Costa Rica Diaries, Part 6

January 30, 2017

 

Woke up several times last night and wondered if I had been asleep or not.  I felt odd.  I think it’s the book our other instructor, Will Viharo, asked us to read (Things I Do When I’m Awake).  I’m finding it difficult to enjoy the subject matter; it’s too violent and sex-centric for my little innocent Baptist self.  I am always open to experiencing new things but my brain is like a computer and what you let inside, takes up space and stays awhile. 

 

I’m wearing my pink pants today; a walking fiesta.  I don’t play golf but I sure do like the clothing. 

 

Last night we went to the ocean and were asked to write about the sunset.   Zeke Tyrus loves him some sunsets and I must admit those in Costa Rica are breathtaking.  “Ever forward is the mandate” is the last line of my essay.  I’m feeling inspired.  I left the beach before everyone else as along with my inspiration, I got a cramp in my butt cheek from the log I sat on and I am not about to recline in the sand, like some castaway.  I have my limits.  I retired to the nearby restaurant and ordered papas fritas, which is Spanish for french fries, and not Frito Pie like I initially thought.  When they arrived, just before my colleagues, they came with a pink sauce that I discovered, upon questioning, to be ketchup and mayo mixed together.  Costa Ricans are my people!  For dinner I had the most amazing red snapper fajitas. 

 

I talked to Michelle (Halverson) about her book and our rudimentary Spanish.  I find it interesting that Costa Ricans are so happy you’re even trying to speak Spanish that they readily offer assistance and try to figure out what you need.  They are very supportive and giving.  Americans, on the other hand, demand everyone “SPEAK ENGLISH”.  The only group I can think of in America who is collaborative when learning or using their language is the deaf community.  They are so patient and kind when you try to use Sign Language.  We’ve got to be more like that.

 

My sunset essay:

 

The sun is still fairly high in the sky but it is already casting its glow on the water like a golden carpet placed perfectly between an island configuration called The 3 Sisters.  Though they aren’t symmetrical, these islands are balanced on either side of this glowing aisle like fortunate families sometimes are.  One like a Phoenix rising, one like a rabbit sitting and the third and largest like a face looking up to the sky with a protruding forehead and prominent chin.

 

This golden carpet, reaching almost to shore, gives me a sense of calm contentment.  I don’t know if I’m to go to someone at the other end who is waiting for me or if they are headed my direction, so I wait patiently.  I know whichever way will be the best because I‘ll know which movements to make if I simply sit and listen.  As the sun continues its descent, the carpet moves toward me; coming as close as it dares and then retreating like an unfamiliar dog deciding if I am friend or foe. 

 

I know I will have to take a few steps to meet it as even good things coming toward me require some movement, some commitment on my part.  All success is kinetic; it requires an agreement to move.  Where you are is the result of a previous success; it’s now an inert success. 

 

Ever forward is the mandate.

Costa Rica Diaries, Part 5

Zeke our instructor had us write words, phrases or thoughts onto 50-60 index cards to use not as writing prompts but to see, after the writing is complete, if there is a connection to what we wrote during the assignment.  I thought we would use them as writing prompts but found that simply being outdoors in Costa Rica enough of a catalyst to get my brain whirring.  Here is my first essay.

 

I sat eating a breakfast of amazing fresh fruit, eggs, some weird but delicious cheese and a black bean/rice combo they call ‘pinto’ with my new friend, Ray.  Interestingly, the Costa Rican jungle surrounding us led to a discussion about London and how we both enjoyed our trips there and agreed we could spend months simply exploring. 

 

As we talked, two green parrots, which kind I don’t know, flew by and I was immediately transported back to Texas when I was in seventh grade.  My Dad has always liked either exotic pets or, at the very least, mundane pets with exotic names.  He had a particular affinity for parrots.  One named Seymour, we owned when we first moved to the tiny hamlet of Bogata, Texas.  We actually lived about seven miles northeast of town in a community called Fulbright. 

 

My Dad always kept Seymour’s wings clipped so he wouldn’t be able to fly away.  He typically did this in the house as it was a fairly easy thing to accomplish.  For some reason The Dad decided to clip Seymour’s wings while sitting on the front porch.  Maybe he wanted Seymour to fly away.  I found out later how dire our financial situation had become so maybe my Dad was trying to rid us of the added expense of a bird of this size, which served no real purpose, even on a non-working farm.   Unsurprisingly Seymour took his opportunity to escape and flew away quickly and with little fuss. 

