Home Sweet Beer Festival

I’ll preface this by saying that my day-to-day life is a Central American cultural experience, so don’t judge when I say that on Saturday I fully appreciated, and even reveled in going home.

I went back to Colorado on Saturday.

Ok not really. I went to a beer festival, but it felt like home. The smell and taste of craft beers, the ambient sound of English floating in conversations all around me, the general air of relaxed excitement about being in the presence of something other than good ole Imperial or Pilsen. I kept feeling like I had just seen my friends a second ago and they’d be back any minute.

*****

I didn’t get a ticket. I didn’t know I could go until they had already sold out. You could still enter for free so the ticket thing wouldn’t normally be so bad except that with the ticket you got a t-shirt, and an awesome little beer-sampling mug, and some other random shit. I LOVE free t-shirts that are actually cool…*sigh. It’s ok.

My roommates, Veronica and Isa had tickets so I can’t really complain too much. With the ticket you were able to taste every beer they had there so I just mooched and we all left pleasantly buzzed. We tried everything from IPAs to stouts so rich and dark it was like sipping a cup of coffee (I think one might have actually had coffee in it) to one or two so sweet and light they could have been juice.

The beer was really only half the fun though. It’s the people who make these things. It’s the grown men in lederhosen (or rather, grown man. Singular.  One dude just rockin it). It’s the fact that one brewery brought goats to the event. I mean who doesn’t want to pet a baby goat while they taste beer? It’s the 60-something year-old gringos who have clearly retired here and are just livin’ the dream and making beer. It’s the guy who gave me his pretzel necklace when he saw me pointing at it. I was only trying to ask Isa how you say ‘pretzel necklace’ in Spanish. It’s the photo bomb below. It’s the sweet sweet sound of English drifting on the breeze.

I have grown oddly accustomed to only understanding about 25% of what I hear on the street or just in passing. For an eavesdropping addict this can get frustrating at times. So imagine how surreal and even heavenly it was to be surrounded by words I didn’t have to think about to understand. Imagine just being able to know what everyone was saying. Ok, not really a leap of the imagination for most of you…but I was like a kid in a candy store. I pretty much walked around for the whole afternoon with a huge perma-smirk plastered on my face.

*****

So I guess in closing, live where you live and soak up the culture, but there is also something to be said for being able to think you’ve gone home every once in a while.

Volcan Arenal day 2

I should have known when the guy behind the counter did the eyebrow raise/laugh to himself thing.

He had asked where I was riding the bike to. The waterfalls?

The lake.

The lake!? (Insert eyebrow raise and tiny chuckle here)

What? Is it far?

Yeah

.

(Seriously!? “Yeah.”  That’s all you have? You couldn’t give me something like “yeah, it’s 15 km” or “Yeah, it’s pretty far. Make sure you take enough water.” Nope. It was just…”yeah.” Followed by:)

Here. You’ll need a lock and a helmet.

So at 7:30 in the morning, that lovely, partly-cloudy Friday, I jumped on my Optimist mountain bike and set out toward the cloud capped volcano. (The brand of the bike made me really happy…and proved ironically appropriate about an hour later as I was cheering myself on at snail’s pace up what seemed like the millionth hill with still no lake in sight.)

I’d just like to interject that I have not owned a bike in years. I haven’t ridden a bike farther than about 2 or 3 miles in years. I haven’t ridden a bike up a significant hill in…That’s right!  Years. You can imagine the overwhelming sense of accomplishment that washed over me when I finally pulled up to the National Park (not quite the lake but cool enough) after an hour and a half of climbing (and once or twice, joyously coasting) the foothills around Volcan Arenal.

At the entrance, the ticket girl’s eyes widened to know where I had ridden from. I asked what there was there at the National Park and she showed me the map of hiking trails. She reached under the counter to grab the map of biking trails too but I assured her I had spent quite enough time on a bike for the time being.

The next hour and a half I was on cloud 9. I hadn’t gotten to really go on a hike by myself since before August when I left Durango. Sure I had hiked other volcanoes but only with a guide or other group. My heart did every cliché thing it could think of. It leaped. It soared. It pounded. I hadn’t forgotten, but I had kind of forgotten, how much being able to go hiking means to me. It wasn’t a super long or strenuous hike, but it took me right up to the base of the volcano where I could look at the panoramic of lake and tropical green.

