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’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.
(Previous) Ten days later I stumbled onto Alberto Navarro like a donkey out of Tijuana: sore, sticky, my eyes squinting into the equatorial sun.