headed back to Costa Rica for a day's stay before boarding my plane back to the United States. I hopped out at the Bogota airport, well outside of town, expecting an easy final leg of my journey. I should have known better. The Bogota airport was teeming with activity. People bumping into each other everywhere, lines twisting and turning about like snakes in a suitcase. And venom, too. Waiting travelers, nervous energy. I was at the airport at least two hours before my flight was to leave, and I needed every single minute. I waited on at least three lines before going through security, paying various traveler's fees and collecting stamps and beads of sweat. I ate an apple while waiting on line, only a couple of people behind Luis Suarez, the Colombian-born coach of Ecuador's national football team. A bag of peanuts in my pocket and my guitar on my back, I made it to the gate with five minutes of boarding remaining. Phew. Things should be easy and familiar from here on out.

Touching down once again at Juan Santamaria International in San Jose, I did feel that much closer to home. It felt right to take the large red bus in from the airport, the driver returning pre-counted change from the foam-change-holder perched next to the steering wheel. Dismounting downtown next to Parque La Merced, the shady central square where the Nicaraguans congregate daily to find work, I knew where I was, and I knew where I needed to go, more or less.

Trouble was, nobody I knew was answering their phone. I bussed up towards San Pedro and found myself wandering around, clanking change into broken pay phones, wondering what had happened to everyone I thought I knew in San Jose. A nice young Tica named Roxanna was working at a corner bodega, and allowed me to use her cellphone - I'm fairly sure her grandmother, working beside her, would have preferred I asked for Roxanna's hand in marriage. As it was, no answer from anyone (not the Gringas "Jaimie, Melanie, and Amanda no se encuentran" or from Tim, Mike, and Clo, or from E-Rub. Nobody.), but yet another happy encounter with an awfully suggestive Latina. Naturally, my next step as the sun went down over my old barrio in San Jose was follow Roxanna's advice and go next door to the chinese restaurant. I ordered an Imperial and Arroz con pollo y verduras en salsa curry (chicken with rice in veggies with curry) - 1450 colones (a buck and change) for the Grande. I must admit I always impressed myself by remembering the word for "chopsticks" in Spanish (palillos - or palillos chinos, to distinguish from palillo - toothpick). There's one I have not used since I've been back in this country. The small proprietor, dressed in a white tank top, white pants, and slippers talked loudly in Chinese to her three children, speaking over the television news, surely showcasing soccer clips. She shuffled from the kitchen to unlock the front gate and let in three regulars in succession- yes, the Chinese restaurant had a locked metal gate on the front door. They paid little attention to the gringo leaning over his arroz and scribbling in his journal. I paid my bill and managed to finagle a free phone call to boot, finally reaching Tim and getting directions to my temporary residence - address: "across from the Supermarket Napoli" - recall San Jose has no addresses - only landmarks. What madness.

I settled in that Sunday evening to the upscale apartment shared by Tim, Clovis, Mike, and hundreds of empty wine bottles, as one of Clovis' co-interns from the Inter-American Court of Human Rights gave a Tortilla Espanola workshop. It truly is an art, and it was truly a relaxing evening - surely the calm before the storm.

I awoke the next morning with a full head of steam, a list of errands to run on my last day South America. My hosts left for work, leaving my in the apartment. Puro Lujo it was (luxury, baby. luxury), high-class artwork, deep cushioned sofas and bourgeois light fixtures, tile floors cool to the touch. An ingenious washer / dryer system, gas stove. The works. I settled into my morning routine, a leisurely shower in the spacious shared bathroom, an even more leisurely stay atop the toilet, without a doubt one of the finer plumbing accessories in the whole of Central America. Everything was going as planned, until... The toilet would not flush. Aghast, astonished, I went immediately into problem-solving mode. I had done nothing to provoke such insolence from the indoor plumbing. After months of irregularity in my nether regions, this morning's movement was nothing if not ordinary, even puny. I had not put paper in the toilet (I was prepared to wait one more whole day for that), I had not turned in anything unmanageable. And yet, there it was, defiant, stoic, and stationary. I knew not what to do. I was a guest in someone's home - I couldn't just leave it there.