Had you seen me, you would have thought I was crazy. Or at least a little special. I think I smiled and skipped the whole way back down the trail from the top. When I got back to my bike I thanked the girl at the entrance, bought another bottle of water for safety’s sake and set out for the grueling return.  

The funny thing about hills is, that one way they pretty much just suck, but when you are coming back the other way THEY ARE SO MUCH FUN! It took me exactly half the time to get back to the hostel and I enjoyed it twice as much. I’m reminded again of why people ride bikes.

I’m pretty sure I surprised (and maybe even impressed) the guy behind the counter when I told him I had not only made it all the way to the national park, but I had also done a hike once I got there. I was racking up the ego points that day.

I showered and got all my stuff crammed back into my backpack; then I returned my key and headed into town for pizza and a much-deserved beer before getting back on the bus for San Jose.

So I didn’t do all the touristy zip-lining, hot tub sitting, cave exploring that you’re supposed to do when you go to Arenal as an American tourist…but I did exactly what I wanted to do. And plus, I’m pretty sure the volcano was smiling down at me from underneath its soft, grey, cloudy cap. 

Volcan Arenal

Volcan Arenal.

You went alone?!

I’m afraid to say this is becoming my life theme.

Yes. I went alone.

But why?

…why not?

It’s a good question I guess. Why? I suppose if I had to answer, it’s usually because I felt like going and there wasn’t anyone else around who could or wanted to.

I did it again last week. Last Thursday was a national holiday here in Costa Rica so naturally all the schools were closed. I already have Fridays off so I jumped at the chance at a full 2-day weekend. (haven’t seen one of those in a while because I work on Saturdays…) I packed up just enough clothes for a quick 24 hour trip and at 4:15 Friday morning I scarfed down some food, threw on some clothes and by 5 was catching the bus to San Jose.

The bus left sometime after 6:15 and after what I think was a gorgeous ride (I was dozing in and out for most of it) I stepped off the bus in La Fortuna. I was immediately attacked by a tour agency and ushered into their lair of maps and pretty pictures and “great deals!” Thankfully I made it out 5 minutes later with only a return ticket to San Jose and a free map of the town with directions to my hostel. I’ll concede that tour companies aren’t all bad. They do offer some cool stuff, but no one stepping immediately down from a 5-hour bus ride after waking up at 4 in the morning should be making any big decisions about zipping through canopies or exploring caves. Thankfully Mr. Tour Guide sensed that my mental state was fragile and did the decent thing in letting me off easy.

I checked in to my hostel then followed my stomach back into town. It pulled me around to a little café called “My Coffee” where I did something I never ever ever do. I enjoyed a cup of coffee and an amazing sandwich while I thought about what on earth I wanted to do (that’s not the thing. Minus the sandwich, I do that on a pretty daily basis). After my lunch though, before paying, I actually asked the owner of the place (who had been walking around making small talk with customers) what I should do. I usually keep to myself when I’m traveling alone, but my time with Sarah the previous weeks had taught me that striking up a conversation with a local (or anyone for that matter) can often lead to some great adventures. It did. The owner pointed me to another couple across the room and said they were going to the waterfalls and I should go with them. I didn’t give myself time to think too much about it. I just got up and walked over there and introduced myself.

Nick and Emma from Jersey and Minnesota were awesome. They were traveling around Costa Rica in a beat-up rental car (beat-up because they had full coverage insurance on it and were taking advantage.) We drove out to the “Cataratas,” bought our tickets and hiked down. I would try to describe it but awe-inspiring nature scenes aren’t my forte in prose. Water gushing and roaring, clear icy pools, glistening rocks. It’s all been said. But being there is just good for your soul. Something about jumping into freezing water is just…good. We spend a few hours exchanged travel stories and reader’s digest life stories and splashing around, then they dropped me back off at my hostel with friendly goodbyes and promises to upload some pictures on facebook.

