Well, if it's July, the main thing is that it rains. It rains constantly. It rains with a seriousness that you have to hide from under an awning and just stare at out of amazement and respect, because of the sheer volume of water crashing down everywhere, straight down, relentlessly, until the sky wears itself out, takes a four minute nap, and goes right back to raining like it has no idea that it can do anything else. The inexhaustible supply of water everywhere here makes it hard to believe that there are huge signs glowing yellow on California freeways right now announcing "serious drought" and begging people to conserve water. Between the rain and the humidity, my clothes and my skin haven't been dry since I arrived in Costa Rica two days ago.
I already have a hard red spider bite the size of a small pancake that I check on every fifteen minutes to make sure it hasn't changed size too drastically. I've efficiently located every vegan-friendly cafe in this somewhat touristic, very eccentric Rasta/Australian/French/Italian/Bribri/Tico-inhabited Atlantic beach town, and now know where I can buy vegan pancakes with strawberry chai jam, vegan chocolate cake with peanut butter chocolate icing, vegan mochas, vegan chocolate peanut butter cups made from scratch, pasta, hummus plates, burritos and everything else I could possibly wake up craving. Mostly, though, I want to eat pineapple and mango until I can't even stand the taste of them anymore. I even like the papaya here, which instead of tasting vaguely like puke (my experience of every papaya I've eaten in the states), fresh Costa Rican papaya tastes very mildly of cinnamon and pumpkin pie, and is delicately soft without descending into sliminess. (The strawberries here can't hold a candle to California strawberries, unfortunately). I ate a huge fruit salad for breakfast and watched the ocean.
My time so far has been divided between standing on the beach staring at the waves, wondering what's underneath them and whether the sun will be kind enough to stage an appearance that will allow me to go snorkeling, finishing The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Kundera, eating in cafes, drinking lots of coffee, talking to other travelers staying in my hostel, and learning how to write a screenplay.
I really dislike the literary necessity of plot. It seems cruel to invent characters, only to set them up for disaster and disappointment. Writing pain into the lives of loved ones is an exercise in self-denial, and I'm enjoying it only because I haven't written fiction in a long time, and this is a new structure that appeals to me immensely.
So today is a day of almond milk mochas, grey ocean and grey sky, and grey macbook, and watching sleepy dreaded Ticos do their normal rainy day Tico things under umbrellas in flip flop feet. Tomorrow might be a day of bicycle rides to other beaches, or of baby sloths, or butterflies, or reggae clubs. There's a lot to do in this tiny place, and the best things to do are the things that people call nothing. I could live here.
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