"You Really Go for Going for It."

So a couple of weeks ago, Katie and I started to really go for it. Allow me to explain what I mean by this. The two of us have recently adopted "Go For It" as a sort of life mantra that can be applied to anything and everything. Un ejemplo: "Wow Beth, you're really GOING FOR drinking that smoothie." Un otra: "Does Matt like that girl?" "Yeah, he really GOES FOR her. He went for talking to her all night at the bar." If a friend of ours isn't sure of whether or not they'll do something, we say, "Just GO for it!" Anyway, back to my original point, which was that Katie and I really started going for everything. Normally, we save money and utilize our time wisely by coming straight home almost every weeknight after the project to eat dinner with Maybell and then hang out/read/write/drink canned Imperials on the street in front of our house, and then talk in a loud and irritating fashion, before going to sleep. But all of the sudden, this was not the case any longer.

I think it all started with Matt, our hermano. Matt's an American from Connecticut who moved into the other spare room in our house about a month ago. Matt's been living in Hawaii for the past couple of years, and has traveled extensively around the world. Matt knows things about things. In the beginning we didn't interact very much with Matt, other than while eating breakfast with him and walking to the bus in the mornings, because from the first moment he arrived here Matt was ALWAYS out, with FRIENDS, DOING THINGS. Katie and I would sit at the table chatting with Maybell in Spanish over dinner, expressing our confusion with this situation. "Amigos?" we'd ask. Who were these amigos and how had he possibly acquired them so quickly? Where did he go with them every night? Didn't he wish for his dinner to eat? Didn't he have books to read? Maybell explained to us one night, after a guy named Mike came over to the house looking for Matt (who obviously wasn't home because he was out with these mystery friends), that boys always have an easier time making friends than girls. We considered this and accepted it as truth, not allowing ourselves to entertain in our minds the possibility that perhaps we were simply being losers.

So on Monday night a few weeks ago, Matt accompanied Katie and I to the grocery store to pick up our standard six-pack of Imperial Light to be enjoyed on the street in front of nuestra casa. It was there that we ran into Mike, the guy who had come looking for Matt the week before. Mike is from Canada and is like a big sweet teddy bear. Therefore Katie and I take advantage of his sweetness by making fun of him all the time. He responds by laughing. Mike invited us back to his house to hang out on the patio with him and the other seven or so students who live with his host family. So, we went for it. Hanging out with other people on a weeknight was an interesting and exciting change! We met Mike's roommates and enjoyed a night of talking with one another. Mike lives right down the street from us, so on Tuesday night we picked up some beer again and started discussing, during the bus ride home and on the walk from the bus past his house, whether or not we should just go for it and knock on his door, inviting ourselves in. After being attacked by the three small dogs on our road that always bark like maniacs every evening when we walk by their houses, we neared Mike's house, slowing down, contemplating. Then from behind us we heard, "New York!" It was Tim, a thirty-year-old southern History teacher who lives with Mike. He is extremely funny and Katie thinks he looks like Fred Durst from Limp Bizkit. Tim invited us in, and we enjoyed another very late night on the patio with the fine folks down the street. (Dare we call them friends?) That night we played a game called, "Why is your life a joke?" Katie began, naturally, and then we went around the circle, taking turns telling one another something about our life that makes it a really large joke, i.e. embarrassing stories or situations, failed romantic attempts, etc... When it came around to me, I discovered that the things I find to be funny about my existence are, in actuality, more tragic than anything else. I even received a special cheers just for having such a sad life story, which I had tried to make humorous, but clearly failed at doing, despite my best efforts. So very early on Wednesday morning, Katie and I found ourselves collapsing into bed again, another weeknight social endeavor under our belts.

