I am in California.

Air travel to get here was mercifully short, although the unfortunate presence of thunder storms around the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport delayed my connecting flight by about four hours and trampled the dinner plans my family had for me. I deplaned in San Diego at about nine PM, and met my aunt at the terminal. My eyes were so traumatized from the processed air in the plane's cabin that I couldn't tell for sure if it was her until I was thirty feet away and she started waving. Long story short, I made it back to the States in one piece.

Today, we drove up to Julian, a little mountain town famous for its annual apple pie festival. The goal was to collect some authentic Hinchliff farms soaps and shampoos, manufactured by my relatives and highly desired by my mother. Unfortunately, the shop was closed. After a short conversation about Africa with a German/Dutch jeweler next door, we dined on some of the famous apple pie across the street, visited a cute(sy) bird store, and left. We were headed for my Uncle Tim's house in the hills nearby, with instructions to call him for directions.

We called. The line was busy. So we decided to try and navigate the labyrinthine complex of dirt roads that somehow led to his house. We failed, rather abjectly, to find anything but many horse ranches, and even more treacherous roads. After nearly an hour of driving, calling, asking directions from neighbors, and generally being clueless, we gave up. As we drove down the highway back towards civilization, we called one last time. His line was still busy.

We arrived back in Escondido, and had some decaffeinated tea with crackers and brie cheese. That was about one hour ago. Now I am preparing to eat a dinner of hummous, tzatziki, and spanakopita. What a change from rice and beans! Or the eggs and bread I have been eating for the past week!

The almost unnatural cleanliness and general order of the States is really very unusual for me. Especially here in southern California, where lawns are tidier than the Queen Mother's washroom and every other car is an SUV the size of a Costa Rican dwelling. I feel a little guilty about being able to get whatever delicacy I could possibly desire from a local supermarket, and come home, via car, to an air-conditioned, clean house on a paved street. And hot water everywhere. And washers and dryers in the house. And lots of pavement. And no rivers. And television.

It's been almost thirty six hours since I boarded my plane in San Jose. Slow-acting culture shock is settling in.

Just one more day in Costa Rica. I will fly statesward early Monday morning.

I am sinking into the culture here again. I still have not confronted the reality of returning to the United States of Vengeance after four months living la pura vida, but it is bound to be a shock. At least I'm going back to Seattle and not Mumbai or Hong Kong or Cairo.

This morning I caught a bus back from Pavas, a sprawling suburban community up the hill from San Jose. I spent the night there at a friends house, after plenty of dancing at a discotheque in the vicinity. On the way to the bus stop, I passed through a small park with little papyrus-like plants that sport pure white flowering clusters, like snowflakes or tiny supernovae. They were growing in among the weeds below the tulip trees, whose fiery orange blossoms littered the ground like scraps of construction paper blown in after a parade.

The people on the bus are friendly. They watch the tall skinny gringo get on and give the driver way too much money, receiving a solid, heavy handful of change in return. I put the change into the twist top sealing plastic baggie that has been serving as a wallet since my stupidity paid off in the internet cafe a few days ago. I drop a coin accidentally onto the floor of the bus and it spins away, settling under the seat of some wise old Tica woman, who lifts her foot out of my way as I reach down to pick it up, and smiles.

Back in San Jose, kiosk vendors are selling any number of different things on the street corner next to the bus stop, including batteries, umbrellas, and plastic action figures of popular children's characters. Sunglasses, lottery tickets, telephone cards, and outrageous fruits are piled, stacked, layed out, hung, and generally displayed for observation. Just in case you don't see them, the vendors hawk their wares loudly. "Nance! Aguacate!" wails a sinewy gentleman of about forty, promoting his avocados and a strange, vomitous-tasting, yellow fruit called nance that I have never seen in the states. The tall skinny gringo passes him up for a different vendor selling grapes. The sweet bubbles of juice and seeds pop pleasantly in my mouth, somewhat easing the pain of the hangover headache I'm dragging with me through the exhaust fumes clouding the way to my hostel.

