To Margie
One hundred twenty seven meters behind me, the low tide splashes softly, tossing little rocks around. In the calle tourists of two or four or six or eight walk with their eyes pointing down at the broken up sidewalk, not seeing the locals in the shadows counting the jingle of their pockets as they pass by. The expats at the bbar play music and giggle while the chef sings softly to herself and frog hops along the floor, perfectly camouflaged.
It’s rainy season, but it didn’t rain today and the sunset was surely painted by an artist who will never be known. The restaurant across the street defeats the silence with a reggae beat and that might be the only way to tell it’s only 18:26 and not 03:00.
In four hours, the bars will start to fill and the police will watch quietly, shaking hands with shop owners only hours prior as they accept two Sprite’s with a smile. There’s a different kind of peace kept here and you have to stay some time to know it.
A local who gives surf lessons arrives in a taxi. His dreads are as long and as iconic as Bob Marley’s and his smile is just as charming. His name is Javier but he will check into the hostel as First Name: Rasta Last name: Man. The whole town has eyes on him. They do not have the same reasons.
I saw him earlier today at the beach. He moves through the water like a lion through savanna, gliding his surfboard with one hand over the waves. It was two hours after low tide and his turn to wade into the wave. He belongs to them.
He gets out of the taxi and approaches the hostel. He tells his girl that he has to ask the girls at the recepcion something but he hardly uses any words at all. The woman avoids all eye contact. She looks at the floor. When he reserved the room, he did so with one of the owners of the hostel, who then walked up to the lobby and called out “Private Room, 50 mil colones.” The woman is sitting on the lobby couch. Her eyes are down and her long hair hangs close to her face. She is several feet to the side of Javier. He turns to her and she follows him out of the lobby to their room upstairs.
On and on it goes.
I’ve read that one consequence of free time is a tendency to “auto-biographize.” When I reflect back on the past year of my life and where the themes that are now so vibrant start. They start in the low hum of the Social Sciences tower, after my first class and before the Population Center lectures, sitting on the couch with you.
I have so many friendships to be grateful for, but few are as meaningful as the one we shared because everything was at stake for both of us during those times.
It was you who stopped my world from spinning out of control and it was you who kept my spirit rolling when I felt stuck. Just stuck. From searching for rocks underneath the changing leaves to drinks after your first Cloud Cult concert, we had quite the time. Even in dead ass winter. Even when money was tight.
We made it here, Margie.
Through all the struggle, you kept me in a space that helped me enjoy parts of one of the most challenging periods of my life.
To give and receive freely with another seeker in the same place and time is such a blessing.
I don’t know a damn thing about how the past 6 months have been for you but goddamn was watching your transformation beautiful.
You just became so ENERGIZED, so ACTIVATED, so ENGAGED, so IN IT.
That’s what it’s all about. Dig into reality outside of your head and be courageous.
I hope you can think back with awe at what we went through. It’s sort of amazing. Just be here to eat breakfast with me. Stop complaining and eat dinner with me. This is life, right here.
Every bite was a garden.
I think we are two sides of the same coin. Both digging deep to do what we both need to do, in opposite directions.
I pray that you’re safe and I don’t ask what I’m praying to anymore. I found some faith and I hope you did too.
Stay in awe. Stay courageous.
Love,
Roman
P.S. Life is equally about the moment you walk to your car or bike or whatever as it is about eating breakfast. Just get there, you know?