Ya know when your alarm is set for 4:35 a.m. and the nites sleep was fitful, so the alarm never chimes due to your fumbling, going by braile fingers flipping the tab to "alarm off". Well this was one of those morns.
We gotta catch the early bus to Santa Cruz because Banco National opens at 8:30 and her line of 20-40 money hungry customers forms quickly. Now is the early bus five o'clock or half past? We do not remember so let's try quarter past five. Eyes dreary, I grab my wind up flashlite which was gifted to Marina and I. Given for Christmas, you know the baby in the manger story or is it the baby with the most toys story? Me forgot! Well Dad and Laura took a stab for their pain-in-the-ass-to-buy-for son and hit a homerun with this one. No batteries in over 2 years and now lighting my way to a wake you up outdoor shower. Double check for no Scorpions or Snakes atop the rustic Spanish style tile work. One and a half turns and out comes lovely fairly warm water piped through the hand carved Boars head. Shuttering a bit as I gaze North upon the Big Dipper, shutter turns to refreshment as a distant Howler Monkey sounds off, letting me know dawn is arriving.
A quick shave and "It's seven past five", Marina says as I push our Honda quad out the french doors. How reminiscent, not since 1989 have I had my means of transportation parked inside my house. My 1972 Harley Sportster used to love being inside, after all the shop was full of customers cars to paint; 1953 MG Coupe just waiting to be cloaked of English Red, 1965 Thunderbird still draped with fender skirts and the lovely 1934 Packard 4-door Sedan full of mohair, mold and dust poised for six, seven maybe eight weeks of my hands to caress every inch of her sheet metal, then finally showered in 4 coats of Dusty Yellow.
"Ok, ok I need to water", the little plants get a drink and we are off at 5:17.
I heard the clamour but did not see it. The heel end of Marina's flip flop got caught on the gate which recently was installed at the foot of our road. Blam! Down she goes. Classic clumsy Marina story. Maybe six to eight minutes roll by and a moto comes thru the dry wash. Now it is still dark so sillouhett and shadow makeup ones vision as the moto brakes to a stop before us. "Bus left at 5:00", the Tico's says with his backpack strapped to his chest, engine idling and headlite splashing forward. We look to each other and say no way, I thought it was 5:30. Moto man says "Cinco", basically reiterating his stance and follows with, "My friend go to Santa Cruz this morning. You want a ride?". Marina quickly responds, "No, manana" and without hesitation his shadow speeds away. Let the second guessing game begin! Waiting for a bit and then, "I hate to say I told you so, but we should have left when I said at 5:07." Marina says. If someone "hates to say it", then why do they say it? What is the point? Then some wisdom comes out of her, "Well let's give it til 5:45", ya that sounds good. We pace around as dawns light bursts overhead and waves crash around the bend. Cecadus, Monkey, Parakete and all of mornings chorus fills the jungle. "Well, it looks like we missed the bus", she says. Me not wearing a watch figure our waiting period is up and head back thru the gate safely to start back home. About 150 yards into our walk a seemingly familar but questionable sound rumbles in our drums. Looks are exchanged and I take off in a sprint, well as fast as I can in flip flops. About 50 yards into my run the sound begins to disappear up the Coast road, I duck down to peer beneath the Quadrado leaves only to see the orange and white Mercedes disappear. "Son of a bitch it's the bus!"
We had alot to say on our five minute, up hill walk back home. Once inside, our dictionary reveals "Legarse"=Fuck off and "Mentiroso=Liar...crazy morning. I figured there must be a reason we weren't supposed to be on the bus today? Maybe it crashed? Later I mentioned, "Wow, this is one of those things about these Ticos that makes me wonder what in the hell we are doing here?" Basically the shadow on the moto lied to us about the bus already leaving so he and his buddy could make some money by driving us to Santa Cruz. Marina quickly and correctly reminds me, "...it doesn't matter where you are, if you are the tourist, you're the target". New York, London, L.A., Ostional hell even powdunkville. Who do you listen to and when--?-- is for the ole weary traveler to decide.