Wednesday night, we decided to swap our regular activity of watching a cheap movie for actual human interaction with our girlfriends. We went out to dinner and then later I met up with my new friend John. John and I became fast friends one day when we were the only two students in class and had to practice Spanish vocabulary with one another, under the tutelage of El Profesor Teddy (whom I truly adore). The exercise was to pick up a card with a Spanish word on it and then describe the word, in Spanish, to the other person until they’d guessed correctly. The outcome of two intermediate Spanish speakers from America trying to succeed at this exercise was, I believe, one of the funniest things Teddy had ever seen in his many, many years of teaching. After a lot of laughing and the occasional ridiculous question for Teddy such as “Como se dice ‘spazz’ en espanol?” we finally emerged from the game with a little less dignity, but more importantly as amigos. My class with Teddy is so excellent, so much so that I never dread going. Though I am improving every day, sometimes when I’m speaking for long periods of time, especially when I’m explaining something that I’m passionate about, I pretty much improvise words I don’t know by simply adding o’s to American words and changing the pronunciation of a few of the consonants. When I do this, Teddy stops me to remind me that though he wishes to congratulate me on becoming fluent in Spanglish, I will not find this talent of mine all too useful when conversing with native Spanish speakers. Anyway, the point is that I don’t dread Spanish class, but this was true more so when John was still here being dumb and American with me. Since he’s left, I am in class only with Lina, who speaks something like twenty-seven languages, and has somehow managed, after spending only three months in Central America, to surpass me in Spanish-speaking ability. Therefore, I shall never forgive John for leaving me here, the lone American ranger swimming in a sea of intelligent, experienced Europeans and Ticos.

So Wednesday night John and his girlfriend Merrick suggested going out on the town in San Pedro. I said “por que no?” and planned to meet them after dinner with my crew of ladies. The five of us guffawed our way loudly through a meal and then moved on to the second portion of the evening; the Kristy dances like a wild woman at a club under the watchful eyes of her non-Morman counterparts portion. I stole away from the dancing scene to have a quiet beer with John, Merrick, and Lina, my class nemesis whose skill in learning languages does not constitute grounds enough for overlooking how cool of a person she is. Then the dance party made its way to our bar, and our female contingent was reunited in harmony. Wednesday night ended late just as each of the previous nights had, and Thursday, our final day of the week, began soon thereafter.

On Thursday, Flo arrived. Flo is from Austria and has quickly become one of my best friends here in San Pedro, along with Matt (mi hermano), Mike (el Canadian), and Adam, a long-haired, bearded, shy but smiley Californian, who is almost entirely silent until you crack his shell and he becomes…a little less silent. Because Flo is from Austria, he has an interesting accent that, I have informed him, causes him to sound just like every villain who has ever tried to kill Harrison Ford or Steven Segal in an action movie. Every once in a while I illustrate this point by doing my best Flo voice and saying, “I do thees for my country!” to which he often responds, “yeah, yeah, just go with the Flo.” We both find ourselves to be quite funny. Flo moved into the house where Deanna and Adam live, and on Thursday Deanna brought him along to visit our project. He and I talked about life throughout the bus ride and quickly became pals. I asked him, thinking he would say no because he’d only just met Katie and I (And because we’re extremely strange people), if he wished to accompany us on our weekend vacation to Dominical, another beach town we wished to explore. He surprised us by accepting the invite.

On Thursday night, we went for it yet again. A group of our friends traveled to Ciros Jr., which has become my favorite Santa Marta weeknight location (besides, of course, the street in front of our house). Ciros Jr. is small and simple, and the super nice employees who man the bar are always playing great nineties tunes or eccentric Latino pop on the bar’s TVs. Ciros Jr. is about a fifteen-minute walk from our casa, and therefore it is the perfect location for an after-dinner outing with friends. Chatting and walking my way there with Matt and Mike has become somewhat of a weekly ritual for me. The crowd on Thursday included many volunteers from Maximo, and by the end of the (very late) night, Mike had decided to join Katie and Flo and me on our excursion to Dominical the following morning (AKA three hours later, as the bus was to leave at 6 AM). I instructed Mike to be outside his house at 5:05, and Flo at 5:10, explaining that if they weren’t there we would leave without them. Katie and I went to sleep with the lights on, thinking we would be more likely to wake quickly from our post-cerveza slumber, and I set my alarm for 4:45. I awoke to the sound of Maybell knocking on our bedroom door and telling us our taxi was outside, then looked at my phone to see that it was already 5:30. It’s a good thing that my host family doesn’t speak any English because I think the stream of profanities that flew from my mouth as Katie and I threw on whatever clothing was lying around, grabbed L-Pack and L-Pack Jr., and ran out of the house without brushing our teeth or washing our faces, might have shocked them to the point of considering kicking me out of their house. Gracias a Dios for Leo, the Maximo cab driver, because I have never before in my life seen such incredible and death defying stunts. He picked up Mike and Flo at separate houses and still managed to get us to the bus station with almost fifteen minutes to spare, and without killing any pedestrians. So the four of us climbed onto the crowded sticky bus, wishing we were sleeping in comfortable beds with air conditioning blowing on our vertical, cushioned bodies, instead of sitting on rubber-encased stained bus seats, our sweaty faces clinging to the dusty windows.

