Today’s the last long driving day when we make our way back to Guanacaste, where we’ll spend a couple more days before heading back to Seattle. So this feels like a good enough time as any to post this random frame I took using Christine’s camera on our most epic moving day when we shuttled back and forth between SLU, SODO, West Seattle, and Madrona. This is where we parked our car when we picked up the U-HAUL. I just love how the light leak that came through after accidentally opening up the back a bit too early actually elevates the shot. This was another roll we developed and scanned at @glazersphotolab.
This is the airport we’ll be flying back from in a few days — but first, a couple of stops on the way. The one consistent pattern I’ve seen across the whole stretch of Costa Rica we travelled, from their Pacific NW to their Caribbean SE, is tons and tons of roadworks and construction everywhere. Sometimes, an hour drive is doubled because of so much snarled up traffic as one lane is allowed through at a time. This is especially true in the region of Guanacaste which seems to be experiencing a speculative goldrush of some kind right now. This very boring to sit through, but it does mean you have more time on your hands for drive-by out-the-window shots, which I’m getting more of a handle on.
I saw a poster in one of our breakfast spots that shared “Advice from a Tree” by a writer and artist I later learned was named Ilan Shamir. Interestingly, the poster is a very abridged version of the text, turning the spiritual sentiment into something a bit more utilitarian. Here’s the text I found elsewhere:
“Dear Friend,
Stand Tall and Proud
Sink your roots deeply into the Earth
Reflect the light of a greater source
Think long term
Go out on a limb
Remember your place among all living beings
Embrace with joy the changing seasons
For each yields its own abundance
The Energy and Birth of Spring
The Growth and Contentment of Summer
The Wisdom to let go of leaves in the Fall
The Rest and Quiet Renewal of Winter
Feel the wind and the sun
And delight in their presence
Look up at the moon that shines down upon you
And the mystery of the stars at night.
Seek nourishment from the good things in life
Simple pleasures
Earth, fresh air, light
Be content with your natural beauty
Drink plenty of water
Let your limbs sway and dance in the breezes
Be flexible
Remember your roots
Enjoy the view!”
We made it earlier than expected, despite spending way too much time circling Limon to find that sign that says “Limon” I posted earlier so that Christine’s dad could take a picture of us in front of it, so we got a take two at the Cementario, where a security guard first approached us to say “no photo, no camera,” but quickly softened when she saw our contriteness and probably also how adorable Christine looked in her sun hat, sundress, and SLR, so quickly added something I understood to mean “only the angels are okay, not the names of the buried.” Only the angels. That’s a-okay with me.
I’m sipping my Britt-made Americano thinking about how the Iranian Australian friend I made in Lebanon years ago called me a “total scenester” for my ability to blend in anywhere, wondering if the metalheads at Butts Bar—couldn’t figure out if it’s cigarette butts or all dat ass—would agree, seeing me show up in my checked shirt and travel vest. But I don’t care; as I told Christine while we waited for the bar to open with the crowd clad in obsidian, “it’s more metal to be yourself.”
We had a lot of fun just chilling here, listening to a crazy playlist of classic hair metal and pig growl deathcore, sipping our Imperial beers that taste just like Almaza, to me—ya3ne taste like nothing but a good time. Cheers.
The splintered subject I have formed over the years, through loves and trials and happenstance—a geographer, a total scenester, a student professional but not professional student, a party animal and random selection, and now a bonafide gringo—all these fragments come into play when I travel, and half the delirium that comes with it comes from all those parts battling it out in transit.
It’s still not time to say goodbye to Costa Rica but I’m already thinking about what little piece of this place will stay lodged in me. The beach bum? The bungling American who no habla? The barely beige turned golden crisp and always mistaken for local?
After the metal bar, we decided to walk around and see what else we’d find, but most things were closed on a Sunday night. In fact, one guy even warned us (jokingly) not to stay out too late, “it’s a Sunday.” But it didn’t matter—half the fun of being in a new city is simply soaking it in by osmosis. I hope we visit this city again. And not just as a stopping point.
I wish we had more time to dive into Costa Rican culture and politics while we’re here, but this was just not that kind of trip. I’m fascinated by some of the lore I read up on before coming—like the legend of Juan Santamaría, the quintessential Costa Rican patriot that everything is named after here, including the San Jose airport, but probably never existed not unlike Johnny Appleseed. I read a great article about how his story grew in the years when a galvanizing symbol of modern Costa Rica was needed; a secular saint for the civil religion of the patria.
But, alas, I only have gleanings that whizzed by on the periphery of our romp from coast to coast, fully immersed in the tourism hologram—just leave the politics at the door. And that’s okay. My dabbling in critical learning is just another form of tourism anyway.