It's All Open Space in Costa Rica

We wake up in a tree house to surround-sound, exotic bird songs as the windows here are always open. Sunrise around six, no curtains on the windows; adjust bedtime accordingly. Each morning is a fresh start but the weather changes little. The air is soft and warm, so full of moisture that nothing is completely dry. A natural moisturizer for skin and hair; my clothes don't get a chance to wrinkle.

The morning view of the valley always delights me, almost like a programmed response. There are other houses hidden in the vegetation, but it seems to be exclusively our view.

We join Frank in the open air kitchen for strong coffee and quiet conversation as he prepares breakfast for us. Eventually, we all gather for another incredible meal, heavy on tropical fruit that we can barely afford to buy in the States. The mist is lifting from the valley, the sun is warmer; we are encircled by vegetal greenery and bright flowers.

If it's Thursday, we can travel a short distance to an open market, a farmers' market on steroids. Fruit and vegetables for sale in such abundance, it looks like it could feed the world.

The market has a county fair like atmosphere as local residents come to socialize as much as to shop. All fun stops at the Mennonite lady's table. Her breads are popular but do not smile here where life is apparently very serious and certainly not joyous or carefree. The cheese lady stands alone. Her cheeses may be superb and her hat is festive, but she is not having a great day either.  

On another afternoon, we stop at a local, neighborhood bar. There is little separation of the
inside and outside; windows with no glass or screens keep nature close. Anything seems possible; a jaguar or ocelot might be wandering the dirt road below our open window.

Given enough privacy from passers-by, glass and screens are completely optional here in the countryside. Our friend has lived here for nearly twenty years with artfully liberated windows.

But real open space begins at the beach. We're on the Pacific Ocean side where there is a stunning lack of commercial development blight. People friendly beaches abound that are nevertheless not crowded with people.

Paradise doesn't exist, and in other parts of Costa Rica there are bars on all the windows and razor wire is a prominent feature. But bars on the windows is also a state of mind, and I'm going for the open space.

Wrong Man

I am walking down the bike trail near my home in the late afternoon on New Years Eve. The trail is not empty but certainly not very busy on this late December day. At a good distance, I see a white haired man coming toward me who looks very like one of my neighbors who moved away but still visits family members on our street.

Love Israel, my former neighbor, is the grand poobah of a long established commune conveniently named the Love Israel Family. As befits any grand poobah or successful salesperson, Love is charismatic and exceedingly outgoing. You are his new best friend the moment he meets you. A good recruiting tool of course, but the man is a totally legitimate extrovert.

As the man is approaching me, he turns on a beaming grin and, full of cheer, asks me how I've been. It's like taking a drink of iced tea when you were expecting lemonade. The man looks and acts like Love, but is not quite Love. I find I've already launched into a conversation with the man about gardening, and he's telling me he once had an organic farm in England. That explains the British accent that I'm just now taking into account; further prove that he is definitely not Love Israel. But now we're talking about the horrors of genetically modified organisms and the Evil Empire of Monsanto.

He decides to introduce himself; his name is Walter. I try to explain to him that I had mistaken him for a neighbor. "Oh don't worry," he says, "I'm a terrible flirt."