A taxi driver at the corner runs a red light. No one even blinks. The light changes, and people in the street scurry to get out of the way before the onslaught of vehicles displaces them involuntarily. The motorcycles are always the first in line, weaving through the cars while they are stopped and then gunning the motor at the first sign of green, accelerating so fast it's hard to gauge how quickly to get out of their way. They fly past the next block before the taxis have even made it halfway there, leaving a vapor trail and ringing eardrums in the heads of all the people close enough to their unmuffled motors.

The trees in the park don't seem to mind the pollution. Several colossi grace the square, casting lovely shade upon the man sweeping the stone walkways and the lovers kissing and mumbling to eachother on the stone benches. Three stocky mahogany trees tower over the entrance gate, over one hundred years old and as many feet tall, with trunks as thick as a VW bus. The tufts of leaves on the tips of their thick, muscly branches rustle in the breeze. A Plumeria tree stands nobly next to the rotunda in the park centre, shedding its perfumed blossoms to the breeze.

One monolithic strangler fig, across the park opposite the mahogany trees, long ago lived up to its Spanish name of tree killer by overtaking a smaller tree. Now nothing remains of the host tree, long ago squeezed out of existence by the matapalo seedling growing roots down through its hosts branches. The regal strangler has become a monarch, dominating an entire section of the park, sprawling skyward with long, straight branches covered in clouds of deep green leaves. Its roots like searching tentacles bind themselves into the ground, writhing and twining around themselves and every other immobile thing within reach. These inexorable, magnificently deadly plants give me the creeps. Their murderous behaviour is so explicit, so effective it cannot be ignored. Between their tentacle roots and glossy green leaves, I can catch a glimpse inside the dark, mindless, and deeply competetive nature of plants.

The stories end as I enter my hostel, and walk through the entrance hall, past the wall of living greenery, on my way to the reception desk to pay. Tomorrow I am La Selva bound to collect the remainder of my stuff and hopefully duplicate one of the CDs I gave to Cat last quarter so that I will have some version of my data and paper to bring back to the states.

It's very late now and most everyone has gone to bed, giving me a chance to monopolize the computer. But I am tired, so chances are good this internet session will not last too long.

I'm reading a very good book called 'A Fine Balance' by Rohinton Mistry. Tragically engaging, and incredibly detailed, it conjures a portrait of India in the 1970s. The people, places, and events at once disturb, mystify, and certainly overwhelm me. I've heard similar accounts of mind-exploding experiences in India from friends who have travelled there, and I am inclined to believe this book is a relatively accurate account of that time. Which is even more disturbing and still more than a little mystifying. I highly recommend the book.

Eggs and bread and fresh tomato and chile salsa for dinner tonight. Yum! It is looking like fresh vegetables and fruits will sustain me for the rest of my time here. The cleaning woman, whom I have taken to calling 'sticky fingers', swiped a bag full of my food from the kitchen shelf the day before yesterday, limiting my selection considerably. The bag didn't have my name on it, although I have been eating out of it for days, and the staff were apparently clueless that it belonged to anyone at all. It was really just an utter failure of communication that I never knew to put my name on it until after it was gone. Sticky fingers claimed, upon questioning, that she could not return any of my food, because it was distributed among too many people. I have my doubts, but I am not picking this battle. Her family is hungrier than I am.

I am tired.

The air in this city tastes like nothing in the USA I have ever experienced. Like the cars are running on a mixture of gasoline and perfume, and the fruits are both rotting and ripening at the same time, while the parakeets in the pet stores spray millet dust into the air. Like the dogs have been eating too much garlic and the sewers are full of restaurants that burn their garbage in the back alleys. Everything is one smell that just metamorphoses as you walk down the sidewalk.

I went to the embassy today and picked up an emergency passport. It will be valid for one year or until I decide to renew it for free and get myself a real passport. Good deal. I can now leave the country, which is important.

I'm writing this at my hostel and my time has just run out (too much time on email already!), so this is all you get for now. Sorry! More later.