I went for a run in the cool, cloudy evening and after dinner was asleep by 8.

(to be continued…)

Nicaragua (Fin)

Friday, March 29.

3:20 AM

Sounds of a door opening. Closing. Shuffling. REALLY LOUD BELCH. Lights on!

I said to Sarah later (when I could form complete sentences), “No one has been on time for a single thing this entire trip. Then, at 3:20 in the morning, they are 10 minutes early to wake us up! What the FUCK!” We laughed. By then we had learned that’s really all you can do.

By 4:05 we had eaten breakfast, had some coffee and said our good-byes. We hugged all around and threw our stuff into the trunk of the taxi for the three and a half hour ride back to Granada. The three of us piled into the back because the taxi driver, his son, and Myra’s brother were all in the front. It was a painless ride and we were pulling up to the front of the hotel before 8.  We took pictures with the driver and Myra’s brother and we thanked them and paid for the trip. Then we went in to get our stuff and to figure out our room situation for the next two nights.

Our room situation for the next two nights was a whole other series of misunderstandings, unwanted cancelations and miraculous vacancies, the details of which I will spare you (partially  because it would probably be boring, and partially because I’m not sure anyone actually knows just what happened).  I’ll only say that we ended up staying right where we had started, in room 8 at the Hotel Casa Barcelona. Perfect.

Friday and Saturday were exactly what a vacation should be. Our biggest problem (room issues aside) was the inordinate amount of sun we exposed our poor, un-screened bodies to. We laid in the sun, we read, we ate, we swam, we drank, we laid in the sun. Saturday night we went out with a couple of new-found friends and laughed and shared stories like old buddies. By the time we went to bed that night, we were properly rested and ready (or as ready as one can be) for the 10-hour bus trip Sunday.

So that was it. That was Nicaragua. That night we were back in Heredia, and I was back to…well I guess normal life. The emotions of coming home to a place that isn’t exactly home when you are homesick…as if I could put that into words. HA! 

Nicaragua Part 4

After rollercoastering over hills and around curves on some Nicaraguan back roads we arrived at the river and discovered how picnicking was meant to be. The taxi driver set off on horseback with a local in search of Myra while the rest of us set up camp on the bank. Someone started a fire and got the eggs boiling, the kids bee-lined it for the water (and had we known it was an option and worn our swimsuits the three white girls would have gone right in after them. Well Sarah did but she was dressed in slightly more water friendly attire than me or Vanessa).  The coffee was ready, the Cola was out, the beans and rice and fried plantains were piled high on our plates, and the rosquillas were ready to be munched. We threw rocks into the ripples and took pictures by the glittering water. We laughed with the family and made fun of the kids and for a time it just felt like we had all known each other forever.

The Taxi Driver’s Wife: Do you want soup?

Me: Yeah, I guess. I’ll try some.

Wife: Ok come on. We’ll go get it.

Me: Wait what? Where? Do I need to bring a bowl?

I held up a Tupperware and she just laughed and shook her head.

Wife: No. Come on.

She headed out across the river toward the group that was set up on the other side. I followed wondering what exactly was going on (not a new thought at this point). Then I looked up and saw it. Two women were hauling (not carrying…hauling) the biggest bowl I have ever seen actually holding food.  They made their way down the bank and into the water. The bowl was covered with a small table cloth which they lifted, when we finally met mid-stream, to reveal the most delicious-smelling soup I have ever had the pleasure of inhaling. I can’t say it looked quite as appetizing but whatever it lacked in visual charm it made up for ten-fold in olfactory appeal. It traded hands and the taxi driver’s wife and I headed back toward our bank, treasure in tow. Once we got to the other side the egg-boiling pot was replaced on the fire by the giant beast bowl and shortly thereafter everyone in a 100 meter radius was sharing in the unbelievable gift.

Some indefinable time later the taxi driver and the local returned. No success…although at this point it didn’t matter anymore if we found Myra. We had all had such an untradeable and priceless experience that failure or not, it just didn’t matter. We were happy. We all started packing up camp. We returned the nearly empty, fish soup bowl, packed away the dishes, sealed up the drinks, and loaded up into the back of the milk truck for our return on the rollercoaster back roads to La Gateada for one more night.

