BW: Consider me gone.
 Speaking to some French girl Julie and Chantel were here having breakfast when I went down for the first cup of coffee, and we chatted for a bit, at the table behind them was a dark skinned girl who would end up being named Rita. She came in late last night with two boys and left them both disappointed at the front door, a fact she seemed oblivious to. She is from near San Jose where she teaches English to teachers and wanted to work on hers for a bit, and I wanted to work on my Spanish, so after my usual routine, I met her on the beach where she lie in her bra and small cotton shorts since she owns no swimwear since she is afraid of the water and never swims. We compare tans and we are the same, though, curiously, she shoves down a corner of her shorts to reveal a bottom almost as white as mine and said that she was planning on going to the nude beach while she was here, and that is what I was planning on doing to until I figured out that Playa Playitas was on the other end of the park and only accessible by boat or helicopter and she told me no, that it was Playa Playita which was just up and around the corner, and I left in a cloud of sand to try to scout it out after first making my last ATM visit of the trip and then stopping to take pictures of El Avion which is a bar built around a plane that Ronald Reagan bought for the contras with money he got from selling guns to Iran and the tide was too far up to get around the rocks and all I found was the Village People on steroids in speedos. She lies under an umbrella all day because the sun causes cancer, she moves her chair away from smokers because second hand smoke causes cancer, doesn’t use insect repellant and so on. I’m not sure if she thinks swimming causes cancer or not. She babbled about the local overuse of the term Pura Vida to cater to the tourists, thinks that Costa Ricans have the purest and most elegant Spanish because the use Vos instead of Tu/Ti and loves 80s music, which is probably why she stays here at Costa Linda everytime she visits, which is often. I sequester myself up on the table in the open air hall that leads to my room in peace and quiet because I cannot stand the DVD that is on the bar television in a perpetual loop of Madonna, AC/DC, GnR, and the like. I literally have heard Dreadlock Holiday 6 times today. There is never any soap, but each of the two stalls have no fewer than six full rolls of toilet paper everytime I go in there, which is just in stark contrast to the cheapness of the rest of the place. She is 31 and is the rare Central American woman to have attained that age and still be attractive and she has no idea why that is. I asked if had anything to do with them having kids so young, and her being childless and she didn’t think so, talking about two girls she has know since high school that have weathered and fattened without having had their first child. We watched an unspectacular sunset together, me with a beer, which she doesn’t drink but not because it causes cancer, she just doesn’t see the point in Alcohol. Dinner here, unremarkable but for her singing and snapping along to every song, so I was only too pleased when she wanted to go to a bonfire which was the polar opposite of Zuma’s. No one sat, the fire was constructed by amateurs, the tide was far away, the DJ was so loud that group conversation was impossible, she wanted to move every time that some one lighted a cigarette or the smoke from the fire blew on her, small groups sat in small circles and, yeah, I’m going to go talk to those two French girls that live next to me and don’t seem to be having fun. And that lasted about 5 minutes and Sandrine just stopped by the little table outside of my room to ask for my email address, which I found odd, and she had some of my rum and says she prefers the Roquez over the Colorado because it tastes more like whiskey.
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Diary Photos
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