A couple of accounts from people waiting for passports inside the US Embassy, to put some things in perspective:

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The blond in the skin-tight spandex minishorts outfit:

I still have trouble believing that he beat me up in front of the kids. The drugs, I can understand. I mean, he was lonely and he wanted new friends. I knew he was jealous of my friends but I never thought he was going to get into cocaine at his age! Cocaine. And then heroine. That was too much. But when he left me bleeding in front of the kids that night, that was too much. I was almost happy when he turned up in jail. Now it looks like he'll be there for the next few years at least. I hope he rots there, the bastard.

The fierce mother with a crack in her courage:

You know, I don't think it's such a big deal to get robbed in a dark alley down a side street in the city, right? That's almost expected. It's like, why did you go there, you know? But these guys came into my house with guns, and took my purse out of my hand in front of my children. I mean, that's not supposed to happen! I tried to give them my wallet with the money, but they just took the purse which had all the passports. They wouldn't leave the passports, which weren't even worth anything to them. I mean these are not sophisticated criminals. But that was really scary. I mean, it was terrible. And now I'm thinking about getting a dog. What do you think? I don't want to get a dog that will hurt my kids, you know? I just don't know what to do about this.

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And so, things are looking bright for me. I got some money today. I can pay my bills now, and buy a phone card. I will go to the embassy tomorrow. Life goes on.

Just when you thought it couldn't get worse...

I have spent the past three days navigating the bureacractic mazes of this country. First for the stolen computer. Then, when I thought I was finished, some dickface thief snatched my satchel from the table next to the computer in the internet cafe. I didn't even notice. One minute: satchel; next minute: what the f*ck? In a blinding flash of ignorance that morning, I had failed to remove the important documents that I would usually have kept in my backpack (instead of my satchel), including my passport and the documentation of the computer theft. Plus, all my debit cards were in the satchel, and so were all my other forms of identification, and all my cash. And then it started raining. I'll give you one guess where my umbrella was. Hijo de puta! What a nightmare!

Afterwards, I ran around the offices of the Costa Rican agency dealing with thefts. I spoke with attendants and counselors and helpful office workers, and finally figured out how to make an international phone call. A friendly, sympathetic senora gave me one thousand colones and her umbrella, and sent me on my way. I couldn't pay for the phone call but I made it anyway. A flurry of communication via email followed, and then I went to sleep, with plans to visit the embassy and hopefully get a new passport.

So now I am back at my hostel after a morning spent pulling tickets, filling out forms, and waiting for my number to be called in several different lines at the US embassy in the next town over. It looks like I will have a new passport soon, and some money on a very fortunate loan from my exceptionally helpful parents. Without them I think I would be in very serious trouble right now. As it stands I am just very inconvenienced, and a bt further into debt. The temporary passport costs $85 and expires in ninety days, after which time I will have to apply for another one.

So, let this be a lesson to any of you planning to or travelling in Costa Rica. Hide your stuff well and never take anything off your body unless you are in a hotel room!

My, this is getting old. I think I am about ready to come home now.

The latest news, unfortunately, is not so great. I'm sorry to say that a thief somewhere in Manuel Antonio got very lucky. My laptop, along with all my photos that I quite ignorantly did not back up, was stolen out from between the metal bars on the window to my hotel room. The amazing thing is that it was actually underneath a pile of clothes and sitting in the top of my backpack about 6 feet away from the window when it happened. I was at the beach. ¡Que lástima! So I filed a report with the national investigation services, and hopefully they will find my computer on the black market. Who knows. I am frustrated with myself and a little depressed at losing the three thousand photos I worked so hard to collect over the past four months, but what can I do? I'll just wait and see what happens.

The past week saw more than a few positive things, though. Wayne and I had a blast in Manuel Antonio. We visited the National Park, which was absolutely stunning. Our hotel manager showed us to a hidden, locals only cove where the waves were small and the sand was almost pure white. The rainforest poured off the cliffs in shades of green almost too vivid to be real. The water was murky with runoff from the rains of the past few days, but no matter. Wayne and I played frisbee and swam to the far shore, where we discovered (but probably not for the first time) a secluded, tranquil waterfall nestled between two small, sun dappled rocks. The horseflies were very happy there, so we left rather quickly.