The six-hour bus-ride was pretty torturous. At the rest stop, Katie and I bought gum and popped about nine pieces into our mouths, then proceeded to drink a thousand bottles of water and to apply deoderant. We felt a little better. Towards the end of the trip we made friends with a really nice Tico who gave us excellent tips on where to go, what to see, where to surf, what types of monkeys to avoid, what to do if we ever got arrested, etc… I have so much fun having long conversations with Costa Rican people. They are generally extremely nice and patient, and so in love with their country and their culture that they are eager to share it with visitors. By the end of the bus-ride I had quickly gained the reputation in the eyes of Mike and Flo as being the group’s “Mom.” Throughout the bus-ride I frequently asked the boys and Katie if they wanted some type of snack, brandishing my plastic bag filled with a various assortment of Luna and Cliff bars as well as Costa Rican Galletas y Dulces. “Thanks mom!” they’d say before leaning back onto their seats. Flo has continued viewing me in this way, as over the past couple of weeks since he arrived here, I somehow always find myself holding his things or waiting for him to do something or helping him with his Spanish homework. Today he told me that he was missing his dog from home a bit, but then he added, “It’s OK though. I don’t have my dog, but I have my mom!”

At Dominical we checked into our hostel, which I have to say, was pretty gross. I have stayed in hostels before, but this one wins the prize for general dirtiness. We threw L-Pack and L-Pack Jr. on the bed that Katie and I were to (naturally) share, then laughed with Mike and Flo about the fact that the only room available for them was also a double bed to be shared. We walked to the beach to find Beth and Kristy, who had come the night before, and were just finishing a surf lesson. After lunch we went to the beach for a bit, and though it was a gloomy day we had a lot of fun laying in the cool water and stretching out our stiff tired bodies.

The great part about the hostel was an outdoor porch area that had these fantastic large wooden tables, perfect for playing cards. That night we played some cards and drank cocktails, then got to know one another a little better through a rousing game of “two truths, one lie,” which incidentally I had played a version of in Spanish class. It is much easier to play when its permissible to speak English. Dominical is a cool town, filled with young people and very, very guapo surfing men. It’s known for a laid back atmosphere, killer surf, and lots of marijuana smoking. Katie and Kristy and I amused ourselves all weekend by pretending to take pictures of one another or of one of the boys when a surfer at our hostel was standing behind the fake subject. So Friday night, we went for it again, making our way over to the bar that was open that night. We went for dancing together, until a pair of Ticos offered to salsa dance with Kristy and I, and I embarrassed myself fully and completely by attempting for about three minutes to ACTUALLY learn how to dance, something I will never make the mistake of doing again. I have about nine left feet. Kristy of course danced like a star with her partner, while I apologized profusely in Spanish and ran outside to sit with Flo and Mike.

At some point that night, we made our way to the beach, something that has become my ritual, whether friends want to come with me or not, every weekend when we’re in a beach town. I love to be at the beach at night, looking up at the stars, feeling my feet in the water. That night Katie and Kristy were chatting with some guys while I walked to the shore and stood letting my feet get gradually more and more buried under the sand with each gentle wave. At some point, I became fully overwhelmed with sadness. It hit me like a ton of bricks, and I felt a way I have not felt since April. I became absolutely paralyzed with sorrow, looking out over the ocean and up at the stars, wondering where my mother is and why I can’t be with her. I felt at that moment that I would rather leave this place to be where she is, but I don’t know where that is, and I don’t know how to get there. Sometimes it just seems impossible to go on living a life that is without her. But these moments come and go, usually not remaining for too long, and this time it was made better by having Katie with me. I thought I could pull myself together without crying as I walked up the beach to meet them, but as I leaned down to find my shoes, Katie looked at me and forced a hug upon me, causing me to sit down on a log and weep uncontrollably. I am very very grateful to Katie and Kristy for being there for me. When I felt better, I thought it only appropriate that we return to the bar and continue to go for it.

