7/11/19 – 7/14/19 It was Monday, July 15th. I’d lost track of how many days we’d been in Puerto Lindo. In reality, it was probably four or so. It felt like a winter. A sunny, breezy, cervesa soaked last dollar in your pocket kind of winter. I was sitting in my little chair in front
7/8/19 – 7/10/19 There is an actual Spanish word for “Zipper”, but “zipa” appears to be more common. I point to the crotch of my pants and ask where I can get it fixed. I realize the dangers of such a question with my poor grasp of the language, but we seem to have an
6/28/19 – 7/7/19 There is a philosophy with older cars that it is best not to change the oil. You should top it off and change the filter periodically, but some of the particulate matter in older oil actually works its way into and marinates and plugs worn seals. A fresh oil change in an
6/24/19 – 6/27/19 “How you doing?” “I hate every minute of this.” I rolled my eyes a bit. “Well what the fuck do you want me to say?” I had been in communication with a Costa Rican cyclist about an obscure road from the 239 in Santiago, through Candeleria, and reconnecting with 239 near Parrita.
6/16/19 – 6/23/19 “How many vehicles would you guess are in the average rental fleet?” “Dunno, maybe two hundred. Why?” “Well just look at all the sand in this car.” “So what?” “So there is at least a cup of sand in this car. All these vacationers dragging sand in from the beach. One cup
6/12/19 – 6/15/19 After a morning of jokes and coffee and gallo pinto and rain and wandering the little foot paths of El Castille turning over giant jungle leaves to find giant jungle grasshoppers and having awkward misunderstandings due to different cultures and languages and the physical stipulations they put on one’s tongue; we boarded
6/10/19 – 6/11/19 Nobody tenderfoots around in the country mornings. I awoke at 4:30 to stereos, motos, machetes chopping wood to stoke ovens for the day, men yelling to one another across the street, roosters, pigs, all the birds in the trees, and metal shop doors rolling up and slamming against the backstop. All of
5/30 /19– 6/9/19 By the time we arrived in Granada, on the thirtieth of May, my rear hub was trashed. In the preceding three or four days I’d been hearing intermittent clicking; like a plastic fork being snapped in half. Eventually it became a persistent and oppressive grinding and I knew it was the bearings.
5/20/19 – 5/27/19 “She’s all yours if you want her.” “Come again?” “What’s mine is yours, you know” “We’re just cooking breakfast.” “Alright my man, scramble those eggs.” Derek was from Chicago. He had a small house in Granada with an extra room for rent. I’d met him at a bar and mentioned I was
5/16/19 – 5/20/19 “He’s digging a hole,” Soph said with little girl sad voice. The night before we noticed one of their puppies was disoriented. The old man had accidentally stepped on one, but he said that it was fine. This didn’t look like an injury. It seemed like a problem in its head or