 

We assumed we would never see him again as we were told he may have been bred in captivity and wouldn’t be able to survive in the wild.  Surprisingly we did see him once more, maybe two weeks afterwards, flying in tandem with a hawk.  I don’t know if they were a couple or trying to start their own bird gang but I was secretly glad Seymour was free from our little house just outside the middle of nowhere.  I used to wish I could escape that house, too, but my Dad’s hurtful insults always seemed to keep my wings clipped.

Goodness.  Apparently, meeting John Kapelos has reignited the teen angst I felt as a youth in Texas.  However, as I find it absurd to be filled with the residue of past torment while wearing hot pink chinos, I'll celebrate my awesome Costa Rica life, awash in pineapple tea and delicious food.  Pura Vida as they say.

Costa Rica Diaries, Part 4

January 30, 2017

I awoke my first morning in Costa Rica to a knocking at what I thought was my chamber door.  When I checked, no one was there.  I lay back down wondering if I had been dreaming, enjoying the air-conditioned comfort of my room and immediately fell asleep.  When the tap-tap-tapping began again my reaction was, “Is this house haunted?”  I believe this area is one filled with spirits although I may be confusing Costa Rican culture with the Gullah culture in the Low Country of South Carolina and Georgia. I hope I am mistaken.  I was theoretically prepared for a band of marauders and even monkeys, but not ghosts.  Having experienced a ghost once in high school I was not looking forward to a repeat of that traumatic event.

I sat and listened and realized the knock was coming from the window.  I stood on the lovely aqua coverlet and looked out the window at a bird perched on the chains running from the edge of the roof to the ground that serve as a more efficient drainage system than drainpipes.  The bird was pecking at its reflection.  When I went down to breakfast and mentioned it to my host, the esteemed pale warrior Nick Halverson, he said it was probably trying to mate with itself.  There’s a story there; at the very least, an allegory.

Today was our first writing class and we discussed writing as an exercise, a workout.  According to our instructor Ezekiel (Zeke) Tyrus, Stendahl said everyone who considers themselves a writer should write 20 lines per day “genius or not”.  We were asked to bring notecards and I had 200 in my writing kit as that was the size of the package from Dollar Tree.  I was more than willing to share with my classmates and did so to one of my retreat-mates.  I won’t tell you his name but it rhymes with John Kapelos.

Toward the end of class, someone noticed two creatures about the size of my fist affixed to the eaves of the covered veranda.  When it was asked what they were someone said, “Moths.”  When I looked over, I said, “It looks like those moths are wearing leg warmers.  I think those are bats.”  And they were.   Welcome to the jungle indeed.

After dinner tonight there was great conversation and John K. was telling wonderfully entertaining stories about John Waters, Tom Waits, Tracy Chapman, Robin Williams, Elliott Gould and a host of other names in Hollywood.  Someone asked the question, “Why are we so interested in celebrity?”

This led to what I will call “Things I Learned from John K. While Eating Chiky Cookies”.   

                                      

To loosely quote Mr. Kapelos, "Celebrity is one of our cultural totems; a status game.  It’s tribalism, like sports.  We align ourselves with those who like the same things we like, people included.  This tribalism is a matter of taste; a matter of trusting someone’s opinions.  But we need to separate the person from the opinion.  We don’t really know celebrities.  We can’t if we’ve never spent time with them.  We just think we know them.  With writing, we can’t see a writer’s ability until they write.  Then we can have an idea of who they are.  However, timeless art transcends personality."

I’m thinking about his words as I mull over the questions and advice from the first workshop.  We must write to perfect our craft, not to always be good.  Tennessee Williams wrote every day as a workout.  Writing is like the first day of rehearsal of a performance. You have to sometimes force inspiration. You can’t break the rules until you know them. 

Questions to myself:  Why do I write?  Who is my muse?  Who is my audience?  Should that matter?  Why have I always been, and to this day remain, slightly pink and scared of horses? 

Tomorrow I have a one-to-one with the author of Eli/Ely and he is reading the 70 pages of my memoirs I shared with him.  I'm looking forward to the feedback from Zeke.  I'm interested in the reaction to my story from someone with whom I feel pretty certain I share only two commonalities:  we both love writing and we are both carbon-based life forms.

Costa Rica Diaries, Part 3

January 29 (1:00 pm)


Everyone is finally here including John Kapelos (from Sixteen Candles, Breakfast Club, Seinfeld and many other things) and my inner 80s nerd is freaking out a little.  I thought I would play it cool but since I've not been cool at any point in my 46 years on this planet, I decided to just be a nerd and took a picture with him 24 seconds after introducing myself.  You know I was excited as I posted the photo on Facebook even though I was wind-blown and looked like a big ol' mess.