Myra called that night. She must have miraculously gotten one of the messages (or knowing Central America, word got there by bird or small child or door-to-door gossip…or all three). Anyway, Sarah got to talk to her on the phone for a while, which was enough, she said. Maybe it’ll work out next time…

The three of us packed up our stuff, climbed up onto the mattress, under the mosquito net, in the corner of the living room, and closed our eyes with visions of soup and rivers and real bathrooms floating in our heads. We had two days left in Nicaragua and as we dozed off we wondered just what kinds of adventures those two days would bring. (Well I say we, I can’t really speak for Vanessa and Sarah here, but I did anyway.) 

Nicaragua (Part 3 of ?)

Interjection in the chronology to talk about the toilet. Because let’s be honest, who doesn't love some good potty talk?

Latrine: Pit toilets are the simplest and cheapest type, minimally defined as a hole in the ground.(Thank you Wikipedia.)

A hole in the ground. A hole in the ground with a little concrete platform and raised area that one could theoretically sit on if one so desired. A hole in the ground with a concrete seat out behind the house a good 10-15 meters. A hole in the ground with a concrete seat out behind the house enclosed by four metal walls and a metal roof…in the tropics.

Nothing will constipate you faster than the simple knowledge that that is where you have to go. On the plus side, even mosquitoes couldn't survive in there…or had enough sense to stay out. Either way, my hiny is duly thankful.

Thursday. March 28.

We woke up with the rest of the house. Dogs shuffling around, Norvin the 9-year-old actin’ a fool, water boiling for instant coffee…It was somewhere around 7.

*Central America gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “time is relative.” Time might as well be booted out on its ass and replaced with something more useful like a rocking chair with a cup holder or a watch that tells you the weather instead of the time. For example: “Vamos, ahorita” does not mean “we go right now.” It actually means ”right now we are thinking about, and maybe even acting towards, the act of leaving. So even though it will probably be another hour and a half, we are practically leaving right this second.”

So anyway, we got up. We had some coffee and a breakfast of homemade bread/cookie things called ‘rosquillas’ on the front porch. We walked over to the neighbor’s house to visit with another family Sarah knew. They were packing up for a day at the lake. (This was after all the big holiday of no work or public transportation.)

The whole time we were wondering when exactly we were going to go try to find Myra. I’m not really sure when we finally figured out that someone had sent a note with the milk truck that morning (in fact I’m still not really sure that it happened at all) but Sarah and I finally managed to understand that if Myra got the note somehow, she would then be able to hike to a place where there was cell service, and then call us and…tell us where she was? And despite the practical non-existence of time, this phone call was supposed to come between 11:30 and noon.

We waited. We walked down into town for water. We sat around in the living room and visited. We eventually ate some lunch…

So until this point (I think) it was understood that if Myra called then Sarah and Roberta and Vanessa and I would go with the taxi driver to either a river or a place called “the river” where we could maybe meet Myra? That made sense. Why was the whole family loading dishes and food and hot water and instant coffee and dogs and children into a giant trashcan though? And why was it 12:30 with no word from Myra? And were we going back to Granada tonight or tomorrow morning? And if we went back tomorrow we would need to communicate with our hostel somehow and let them know that our reservation was still good for Friday night. And why did it take 3 phone-calls to actually communicate that information?  And why wouldn't Norvin sit down and stop touching things? And why, no matter how many conversations we had, did no actual useful information get exchanged?

The three gringas were getting tired and irritable. Finally Sarah talked to Roberta’s sister who explained things a little more clearly. 1. Myra was not visiting her grandmother. She was visiting her godmother which is why no one actually knew where exactly she was or how to get there. 2. we were going to the river (an actual river)  because it’s the closest place to Myra’s godmother’s where we could hire a horseman to go with another note to try to find where exactly the house was. 3.The reason the whole family was packing up was because they were having a picnic by the river (we found out later that the picnic was an impromptu thing thrown together because it’s expensive to drive a truck all the way out there so we might as well make the most of it.)