There was no plunger to be found. No shovel - no, it was unreasonable to think to pluck it out. Where would I put it then? This required a professional. I was unsure how to explain the problem to the maintenance man, - if not mildly ashamed (if that was at all possible at this point in my journey). But the maintenance man himself had no tools, no special powers, no answers. I was lost.

My only resort was to simply leave it. In Latin America, one Cut's One's Losses. It was only appropriate that this (almost) final lesson came in the form of terd.

A brief interlude now from guest-writer/host/friend Timo Fitzpatrick, who truly got to know the ins and outs of my final gift to Latin America in all of it's glory. I myself was unaware of the aftermath until a week later, but today the lucky reader is truly blessed with this harrowing detailed narrative. Instant satisfaction.

The first hint that something, something in particular, was admist came in the form a thinly veiled admission on Zack's G-Chat away message that he had shat-up our bathroom: "It was a modest terd." Then a panicked phone call to Clovis. Followed by a panicked phone call from Clovis to me. Followed by a panicked me flooded with visions of plungers and draino and forced suspension of the gag reflex. Clovis and I bravely (read: timidly) came home to our apartment that night, armed with determination and little else. We took turns running in, running out of the shat-up bathroom. We discussed the merits of flushing, again, or waiting for it to "settle." The question really was: what would flushing do to the already murky constitution of the situation? Overflow? Dislodge? We decided it would make matters worse and for about three days we were firm in our resolve to not flush. There was talk of hiring a plumber. Maybe a cleaning person. Also some talk of moving out -- what with the smell, the color, the decomissioned bathroom, the embarassment of having guests over to a shat-up apartment (despite excellent ventiliation in and around the scene of the crime, notice of situation had spread clear into the living area/kitchen). But before we could move out, we decided to flush. With the aid of chemicals, hazmat suits, and a tag-team approach that involved one person pouring, one person flushing. One person mopping, one person vomitting. When all was said and flushed, we had an unpleasant memory of Zack's bow out, but a fond memory of his legacy. Modest it was not.

...

We rejoin my tale as I leave the 'crime scene' for my last day of errands - a walk through San Jose's central artery to pick up a refund from TicoBus, an yellow shirt emblazoned with the Imperial beer logo, one last tranny hooker. er... On the central plaza, I ran into one of my most unusual acquaintances from my stint in San Jose. Sitting at a table in McDonalds was Paulo, the president of the Disabled Person's Association of Costa Rica, a short square-faced man with a growl for a voice and a dark and shabby perma-stubble to accompany his truly angular cane-aided hitch-stride. We had frequently come in contact with each other at the Costa Rican immigration office, I as the UNHCR intern and he in his capacity helping disabled individuals deal with their paperwork. It was there that I came to learn of his taste for cheap beer and even cheaper women. But it was on the main plaza in San Jose, on my final day that I cam to experience firsthand such tastes.

With a keen eye for appealing afternoon anecdotes, I accompanied Paulo for what would prove to be a very slow walk around the block (I am not making fun. but I was astounded at how slowly he walked, especially given his status and proficiency with the cane. Perhaps the slower walk gave him further status as king of the handicapped?) Our destination was, of course, the local dive bar – coincidentally the very first bar I had ever entered in San Jose, after arriving in April for a brief stay at Hostal Pangea. It had all come full circle. Surely the very same group of hairy-chested men were populating the bar mid-afternoon, the condensation from their beer bottles dripping onto their stained wife-beaters. Only this time, I was one of them. And I was with the ringleader. The black and white photos of old soccer teams on the wall were only the slightest bit more faded, but I was a different person. Hundreds of Imperials later, I'd returned for one last hurrah. I bought Paul a beer as he leered at the bartender and ordered a casado.

