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2004-11-21

IMPORTANT NOTES FROM JUSTIN:

I'm running a special sale on my CD for readers of my online diary. Check it out here.

And now, on with the show...



Leaving Costa Rica


I wasn't really ready to leave Costa Rica. But, I guess that's probably better. It's always best for things to come to an end when everything is still perfect in your mind and every light looks like sunset and you long for just one more hour in the day.

But, here I am on a plane from San Josť to Dallas. Scott sits to my left; Cynthia is at my right. They're both watching some big Hollywood movie on some tiny airplane screen.

But I just sit and write—waiting for the in–flight meal with the same hope and optimism an atheist has for an afterlife.

I'm not tired. It's surprising. Scott and I were up late, drinking, dancing, and floating between discoteques and bars. It was our last night in the country and we had a lot to do still.

We paid 1000 colones to visit what looked like the alcohol–free underage clubs that teenagers frequent in the USA. What made it appear like that was that the people inside weren't filtered by subculture or apparel like they would be in most evening venues. It was a hodge–podge of tourists from around the world, with ages varying from 18 to maybe 30. But, most of the tipsy partyers were university–aged Ticos.

Sure, I saw a few gorgeous women. But, they were all foreigners. The Costa Rican women just looked bad to me. The men somehow managed to look even worse. I really wanted to look around and revel in the beauty of the sweaty, pulsing bodies—think Germany, Sweden, Italy, Spain, California. Oh, but no. So, I found solace in the brief ogling of an occasional Canadian or German. (You have to take it from wherever you can get it sometimes.)

Scott and I ended the evening with a walk on the beach and a few pieces of roasted chicken from an all–night open–air restaurant. We'd passed it more than a few times in the past day, and it was always packed with nothing but Latinos—not a white person in the place. I knew that it just had to be good. A few dollars bought us two pieces of Mexican roasted chicken, a cola, and two pairs of grease covered hands. A glaring neon light illuminated the perfunctory meal. Drunk Costa Rican partyers passed on the sidewalk an arm's length away—they were heading back to their hotels or maybe to one of the Hispanic–only bars hidden down a side street.

I was nowhere near ready to sleep, but we had to get some rest. We were going to wake up at 7 AM to break another little piece of my virginity—I was going to go surfing for the first time!


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