So finally, sometime after 12 or 1230 (what difference does it make?) Myra’s family, the taxi driver’s family, the 3 gringas, and the tiny little dog all loaded into the milk truck and set off for the river.

Nicaragua Part 2 (still not sure of how many)

Wednesday. March 27. Continued.

Backpacks in tow we turned up the street that Sarah said looked familiar. By the time we made it to the top of the hill where the house we were looking for was, the news had already spread. “Sarah!” yelled a neighbor. Of course she remembered Sarah. She explained that Sarah’s friend Myra wasn’t home and that her mom was at the store down in town. We should go talk to her. Funnily enough, the little girl who ran up just minutes later from the other direction said the same thing. 15 Minutes in town and we were already famous.

The next conversation we had (after the hugs and hellos of course) went something like this (only in Spanish…and with lots of gesturing and pointing and eye-brow-raising…and lots or repetition which I’ll leave out for the sake of brevity.)

Characters: Roberta (Myra’s mom), Sarah and me (we will be a combined person because at this point we were kind of acting as a speaking team) and Tino the Taxi Driver. (Vanessa entertained the kids by simply existing)

Sarah: Is Myra here?

Roberta: No.

Sarah: WHAT!? NO!? Really? Seriously?

Roberta: Yeah, really. She is visiting her (insert word here that we took for grandmother but that wasn’t actually grandmother. And we didn’t figure that out until much later)

Sarah: No. Seriously. Where is she? When is she coming back?
Roberta: She is out on a farm visiting her (there’s that damn word again). She’s coming back Sunday. You’ll stay until then.

Sarah: Sunday!? NO! We are leaving tomorrow!

Roberta: No you’re not. There aren’t any buses tomorrow. It’s a holiday. You’ll leave Sunday morning.

Sarah: No. What!? No buses!? Shit! But really. We HAVE to leave before Sunday. We have a ticket back to Costa Rica Sunday morning.

Roberta: No. There aren’t any buses tomorrow or Friday. Maybe Saturday.

Sarah: A taxi?

Roberta: Nope. All the taxi drivers will be with their families.

Sarah: Can’t we just call Myra and tell her I’m here? Can we just go see her where she is? How far is it?

Roberta: No. No cell service. And no transportation until Sunday. She’ll come back Sunday.

(At this point we had a huddle to discuss what we could do. We seemed to be in a bit of a pickle. Roberta wasn’t the most accurate or unbiased source at the moment (even though her hands were planted firmly on her hips in the kind of way that could probably turn a tanker around) and really…we did need to get back to Granada before that bus left Sunday. As much as I love missing a good day of work and all…We saw a taxi driver drop someone off and get out to chat for a bit. Decided. Sarah and I headed over.)

Sarah: Hello. We have a question.

Tino: Hi. What is it?

Sarah: Well first, my friend’s mom says that there won’t be any buses tomorrow or Friday back to Granada from here. Is that true?

Tino: I mean there will be one in the morning and one in the evening but there’s no telling what time it will pass through, and because of the holiday it will stop for about two hours at every stop along the way. It’ll take at least 12 hours to get there.

Sarah: Ok. Then second, we were wondering if a taxi would be able to take us. My friend’s mom said no one would be driving tomorrow at all.

Tino: I’d take you. When do you want to leave?

Sarah: Wait. Really!?

Tino: Sure. We can leave whenever.

Sarah: Tomorrow?

Tino: Tomorrow. Friday. Just let me know.

Sarah: Oh my god thank you so much! Are you sure? Can we get your number so we can call you and let you know what we figure out?

Tino: Sure. (He wrote it in the cover of my book.)

Sarah: I’m Sara(h) by the way.

Tino: Tino (he pointed to his name, in the book by his phone number)

Sarah: We live with Roberta… (Sarah started trying to explain where the house was but Tino stopped her to say…)

Tino: Yeah I know it. She’s my neighbor. You’ll be able to find me.

(Tiny. Town.)

We made a vague plan to search for Myra tomorrow and head out either tomorrow night or Friday morning depending on how things went. We breathed a giant sigh of relief and we cooked and ate the best meal I had in Nicaragua, right there at the little tienda, right there on the main street. The kids pulled us around to show us the little carnival rides, set up in honor of Semana Santa, and they talked our ears off about whatever it is kids talk about.

