Thursday, August 9

day 11202: memories of costa rica past

There's a small soda in Punta Banco where the turtlers would sup. Lunch was a casual affair, people coming and going on their own whimsy.

Late one afternoon after a busy morning of beachcombing and tide pool poking, I wandered back to the soda for a bite and some freshly squeezed naranjo juice. The proprietor was in the kitchen cleaning up after the others, and began babbling to me in Spanish.

"Um, no hablo Espanol." I managed to eek out with my extremely limited Spanish.

She babbled at me again.

I don't speak Spanish, I said again.

She gazed at me with a look of utmost patience, raised her voice slightly and said very, very slowly,


And handed me a plate.

rice with chicken

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