We met a couple from the Netherlands who regaled us with their tales of traveling throughout South America. He was a designer who landed a sweet contract to organize and produce a massive festival for the nation. The government paid him several thousand euros and basically said "You done good, boy. Go buy yourself a beer." So he took off with his girlfriend to tour the western hemisphere. Next they are headed up the west coast of the USA. I wish I had given them my email address in case they wanted to get in touch. But it is a small world. Maybe I will see them again someday.

Right now I am at an internet cafe in San Jose. It doesn't look like I'll be leaving this city until the day I fly to the airport. Lots of time for reading between now and then. I've been staying at a backpacker's hostel called Tranquilo that is super chill. Pancakes for breakfast every morning, and relatively free internet. Lots of Europeans and some Americans too. I think the building used to be a house for some very well off Ticos, but it has converted nicely into a hostel. There is a slumber party room with a television, a large common space with hammocks and skylights, an outdoor patio kitchen, and lots of bedrooms. Seven dollars per night gains admittance to this budget paradise four blocks from downtown central.

Today has been a day of email conversations and phone calls. This country is much more expensive than I would like it to be. A phone card here to call the parents and report the stolen computer, a bus ticket there, breakfast here, and then a snack on the bus ride, dinner, a beer. Ouch! The bills add up quickly. The fact that I am using colones instead of dollars seems to compound the problem, as I end up spending a great deal more than I thought I had. "Ah it's only a couple of hundred colones. No big deal," has become my call of impending financial disaster. I guess Costa Rica ranks pretty high among Central American countries in terms of priciness of living. But it is the Pura Vida, so who can complain.

This internet cafe is stifling. Must escape.

Well, the quarter has ended. Jack held evaluation conferences today. I woke up half an hour after my fifteen minute long appointment was scheduled to start, but it worked to my benefit because I had a chance to sit down with Jack after lunch instead, and we chatted for about a half hour. He is a good man. We are all lucky to have studied with him.

Presentations yesterday went exceedingly well. Without exception, each one of us got up and impressed upon everyone in the audience just how much we really learned this quarter. Our results were not always significant, but that didn't matter so much, because our enthusiasum was through the roof. Jack practically glowed as he stood at the front of the room and introduced us each in turn.

Tomorrow I'm bound for the beach, to drown my stress in the waves and wage sandy, salty, sunny war against the fungus eating my feet. Wayne and I plan to depart in the early afternoon for San Jose, and then down to Manuel Antonio, on the Pacific Ocean. We're thinking about revisiting Parque Nacionál Corcovado and hiking through the rainforest there.

Breakfast in T minus five hours.

The Rainforest Research Crew, 2004

For the informative needs of all of you unfamiliar with Costa Rica: Manuel Antonio is a town, and also a national park, located south of Jacó on the Pacific coast. It was named after a former president, I believe. The photos below were all photographed by me in Manuel Antonio, not by Manuel Antonio himself. I think he must be long deceased by now.

Manuel Antionio: Wildlife

Manuel Antonio: Oceanscapes

Manuel Antonio: Snapshots

It's been quite a quarter.

I've worked in tropics as a researcher for three months now, and I'm ready to be finished for a while. I'm excited for Friday, when Rebecca and I will give our presentation. Then we are throwing a party and then we are finished.

We write evals this week. Jack will entertain us on Saturday in his temporary classroom here at La Selva. After that we are free to go. Yesterday it seemed like an eternity away. Right now it doesn't seem so bad. I have been working all night every night, sleeping for a few hours here and there when I just can't keep myself awake any longer, but our paper is almost done. And it's good, too. It seems this quarter will end on a very positive note.

I've come to the conclusion that it's very hard for me to learn things about myself. I have this grand barricade of verbal, intellectual, and subconscious defenses that guard my ego from any sort of affront, even if it is one I should pay attention to. Maybe that's what we're all struggling against: our own inability to maintain a sense of self and please others at the same time. I wonder which great thinker brought that uncomfortable contradiction into the light of modern thought?

Time to get started with that PowerPoint presentation.