We slept on a mattress in Roberta’s living room that night.  We didn’t quite feel like family…yet.

Our trip to Nicaragua (Part 1 of however many it takes)

Sunday, March 24.

3:30 AM

I woke up. I hit snooze for 10 more minutes hoping that it would feel like another hour. It felt like 10 seconds. I crawled out of bed and turned on the light. Shock is about the only way to get you motor running at that time of day.  Bright lights. Cold water to the face. You know the drill. 10 minutes later I was ready to go. I hauled my two backpacks down the stairs where I met my friends standing a little dazed in the kitchen. We all downed a glass of water and I took a banana for the road. (You know you’ve met amazing people when they let you sleep at their house and then they wake up with you at 3:30 in the morning to drive you to the bus station…I hadn’t seen Andrea in maybe more than a year and we never talked much, and I had never met her boyfriend whose house I stayed in that night.)

The next 10 hours are a blur. They pretty much just consisted in me sleeping. Waking up to hand the guy my passport. Sleeping. Waking up to get off the bus at the border. Getting back on the bus and crossing the border. Getting back off the bus on the other side of the border. Waiting in the sun for the lady to find her lost bag. Getting back on the bus and getting my passport back. Going back to sleep until Managua, Nicaragua. Getting off the bus. Getting my bag. Going to the hotel. 2:30 PM

Sarah and Vanessa landed at 9:30 that night. Hugs. Tears. Laughs. The works.

Monday, March 25.

We woke up. Ate hotel breakfast (because who doesn’t love hotel breakfast?) Packed. Talked to the friendly guy at the front desk about our plans for the rest of the week. Then we headed out to find the bus to Granada. As we were about to make our first mistake in following the directions, the bus zoomed up, and a sweaty Nicraguan man yelled “GRANADA! MANAGUAGRANADA MANAUAGRANADA MANAGUA GRANADA!” Before we really knew what was happening we were all perched on a hot sweaty bus with our backpacks spread rather un-strategically throughout and our spirits high. An hour later we were spit out on the sidewalk in Granada and pointed pretty accurately in the direction of our hostel. And another 30 minutes and about twenty-too-many cat calls after that, we miraculously found said hostel.

You really don’t need to know all the details of the day. It was a pretty run of the mill first day in a city. We found food, coffee, a swimming pool, and some new friends. By the end of the evening we were cheers-ing our mysterious mixed drinks and swapping all breed of stories outside the pub on the bustling Calle Calzada.

Tuesday. March 26.

For the sake of those involved I’ll leave out the details of this day except to say that we got very hot. We drank a lot of water. And two of us had to go on the great Pharmacy scavenger hunt in search of drugs prescribed by a doctor who actually couldn’t spell Sarah.

Crepes for dinner (enjoyed by all).

Nuf Said.

Wednesday. March 27.

And the real cultural adventure begins:

How to get to La Gateada, Nicaragua: Take a bus from Granada to Managua. Get off at the big blue building by the round-about. Find a taxi to El Mayoreo (No one will explain to you that this is a bus station outside of Managua. You’ll figure it out when you get there and so much more of the conversation from that morning will make sense.) Follow the random guy at the entrance to the bus and hope it’s the right one because about 5 of them say Juigalpa (which is the bigger town that is close to La Gateada.) Don’t get run over by the bus or trampled by the people trying to get on. Make sure all three of you actually make it on. Have your picture taken with a few Nicaraguans because you have blonde hair (I was exempt from that particular step.) Look at pictures of their family members. You are now best friends. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere switch buses for no apparent reason.  Continue for about 2 hours longer than you expected and try your best to ignore whichever of the following is making this ride miserable for you (The giant butts that keep stationing themselves against y our shoulder, the burning afternoon sun that keeps roasting just one of your shoulders through the window, the baby that keeps alternating between hitting you and almost crying… or any number of other possibilities. You are after all on a bus in Central America. Anything can happen). Push your way off the bus and pray as it drives away that this is actually where you are supposed to be.

It was.