Yeah, whatta vacation. Fucking hell. Migracion took forever in San Jose airport, they fully dissected my backpack, going so far as to unstitch some of the stitching, think they may’ve had a laugh at my vat of pomade, and then I finally meet up with my pals Drew and his wife Jesse, we get into a cab which drives like a methed up bat out of hell, blowing redlights, flicking ashes back at us in the backseat, mumbling something about cozy feet or something that sounded like cozy feet, and then he drops us off at 35 Calle and 10 Avenida, which is still a few block from their apartment, whatever … but then HE SPEEDS OFF WITH MY BACKPACK!!! All I got is this god awful tourista fannyback which can barely hold my passport and money, which luckily it had. But my camera, and clothes, and great gifts for my friends, FUCKING GONE, picked apart by a bunch of scruffy cabbies somewhere in a underground garage in San Jose.
Anyway, that’s something, sure, but it gets worse.
We get back to the apartment after talking with la policia, which is obviously going to be of no help, and we eat, then Drew and I decide to be pigs and go out for some beers and guaro (sugarcane firewater) … and after a few hours of sipping and gawking, we get into a small discussion with a few ticos, Andres and Pablo, regarding the current situation in Iraq. I knew it was getting off to a bad start when Drew slurringly says, “Well why the hell shouldn’t we police the rest of the world?!? They Obviously can’t do it themselves…” Suffice to say, they invited us outside … we remained within the safe warm bosom of El Celio (the bar we were at) and eventually, after much machismo and bravado, they left. After a few more rounds, we head out, and we’re stumbling down these little windy streets and the rain’s really coming down and he’s got a raincoat and I don’t because some cabbie’s wearing mine at the present moment, and all of a sudden, BAM! Glass shatters and Drew screams, I spin around and its fucking Andres and Pablo, and Andres has just smashed a bottle of Imperial over the back of mi companero’s cabeza (so much for policing the world), and he’s holding the back of his head and cursing a storm, then, flash, he jets, he runs like a fucking ghost in a hurricane, he’s fucking Swayze, and I’m there, a little confused, looking pleadingly with the two attackers. They advance at me, I flinch (I’m sure), then laugh menacingly and walk off, patting each other on the back and disappearing into a streetlightless night. Huh. So there I am, shaken and tipsy, alone after 3 and a half hours in Central America, with no idea of where the fuck I am … no phone numbers, no idea of anything. I start heading in the general direction my yellow gazelle of a friend ran in, looking for possible blood trails that may lead me home to my lack of bag .…
… anyway, luckily enough his wife is the better half and came out looking for me and found me sitting on footbridge smoking the last of my american cigarettes and humming the melody of that mogwai tune called “Yes! I am a long way from home!” … I won’t admit it tomorrow, but I think I might’ve been tearing up a little …
Fucking A. I think I’m going to go and buy a raincoat now. Enjoy America while it lasts, folks.