We grabbed some snacks at The Wal-Mart, which they call Maxi Pali; I think it's Spanish for Big Pallets, but I could be wrong.  We started the 3 hour trip south to San Buenaventura and our host Nick wanted to show us a part of Costa Rice many don't experience - the tall cool mountains with the chilly weather and beautiful views.  In between bouts of motion sickness, I did appreciate the thought behind the idea.  It did lead me to my first essay in Costa Rica.


"I'm sitting with my face poised above a Wal-Mart bag in the front seat of the Mercedes bus headed to the San Buenas Writer's Retreat by way of a mountain pass.  I'm trying to soak up the scenery although it is near dark but I'm also trying to keep from vomiting as I get extremely ill when traveling a meandering route in a vehicle as a passenger.  I know the roads are following the path of the mountain but I feel like the surveyor who mapped this area was either drunk or chasing a burro as I have never experienced so many curves on one road, with the possible exception of the Pacific Coast Highway.  Our expert driver fortunately is fearless like the other Costa Ricans I've noticed walking on the edge of the road, at night, without reflective protection mere inches from hurtling traffic.  I swear I could have tousled the hair of the last guy as we sped by. 


Fearless is not something I instinctually am but I do have a constant inner push to move forward regardless of fear because I know it is what I need to do.  It is why I'm here, in a country that is outside my comfort zone, at a retreat to push myself to tell the story I'm almost afraid to tell because I'm not sure strangers will understand me.  But I'm here because I'm supposed to be, for some reason.  The voice inside me who hijacked my mouth and agreed to this trip in the first place, demands to be heard.  I have to tell my story, so I will."


January 29 (8:00 pm)


We stopped for lunch and dinner but I did not eat either time.  You can't throw up if there's nothing inside you.  We finally made it to the villa and disembarked from the bus.  Juan the driver was so kind to me.  I have never been so happy to be on solid ground.  My room is fantastic and they were telling the truth - there is air conditioning.  I'm happy because if there wasn't I would have felt the need to fight someone but I am unprepared for fisticuffs on a good day.  I could be beat down by most anyone in my present state.  To bed, to bed I go.  I will sleep the sleep of the traveling tired.   

Costa Rica Diaries, Part 2

January 28, 2017

I’m headed to the airport – just said goodbye to Ben.  I will miss him but since we only get to see each other on the weekends, this week will be like normal but with more expensive text messages and no hope of meeting my daily FitBit step goals.  I fully intend on seeing Costa Rica, through the looking glass, as it were.  If I wanted to commune with nature and animals and those who don’t necessarily understand me while sweating in the heavy humidity, I could simply go to Mississippi.

 

I’m sitting in the Delta Sky Lounge as I got to the airport very early to ensure a stress-free passage.  When I showed Delta my return flight ticket for Alaska Airlines, they said, “No problem” and I fairly zipped through security arriving at my gate a full four hours ahead of my flight boarding time of midnight-thirty.  The Sky Lounge is very quiet with comfy seats and great food and now that I’ve experienced it for the first time, I am hooked.  Gonna go peruse the buffet.  Yes, I said buffet.

 

January 29, 2017 (7:00 am – 1:00 pm)

Sleepless flight.  I’m in row 18 and the light outside the restroom is shining in one spot and that would be directly into my face.  I asked if they could turn it off, point it elsewhere or at least dim it.  I never realized how many ways you can be told no.  At least I caught up with my TV viewing, watching Season 9 of Big Bang Theory.  It’s not as funny as it used to be.  Awoke tired but with the bonus energy often afforded travelers, I was able to speed through customs like a visiting dignitary. 

 

First impressions:  cool and windy at 8:30 in the morning.  Costa Rica doesn’t seem any more “foreign country” than Miami if I’m being honest.  Just bought a bottle of water from a very friendly lady, paying Lord only knows what as I don’t understand the exchange rate or their currency – colonnes.  For my change I received colorful bills and two rather impressive coins.  These coins have personality as if they might have magical properties or allow me entry to somewhere off-path and spectacular. 

 

I was instructed by my hosts to wait at the airport for the other attendees to arrive.  Unsurprisingly I got here first.  There is nowhere to sit other than this concrete bench so I guess my “roughing it” has begun.  Via the wonder of Facebook Messenger, Zeke Tyrus (of the San Buenas Writer's Retreat) gave me the scoop on the one restaurant at la aero puerto; Deli Malinche, where I had a ham and cheese croissant, because I could recognize what it was and point to it, and a café con leche.  Delicious.  Not to take away from their culinary prowess but if I’m being honest, at this point, I would have tried to eat a boot or a dead body if you had melted cheese on it.  Soy Queso!