At the bar, I regrouped by sitting and chatting with Flo a bit. Katie and I realized upon arriving in Dominical that Flo and Mike would do their own thing and the five of us would be together when we were together. Flo in particular is a person who marches to the beat of his own drum. Oftentimes his response to inquiries is, “I am just living my life.” His consistent advice to me when I am upset or worried about something is, “I think you should just live your life.” So Flo and I chatted about how to go about living my life without my mom, and then I hit the dance floor once again. The night ended at about four in the morning on the beach, with Katie and Kristy and I sitting on a tree that stuck out of the sand, listening to some guys play the guitar and eating pineapple empanadas, which are delicious.

On Saturday I attempted to surf again with a board lent to me by the hostel, but quickly realized that there’s a reason surfers are pretty specific about what they wear in the water. A girl really can’t surf in a normal bathing suit without coming up from below the water topless or bottomless at one point or another. The waves are so strong and you move around so much on the board, that you are bound to be made nude by the elements while trying to stand up, and this creates an awkward situation, not so conducive to learning the new skill. Entonces, I let the surfing go for the weekend, and just chilled on the beach with my friends. Mike and Flo and Flo’s friend Sebastian and I played some soccer for an hour or so, which was so much fun. I’d forgotten how much I miss just messing around with a ball. Of course, I managed to give myself a black eye. How a person can do so with a soccer ball is beyond me, but if any human can, it’s clearly me. Saturday night was extremely chill. We all went out to a nice dinner, and I invited an old friend of my dad’s to join us. He lives in Dominical for part of the year, and is an extremely cool photographer surfer guy.

After dinner we chilled with some new friends at the hostel, and went to bed like normal people at a normal time. When Katie and I crawled into bed, she pulled out the package of Milanos from L-Pack Jr., and began eating them one after another, while lying back on her pillow. When I said, “Ugh, Katie! You’re gonna get crumbs all over the bed, and then bugs will come,” she looked incredulously at me, then pointed around the room, at the holes in the sheets, the ants crawling across the floor, andthe layer of grime covering every surface. “Are you kidding? Our bodies are covered in bugs as we speak! I brush my teeth out the goddamn window rather than going into the bathroom, you think Milano crumbs are going to make a difference?!” She had a point. By Sunday night Katie and I were both covered in unknown suspicious marks and bites, which I am certain were from the various insects crawling over us and biting us in our sleep. Thank God I recovered from my germaphobia a good week before going to Dominical.

Sunday was insanely hot, about ninety-five degrees, and none of us looked forward to getting back on that %^$*ing bus, but we had no choice. For some reason, from certain playas the only possible bus to San Jose comes at noon or 12:30, which is the absolute most horrendous time of day to be sitting in a crowded non-air conditioned slow vehicle. So we stood drenched in sweat at the bus stop, being annoyed with one another and searching for a good shady spot to put L-Pack on the ground for collapsing upon. I told Flo to meet us at the bus stop at 1:30 PM, and as we stood around, he came walking slowly around the corner, still wearing his wet bathing suit, completely covered in sand, barefoot, work boots in hand, and with a French Canadian guy from the hostel in tow, carrying his backpack for him. “You didn’t shower?” we asked him. “Where are your pants?”
“I don’t want to shower. And it is too hot for pants, no?” he countered. We continued eating pretzels and sweating for a little longer, as the time the bus was supposed to have arrived came and went. At some point Flo looked across the road to the outdoor shower at a surf shop and said, “I think I will shower now.” Katie and I giggled until he returned to the bus stop, covered in water.
“Now you’re just soaking wet!” I said. “You’re gonna be wet on the bus.”
“Yeah, but I don’t care,” he said.
Katie looked at him and then exclaimed, “Wow Flo, you really go for going for it.”
He took a drag of his cigarette, shrugged and said, “Yes, I think so.”