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.

To boldly go...

              For many years there wasn’t much in my life which made me proud.  I was embarrassed my family was poor.  I was embarrassed I was overweight.  I was embarrassed I wasn’t handsome and I thought I looked like a cartoon or a teddy bear.  I was embarrassed I didn’t have it all together when people assumed I did.  I was embarrassed I was single, desperate for validation, obsessed with trying to achieve society’s definition of success.  Most of all I was embarrassed to be gay.  I never attended Pride as I believed actually being proud was a prerequisite.

                Now, six weeks after my 46^th birthday, I find myself suddenly proud of it all.  Proud of me, proud to be me with all my experiences and failures, my background and roots.  I am proud because I am a product of those experiences, those failures, those roots.  I’m proud because all this made me different than I would have been otherwise. 

                My gayness, if you will, caused me to be more ambitious, sometimes misguided in my pursuits, but always striving to achieve whatever I felt was necessary.  At first, it was to feel I deserved the tenuous love I felt with my family.  Then it was to impress, to receive validation.  By my late 30s it had just become who I was; my ambition was simply a part of me, to improve for the sake of continued growth, to be a better person, a better leader.  I wanted simply to impact the world in a positive way, to be the passion I didn’t see. 

                I have never had an ego.  However, I do have traits commonly misjudged as ego – stating my strengths aloud to people, hoping it would be believed if they (or I) heard it enough, striving to convince me and everyone else of my value through sheer force of will.

                I was 29 when my mother died never having accepted my homosexuality.  I was devastated as my mother was perhaps the most important person in my world.  I have not talked about it much, it seems disrespectful.  However, for the next 11 years, until I turned 40, it caused me to try to attempt to be straight and when that inevitably failed, to simply choose celibacy and solitude, believing I was unworthy of personal happiness.  My father had the advantage of living long enough to accept me as I am although it has been slowly over the years.  His comfort is that my gayness is almost theoretical at this point.  I am still single at 46. 

                Also his opinion of me hasn’t mattered in such a long time.  As the one constant bully during my formative years, I stopped caring what he thought long ago and it’s hard to truly care even now, when he tries to be a different person, often failing but still trying, though I really haven’t given him a chance like I probably should.

                The other relationship my gayness impacted has been with God.  If I had been born straight, I may have kept the same superficial Christianity as many of my fellow Evangelicals; attending church Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, plus choir practice, teaching Sunday School, chaperoning youth events.  Never really learning who God is; never questioning my opinions or actions, thinking “I’m not a bad person therefore nothing I do should be considered bad.  Even when I think, say, do, vote in a certain way, I’m exhibiting Christian behavior solely because I think of myself as a Christian; my behavior should be beyond scrutiny.”  I would have bent Jesus to match what I feel because I never studied enough to really know Him enough to understand and know what He would do.  It’s Evangelical privilege and I would have likely had it, based on many self-professed Christians I have known throughout the 14 states I have lived in the last 46 years.

                It’s lazy Christianity; the right to refuse to change to be more like Christ because calling myself, and believing I am, Christian simply requires adherence to a certain appearance, attendance, surface prayer, remembering as opposed to learning. My gayness compelled me to study because I had to know why God would make me gay if it were a sin.  Why would He create someone solely to hate?  He is not about hate; He is about love.  To create someone just to make them perish for all eternity no matter their actions is capricious and hateful, two things God is not.

                In my studies I also learned my view of God was skewed by my view of my father; that I was afraid of God like I was afraid of my father.  Questions with strong Christians and conversations with other believers helped me understand the God Jesus knows.  Dedication to learning more helped me realize it really is all about the greatest commandments:  Love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul and love your neighbor as yourself.  These are the greatest commandments, all the law and scripture fall from these truths.

                I am a proud Christian and gay man and I need to say this because of what has recently occurred.  Thirty-seven days after I officially hit my late-mid-forties, a reality TV star and one of the most anti-LGBT politicians in a generation became our new leaders.  Based on the rhetoric during the campaign and the activities since the election, it is more important than ever before to stand up; to be proud; to ensure my voice is heard not just by those who need to be reminded we are here and we are worthy but by those who need to know I am here so they feel less alone.

                I will not be silent while rights are taken away.  I will not sit idly by while actions are taken and laws enacted that are counter to real Christian and American values.  I will be vocal so those who are disenfranchised and targeted know I am here to stand with them, to love them as God loves them, to fight for them.  I want to be a living example of a successful, happy and proud Gay Christian not for me but for the younger me out there struggling.  I will be who I needed when I was younger because I know exactly what it feels like to be alone in the world, to feel like a stranger in your own family, in your own house.  To be embarrassed to be who God made you to be.

                I must be bold because boldness is appropriate, boldness is necessary, boldness is required, boldness is the new mandate.

Gravel, Chakras and Lying to Art Majors

                With all this talk of red and blue states I am reminded of a time when a lack of information about color saved me death and dismemberment.   

                My first junior year in college, I was a Graphic Design major.  I had two junior years due to my inability to decide on a major after unrelenting math classes forced me from my original intended major, Architecture.    During this same year, I was also pledging a fraternity, which placed me fundamentally at odds with many of my fellow Art Students League members.  Between project deadlines and the stress related to the all-encompassing belief that my fraternity brothers would suddenly realize I was a big gay nerd and vote me out, I didn’t get much sleep. 