 

I’m sitting here alternately reading The Tangier Diaries, as recommended by Zeke, and people watching.  I just marked a great passage, “The difference between our god and theirs is us.”  I’m experiencing some truth while I wait.

 

After several hours I am hungry again so I am attempting to order food at the restaurant.  I pointed to what I wanted (it was cafeteria style) but when I tried to ask if it was spicy I couldn’t think of the word for ‘hot’.  Asking if it was ‘not cold’ caused confusion.  My brain took over and used the only other language with which I have any familiarity – American Sign Language.  I abruptly signed ‘hot’, which is forming a claw with your dominant hand, placing the thumb and fingers at the sides of your mouth.  Then you quickly turn your hand toward the other person as if removing something hot from your mouth.  The servers eyes widened in fear.  Afraid this choreography was going to leave me bereft of food, I smiled, pointed at what looked like tuna salad, smiled and said, “Gracias”.  She did not smile back.  Where, oh where, is Senora Franklin (my high school Spanish teacher) with her side pony-tail and snide attitude when I need her?  Luckily I can say chicken, watermelon, bathroom, ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ in Spanish.  Also, should the need arise, beer and party.  I think I’m all set.

Costa Rica Diaries, Part I

     I recently returned from a week-long writer's retreat at Villas de San Buenas in Costa Rica.  I am as surprised as you that I actually went on this adventure.  A writer's retreat?  Absolutely in my comfort zone.  In Costa Rica?  Absolutely the farthest thing from my comfort zone outside of going shirtless in public or bullfighting.  When Ezekiel Tyrus, author and ceviche enthusiast, asked me to attend, I found myself agreeing very quickly, much to my surprise.  I guess my inner writer needed to get to the jungle.
     I was productive in the jungle in between eating, sleeping, sweating and failing miserably at communicating in Spanish.  There was a whole lot of como se dice-ing, pointing and head nods.  I accomplished much writing as well as journaling.  I will share with you a little of both over the next couple of weeks.


January 27, 2017
I'm celebrating my second anniversary as Assistant Director the VA Medical Center in Long Beach.  I love my job and look forward to work most every day but tomorrow is my last day before my vacation and I am just beginning to wrap my head around my impending attendance at the San Buenas Writer's Retreat in Costa Rica, where I hope to make significant progress on my memoirs tentatively titled Slightly Pink and Scared of Horses.  I don't think my 40 year-old self would believe this much less my 20 year-old self. 


January 28, 2017
I tried to check in online but Delta wouldn't let me.  I'm sure it's because my return flight is on Alaska Airlines so they can't tell if I have plans to leave, which you most assuredly must have according to the Costa Rica information from the State Department.  This is the price you pay for bargain airline tickets.  I hope all will be well.  I'm heading to the airport even earlier than planned to make sure there are no snafus.  I can tell you I am a little nervous, especially considering what happened to me when I tried to enter Canada in 2010.


I'm packing my clothes for the trip and I realize I am about to embark on one of the most frightening escapades of my adult life and I'm not talking about heading to a place just South of Nicaragua.  I'm talking about traveling without Spanx t-shirts.  This will be the first time I have left my home without foundation garments since my significant weight loss in 2009.  Spanx t-shirts keep my torso in the general shape of a human torso.  I'm going commando under the washable silk shirts of my cabana style wardrobe.  Do you call it commando when it applies to t-shirts?


I am mentally assessing my clothing choices recommended by my hosts as well as friends who have traveled both here and neighboring Central American countries.  I have never traveled to this part of the world and while I am aware it is probably not close to reality, my mind can't help but believe I am Kathleen Turner heading to Cartagena in "Romancing the Stone", but without the earth-toned footwear or deep voice.  I'm hoping the reality will be more akin to rural West Texas, without queso but with air conditioning.  I've been promised air conditioning.  They better have air conditioning.

I'd Prefer to Sit Down, but...

              I recently completed one of my bucket list items (performing stand-up at an open mic night) at DRNK coffee house in the Bixby Knolls neighborhood of Long Beach.  There were about 20 of my friends to support me, about 20-25 Neil Young fans there to play guitar after I finished my set and three or four college students who were just trying to study for finals.  Two of my friends recorded it but they are both having issues with getting the video to me so I thought I would share with you my routine.

