I tried to look away.
I was people watching in the lobby of the Hotel Panama when the hostess slipped me an introductory note.
It was almost six p.m., I was pruning my darlings, and fading another tropical afternoon with a fat roach of Punta Rojo.
It’s after two a.m., I’m wasted, and the rain’s just started to fall on little Alejandra, looking sexy at the curb.
It was late, and I was on my hands and knees, weeping, and vomiting paella into a Casco Viejo gutter when things suddenly got weird.
Costa Rica, “Aquí Se Cura Todo” (Everything heals here) : It was the kind of morning that should’ve ended with a tourism minister’s summery execution: humid, deceptively hot and airless, with a few skeletal dogs dozing under the thatched roof of a run down bohio, and the smell of kinkajou burning on the wire.