                I enjoyed the dichotomy of fraternity and artiness all in one person, but I found there were times when I did not fit in with either.  For the fraternity, it was the drinking, which I have never.  For the Art Students, it was the basics like food, clothing, shelter, music and also drinking.  With them there was a lot of tie-dyed, fibrous clothing (purchased from the local hippie emporium Belladonna), CDs of the sounds of whales mating and random talk about auras and chakras and other things seemingly hippie-adjacent.  There were also a lot of black clothes, which I appreciated for its slimming effect but I wanted to be a little less funereal in my ensembles.  Granted I did wear a burlap hoodie and had a pair of fake Birkenstocks in an attempt to blend, but my body secretly craved brightly colored fake Polo shirts.  Everything I owned was fake as I had no money, people.

                As I am willing to try most anything once, I readily agreed when asked, “Do you want to meditate in the Frazer Dorm parking lot?”  Frazer dorm was the men’s dorm at my predominately female Mississippi University for Women.  It sat at the back of the campus, about 20 feet from an active railroad track where a train came by and honked (do trains honk?) their horn at least every hour. 

 My memories are a bit hazy due to age, not drugs, but I remember sitting on gravel, trying to find my chakra with one eye open scanning for cars.  I wanted to make sure I protected my black-clad friends sitting on the ground in the dark in a location frequented by young people mindlessly driving cars; distracted by the tunes of Jesus Jones and Book of Love since cell phones had not been invented at this particular point in history.  Outside of “are we going to die tonight?”, the most pressing question was, “Are chakras to be found in a parking lot on a Mississippi college campus, about 10 miles from the Alabama state line?”  It was unlikely as one of those searching was continuously struggling with random bits of gravel lodged in random bodily nooks and crannies previously unexplored.

I felt fairly certain I had not found any of the colors of the chakras.  There are at least red and blue, to my memory.   Unsure if I would recognize my chakra were I to stumble upon it, I asked, “What shade of blue is the blue chakra?”  The response was a completely disappointing, “Blue.”  We were art majors and we couldn’t specify the exact shade of blue.  Really?  I pressed on, “I know you said blue, but which shade?  Cerulean?  Lapis?  Turquoise?  Aqua?  Tiffany?  Robin’s Egg?  Cornflower?” 

They didn’t snort with derision, but there was a collective sigh as if I had just knocked them up or down a level.  I’m still not sure how this works.  Is it like a video game?  One of the less annoyed ones answered, “It’s just blue.  You’ll know when you’ve found it.”

Tired of sitting in gravel in the dark and starting to get hungry, I lied and said, “Oh.  There it is.  I found it.  What a nice shade of blue.”  You can think all art majors are laid-back, but the looks I received were among the looks you would get if you got caught using Miracle Whip in your chicken salad at a Baptist Women’s luncheon.

With the chakra search abandoned, I suggested a trip to Delchamp’s, the 24-hour grocery store where our intrinsic differences were never more evident than in our snack choices.  They all chose fruit, yogurt or nuts.  I chose chicken salad and used BBQ Crunch Tators (remember those?) as a spoon. 

What can I say, y’all, I am a complex creature.

Hearing Aids for No Apparent Reason

               I talk to The Dad by phone (as opposed to telepathy) every Saturday, usually around 11 am Louisiana time.  Sometimes he doesn’t answer, which is annoying, because the man literally doesn’t leave his recliner on the weekends other than to eat and use the bathroom, sometimes concurrently.  The reason it is annoying is his timing is always terrible.  If we don’t talk on Saturday morning, he panics and then starts calling me every 15 minutes, leaving no voicemails, until I answer and I am usually in a movie or having brunch or some other really important thing.  When I ask him why he doesn’t answer the phone, he says it doesn’t ring.  When I point out he keeps it in his shirt pocket where it should at least vibrate he declines the logic.  When I remind him I call at the exact same time every week, he pretends to not understand what I’m saying.

                He does this by refusing to wear the hearing aids prescribed by his doctor and received free of charge from the VA.  He does not want to admit it but he is 75 and has the hearing prowess of a Dowager Countess.  I used to think he had selective hearing because he seemed to be able to hear a bag of chips open from a half-mile away, but not hear when I ask him if he took his medicine or if he showered that day.  I knew something was wrong however, when I whispered at dinner one night that we had chocolate ice cream for dessert and he didn’t move a muscle.  I called the doctor the next day.

                And I share all that to give you context of the conversation we had just this past week, when he wasn’t wear his hearing aids.

             The Dad:  Joe’s Pool Hall, Cue Ball speaking.

Me:  Hey, what’re y’all doing?

             TD:  Hey JD!  We’re just sittin’ around watching the grass grow.  Whatcha doin’?  Shoppin’?

             M: Well I went to the grocery store if you consider that shopping.  Ran some other errands.  I’m meeting some friends in a little while to have tea.

             TD:  Teeth?

             M:  No, we’re going to a tea room to have High Tea.

             TD:  What?

             M: High tea. 

             TD:  Hottie?

             M: (Speaking loudly) High Tea.

             TD:  Highty?

             M: (Almost yelling) Where are your hearing aids?

             TD:  Don’t need ‘em.  Now what were you talkin’ about doin’?

             M: (Yelling) Going to High.  Tea.  Like they do in England?

             TD:  You’re goin’ to England today?

             M: (Sarcastic but still hopefully respectful) Yes, I’m going to England.  Today.  I have to hang up, the plane is here.

             TD:  Oh, well I’ll talk to you later.

             M:  No…I’m just kidding…I’m not going to England.

             TD:  Oh.  So you are goin’ shoppin’?

             M: (Resigned) Yes, sir.

             TD:  That’s that I thought.

     

             If I drank, I'd be drunk at brunch right about now.