Returning to Tim, Clo, and Mike’s to ready for my final night out in Latin America, I felt prepared. My things were packed for my flight the next morning; my Red Hot Chili Peppers concert T-shirt was freshly washed; a plate of Tim’s lasagna formed a spongy booze base in my belly. One final Monday night El Cuartel, where once weekly the San Jose luminaries gathered to grind, bump and twist with Laura y los Cuatro, an upbeat cover band featuring a curvaceous cantante (Laura, por su puesto) with invariably low-cut tops, highly varied hip gyrations, and perfectly maintained highlighted hair that swung in time and whipped around as if constantly striving for the perfect live album cover photo. El Cuartel opened only Mondays, the stage above a dark dance floor with a modest second- level booty-scoping observation platform. The bar connected to La Esquina (“the corner”), a cool halfway-open-air bar (less smoke!) with unpretentious clientele and early-90’s rock. This Monday, squeezing between the bars, all the regular crowd was there– the bar-hoppers I’d observed in their natural habitat for months.

One of the most fascinating specimens was a guy I called Gaston. Surely no one was as quick as him. As if he knew I’d want to laugh at him just one more time, he had donned a white linen vest, halfway unbuttoned, with no shirt underneath, his blonde ponytail nodding gregariously at this night’s prey – whoever the lucky lady might be. The people watching at El Cuartel was worth the price of admission – truly a steep 10,000 colones (4-5 dollars), though I’ll admit the 2000 colone Imperial lagers cut deep into my stingiest soul of souls.

I had a grand time telling tales of my last month in Panama and Colombia, of the Villa de Lleyva near-death-by-a-hundred-threats, of Bogota’s beers and busses, of the carribean’s heat (stroke) and dream-like beaches, of Daniel’s clandestine conniving and smiling sheistering, of the varied characters we’d met along the road. At el cuartel, it felt like a despedida, with my friends – American, mostly – but I was sure I’d see these people again. Somewhere on the road.

With the collar of my shirt wet from dancing and a good night’s work of drinking under my belt, the bar was closing, and most would go home. Not I. Not on my last night in Latin America. And I knew others would be with me.

Eric, my coworker from the UNHCR, a graduate of the residential college, a gentleman, a scholar, a singular sort. Tall, with large eyes betraying his half-sanity, bits of gray in a short dark mop, and a party shirt unbuttoned three buttons; his salsa skills, honed through months of instruction from a Cuban sensei, were unmatched, and his fervor for latin women nearly as extraordinary.

Mikey, our ‘colleague’ from UNICEF. A type A gregarious Georgian, blonde, and lean from routinized daily workouts; always on the run, and often getting ahead of himself. Mikey never stopped; he worked, worked out, he drank; he juggled it all as he bided his time, hoping for an assignment in Colombia, the land of Colombian women. Mikey would not let me down on one last night.

We’d had a good run over the past few months, but we needed a nightcap. These two gentlemen and a Tica (whose name I retained only for the night) joined me outside El Cuartel, to hail a cab going to ‘any place that’s still open.’ We found that place; where it was, I’m unsure. Upstairs was a dance floor, a bar, and enough 14 year olds to keep us all dancing in between entirely unnecessary beers. Mikey bought me something on fire: I believe it was called a ‘cucaracha.’ I am fortunate my stomach did not ignite. The carousing was monumental, but it all has to come to an end eventually.

We descended from the second floor and exited. . . into broad daylight. I was astonished that it was still nighttime in the bar, yet outside, it was the next day entirely. Not to be dismayed, we quickly pursued the logical next step: breakfast.

One final gallo pinto, scrambled eggs, and plaintain, and one final imperial, at a storied 24 hours soda in central San Jose. The three of us had our ‘last supper’ (the girl had since turned in) , and I boarded a bus back to San Pedro, to retrieve my things and head to the airport.. .

I immediately passed out on the bus, my head pressed against the window, and 12 rows of Ticos undoubtedly wearing incredulous looks. I awoke to the bus driver’s loud shouts of ‘GRINGO! GRINGO!’, not the least bit surprised to find myself in an empty bus at the very end of the line. I asked him directions to the Super Napoli and began my morning walk to Tim and Clovis’.

