Isolating beaches, I: arrival

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I must have been processing my Latin American experience aloud more than what was welcomed by my fellow single travelers at the retreat. Lush green and rough bark vines streamered our dining patio, looking over the Caribbean sea and sleepy surfer town below. Joe, a would-be bruiser from north Jersey if it were not for his Shakespeare softness, interrupted my storytelling with, “oh, let me guess, in Africa…” The rest of our motley nightly dinner crew giggled, and I quieted for the moment.

I couldn’t help but compare everything around me to “Africa” - generalizing from vivid pulsing memories of coastal Senegal, The Gambia and Togo. My first morning down the beach, I marveled at the Costa Rican calm. The gentle waves, the gentle sun, and the almost invisible people. I was thankful for having such tropical, natural paradise -- all to myself in a way. The next day I ventured further down the coast (anything you can see wrong with driving a scooter with a broken leg?) - it got even better: palm-lined stretches of white sandy beaches with even fewer people, and a lot less litter - both manmade and natural. I think it was that evening back at the retreat, over our hearty mostly organic dinner, that I expressed my gratitude for this wonderful gold coast of serenity.

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Photos

and people think sloths don
this scruffy one got up all its energy to scratch. the sloth is the ultimate symbol of Costa Rican pace. its name and logo is etched across many a wooden b&b, restaurant, sport rental and kitsch shop.

just hangin' around
my own hammock called me to a slothlike pose.

pinch me!
arriving at night, i couldn't believe this was my view from my hip bungalow the next morning...

chin-chin ladies
new friends. new wine. this is me and a sag harborite pretending to be hamptonites. note: the huntress feline on the bar whose dexterity i admired when one night she brought onto the dinner table a mouse in its last breath.