 

                My name is Dustin and I’m sure you can tell from my accent I am not from here.   I grew up in East Texas and Mississippi.  For future reference, this is what a redneck looks like.  Now if anyone asks if you’ve ever seen a redneck you can say yes and he was wearing orange pants but not as part of a chain gang.

                I’m from the boonies.  And I want to make sure you understand what I’m talking about.  We lived outside of a town with one red light.  My family is so country; if we had a crest it would have a tractor and some cornbread on it.  As you can imagine I never really fit in.  For instance, one year I got a .22 rifle with a scope for Christmas.  You can understand the confusion as what I asked for was an argyle sweater.

                I feel we’ve bonded so I can share with you that I’m gay, in case you had not already guessed.  My father always told me I wasn’t macho enough.  It’s ironic the only people who use that word are my Dad and the Village People.  Luckily I was really overweight as my father equates girth with strength.  I don’t know why.  When I was fat I used to be too tired to so much of anything except eat.  Now that I’ve lost so much weight, my father thinks I’m too skinny, like too skinny to go to the grocery store alone.  He’s thinks I’m going to get beat up while shopping.  I don’t know where he thinks I buy groceries but there are neighborhoods I specifically avoid in Long Beach.

                I’ve devised a few rules about living in Long Beach.  If you are on a Fruit Street (Cherry, Orange, Lime) and you can’t actually see the ocean, you need to get off that street.  They will kill you in the face in the daytime.  I live in Belmont Shore (a couple of blocks from the beach) and I consider anything north of 4^th street to be Compton.  Yes, Bixby Knolls is Compton.  We are currently in Compton.  I’m going to need an escort to my car later.

                You can plainly see I am not skinny, however, I’m also not fat.  I’m in a weird in between body zone known to gay men as “might as well be a woman”.    I wish I could tell you under this sexy sweater vest is a ripped body but truthfully what is holding my torso into the shape of a torso is Spanx and hope and a series of ropes, pulleys and trick mirrors. 

                I’ve been in Southern California for almost two years and what I can tell you is there are so many feelings here.  I don’t know if it’s the tofu or the open-toed shoes or what but everyone feels too much here, which causes me to feel things too, like annoyance, anger and condescension, especially to the guys who love to wear jeans, hoodies and flip flops. 

                First of all, it is physiologically impossible for your upper body to be cold and your feet to be hot.  Secondly, no one wants to see your big nasty feet.  At least women have the decency to have their toes done.  Men, it’s just gross.  If your toenails look like a photograph of the Earth’s crust from a science book, nobody wants to see that mess.  And another thing, specifically for the hipsters in the audience.  If you can fit all your stuff in a pair of skinny jeans, you don’t have a lot of stuff.  I’m just saying.  Women notice that sort of thing.

                And the gay guys are just as ridiculous.  I have tried online dating and people are…I don’t know.  There was one guy who was nice and we went on two dates.  The first date was great and we made the second date.  Now I tell them upfront, I am not having sex on the first date.  Like Kelly Clarkson, I do not hook up.  This guy abruptly states during dessert on the second date that there was no chemistry, which I took to mean no forthcoming nudity, and he left.  I sat there thinking “What is the protocol when someone leaves during dessert on a date?  Can I finish his dessert for him?  It’s just sitting there.”  So I ate it.  It was a good brownie.

One guy on OKCupid sent me a message that said, ‘I want to be a baby.”  I told him I didn’t understand what that meant.  He said I want someone to treat me like a baby.  I told him, “I’ma pray for you heathen” and then I did what you’re supposed to do when you have an unwanted baby, I called Child Protective Services and had him placed with a foster family in Valencia.

                There was one guy who was a bisexual man in an open marriage with a bisexual woman.  I asked “What exactly in my profile made you think I’d want to be part that nasty mess?  I’ma pray for you heathen.”  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging.  Be who you need to be.  If you want to be a whore, go right ahead but keep me out of it. 

                My profile says I’m a Christian and it’s important.  I mean I’m not taking Jesus on the first date, but it’s going to come up at some point.  I tried gay Christian dating sites but they were worse.  One of them was like Grindr with Bible verses.  My screen name is BrooksBrothersPrep, which is obvious.  One guy’s name was Git U Sum 2Nite.  I don’t think he was talking about salvation.  Call it a hunch.

                Well, I’ve noticed a number of heathens in the audience who need prayer so I’m gonna stop talking now and go pray for them. 

Thank you.