Costa Rica, 05-05-2007
The night before we’d resolved to upgrade for our last night Samara; perhaps a place with air conditioning. The review Chad and Monica gave of their hotel was enough for us, so we decide to tell Donal we’d be moving along after trying to see the tortugas in Buena Vista. Unfortunately, the rivers are too high to get there easily, so we skip it for a day of relaxing on the beach.
After settling down under some palm trees for a bit, I noticed a group of Ticos out playing futbol in the hard-pack sand of low tide. I wander over and ask permission to take some photos. A few came over to introduce themselves, and I wish I could remember their names, but they’re a bit drunk and happy, with very thick accents.
Those who introduced themselves push even harder once I raise my lens, and though there are some wild kicks, sweeping misses, and lots of falling into the sand after powerful kicks that missed their mark and fling the kicker back and around to the ground in drunken glee, they’re still amazingly dexterous with their feet. You can tell this is a regular Saturday morning activity, at least when there aren’t so many touristas around.
The game ends when enough players pass out on the makeshift field, having to be dragged home via friends under each shoulder. One of the Ticos smiles to me, and pointing to a friend, says, “Baracho. Comprende?”
I smile and laugh. “Ah, si, muy baracho!”
He says something else, but it’s too fast, too long, and perhaps slurred.
“Discuple, no se.”
He pauses for a moment, finds the word he was looking for, and smiles even broader, drawing his finger across his neck. “Muerte!”
“Si, si, comprende, muerte!” I echo, raising an empty hand to my mouth, miming drinking. We both share a good laugh before a parting _buenos dias_. It occurs to me these where probably the Ticos we passed at a local bar the night before, and they had probably been up drinking ever since.
We return to Donal’s before noon. There’s a group of Americans there in a taxi, asking for Posada Matilori, which is where we thought we’d been staying for the last two night. The location and farmhouse description fit, although Donal wasn’t Italian as guide said, we haven’t been too concerned.
The Americans have a brief discussion with Donal and the taxi driver in Spanish before speeding off in the direction of the _real_ Posado Matilori, where Chad and Monica where staying. We’d all deduced this the evening before. I explain to Donal we wanted to get “a little fancy” for our last night in Samara, thanked him, and proceed upstairs to join Nae in the packing.
“Well, if there’s still only one room left there, it looks like those guys will get it.”
“Yeah, that kind of sucks, I wanted to see Chad and Monica again again before we leave.”
“Me too. Maybe another room opened up. Or we’ll just go somewhere else and see if we run into them on the beach.”
We finish packing and walk across town to Posada Matilori. Stefano, the owner, says there’s one room available and gives us the full tour (and then some). US $30 for the room, $35 with A/C. We opt for spending the extra five bucks.
“I guess another room opened up. Or maybe they didn’t like the sleeping config, with one double and one bunk.”
“Lucky. This place is awesome.”
“Yup.”
Just then we see one of the Americans from the taxi walking in to Stefano’s office.
“How did we beat them? They left Donal’s 45 minutes ago in a taxi!”
“I don’t know, that’s odd.”
“Maybe Donal gave the taxi bad directions?”
“Maybe, but the towns only so big.”
“Well, we’re only staying for a night, they can have our room tomorrow.”
“Oh, shit, here he comes. Hide! I don’t want him to think we intentionally sniped their room.”
We slink into the corner of the room beside the window, out of view, and feel quite silly.
The afternoon is lazy: picking up some souvenirs for those back home that curried us to the airport, showering, setting up the shuttle home, and tea on the patio of Posado Matilori. We were planning on taking the city bus back, but the only one to San Jose leaves at 3 PM on Sundays, which would put us in the aforementioned Very Bad Part of San Jose well after sunset. I can see how renting a car here is feasible. Lunch is at a beach soda, sharing a decent tuna salad and scrumptious baked fish filet with butter. The salad was interesting only because of it’s contents: broccoli, cauliflower, pototoes, olives, carrots, egg, tuna, and: hamburger pickle slices.
On a local recommendation, we have dinner at El Samarena, a soda a block off the main drag. I’d promised Nae a nice dinner on the last night, and El Samarena didn’t disappoint. In fact, I’d be willing to say it’s the best seafood I’ve ever had. And I live in San Diego.
Mariscado and Bisteck Piizallola
A Slight Mis-translation
We split mariscada and tenderloin plates. While the tenderloin was good, the mariscada stole the show. It was a mound of shrimp, mussels, calimari, a fish filet, and a lobster. The one plate is enough food for two people, and at 10,000 colones — less than US $20 — quite a deal. I thought the shrimp was phenomenal, followed closely by the fish, while Nae reversed the rankings. Regardless, if you find yourself in Samara, treat yourself and order the shrimp or fish. You won’t be disappointed.
We waddle home, content to sit on the patio and drink some Cacique that a friend of Nae’s recommended. It’s a sugar-cane derived liquor, like rum, although it doesn’t have rum’s flavor. It’s 30% by volume, has a smell more potent than it’s bite, and taste a bit like sweet rubbing alcohol. (Don’t ask how I know that.)
There are two girls staying there, Madeline and Anna, on vacation from the Alajuela province. They’re drinking on the balcony with another friend, but periodically pop in and out of the kitchen for beers. I catch her on one of her trips and query her:
“Perdon,” pointing to the bottle of Cacique, “esta bueno o malo?”
She shakes in front of her, “Eh, mas o menos.”
“Que esta bien?”
She falters, searching for the her English — which is about on par with my Spanish — before signaling with a raised index finger and a parting _un momento_. She returns with a small bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. I chuckle with the thought of the Americanos drinking Cacique and the Ticos drinking whisky.
We spend the next hour stumbling through a pidgin language of English, Spanish, and improvisational sign language, learning names, professions, a bit of personal histories, and how we’ve liked Costa Rica. It gets a little complicated when she asks what Nae does, as wee have no idea how to get across “Film and Video Post Production.” My charade skills just don’t have the power. The best I can come up with is “Cine,” and “Editoria,” the second of which is just the gringo habit of adding an “o” to any word to make it sound Spanish. Madeline pulls Stefano out to translate, and he and I digress into our own conversations while Nae and Madeline communicate with the International Language of Giggle, aided by Madeline’s cell phone.
Madeline and Nae
We find out that, apparently, the Posada Matilori used to be where we stayed the last two night, but they recently moved to their new (and much improved) location. Stefano is quite justifiably angry that Donal won’t sell him his old number, that’s listed in the Lonely Planet guide with a great review, and is telling taxi drivers and customers that his place is “under the same management,” or that Stefano’s place is closed now.
[It's not my fight, and Donal was very pleasant and charging the same rates as the old Posado Matilori, but he's also cashing in on the three years of Stefano's hard work in getting an excellent reputation and write-up. So, be warned. The summary comes down to this: Donal's place, which may be called "RBO's Habitaciones," is slightly less than Posado Matilori, included free breakfast every morning, and has a very uncomfortable bed with itchy sheets. Stefano's offers optional A/C, with a very well equipped common kitchen and dining area, exceptionally clean, with free laundry and use of boogie boards, coffee and tea, and a much more comfortable bed.]
There’s pseudo-conversation late into the evening, covering all sorts of topics, but in the end Nae and I trade email address with Madeline before heading off to bed. Hopefully, if my desire to improve my Spanish remains, I have a penpal at the ready to practice with.
A Slight Mis-translation