I was on top of the world, coming home in time to leave for the airport, a fantastic final night in Latin America settling into my memory, the sweat and beer had dried from my red hot chili peppers T-shirt, and still I had colones in my pocket. I sung as I passed parents walking their children to school, doing my best to give the impression that I had just got up; I am sure, however, that all passers-by knew that I was a drunken gringo just coming home. And then

I fell in a hole. A large hole. A few feet deep, a chunk of the sidewalk had come into the large flood channels lining the road. Not wanting to be the drunken gringo in a hole, I quickly leapt from my humble position back onto the sidewalk, acting as if my debacle had never happened. After passing the apartment, asking directions of a man and his young son, and returning, I opened the door to my lodging just as my alarm went off – the alarm that was to wake me up for the airport in the morning. Everything was falling perfectly into place.

I walked in to where Tim and Clovis were sleeping (Clo had given up her bed so I could get a good night’s rest before traveling. Jajaja), and I crawled into bed to regale them with my adventures. Tim was disgusted not only by my stench, but by the blood seeping from my leg. It appeared that my fall into the hole had caused more serious injury than my delirious and dulled senses could pick up on. Not to worry, I said. That blood will come right out of the sheets.

I showered, put on my bloody jeans, a (semi) clean button-down shirt, and a tie. I drank a glass of orange juice and brushed my teeth. Everything was falling perfectly into place.

To be sure, I logged in to check that my flight was on time, to find that

It had already left.

I fell silent, Tim glanced at me, and coolly remarked “you missed your flight, didn’t you?”

“uh-huh.”

My flight had left the ground about the time I was drooling on myself, passed out on a public bus. But this mishap was not due to my irresponsibility. To the contrary, I had checked my departing ticket many, many times over the past several months. I was sure of this date, sure of this time. This was my return trip; my flight home.

Perhaps subconsciously, I did not want to leave. I had misread my ticket, believing it to leave San Jose at the time it actually was to arrive in Houston. Silly me. This was the second international flight I’d missed in the course of a couple of months.

Phoning the airline was inconclusive, but I made a mad dash for the airport, nonetheless, thankfully retaining enough money to pay the cabbie. I was put on standby, hoping to make it home that day.

Mercifully, the three duty free stores in the San Jose Airport were all giving free samples that day. I recounted the sob story of my missed flight to the attractive young ticas distributing shots of guaro and Bacardi, re-upping the BAC that had finally begun its return to normal levels. With my 25 cent Bogota flea market tie and my bloodied jeans, I was surely the biggest asshole in the Juan Santamaria International. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

I managed to get on a flight, at the last minute, and make it to Houston with 20 minutes to leave my gate, pick up my bag, go through customs, recheck my bag, and find my gate for my connecting flight to Detroit. I knew there was no way I’d make it, but I made the effort nonetheless. I RAN through the terminal, my tie wildly flapping behind me and my guitar thumping madly against my side.

The thumping stopped at my gate, where a man standing in front of a closed ramp-door eyed me and calmly presumed, “Spencer?”

“Yes. THANK YOU,” I gasped, both of my hands grasping his shoulders for dramatic effect.

Boarding the plane, I knew I’d make it to Michigan, though I was unaware whether I’d have a place to sleep. Borrowing my aisle-mate’s cellphone to call my mother to go into my email to find a phone number to call a friend of mine in Ann Arbor to tell her to pick me up, I was anything but certain anybody would be waiting for me at the airport, and the flight attendant glared at me for using the cell-phone after we were instructed not to do so.

I slept, and awoke before touching down in Detroit, where I asked strangers for rides to Ann Arbor. Receiving silent responses and quizzical looks, I started to realize that my destitute traveler schtick would not go over so well in these United States. Miraculously, my friend Anna Rose had got the message, and was waiting at the baggage claim. What a sight for sore eyes. It was good to be back Home, a place where the surprises are no less frequent, and new adventures are always there – if you keep your eyes open.