How Some Things Grow

I love travelling alone. It's interesting to note that when one travels alone, I find, particularly as a woman and a non-threatening woman at that, that there is a greater increase in opportunites for random discoveries on an experiential and fluid level than if one travels with at least one other person.

Ten years ago I was working at a restaurant in the west end. I was very tired. Work was driving me nuts. My boyfriend at the time was driving me more nuts. I informally interviewed people who were nursing martinis. I asked about their experiences abroad and if they could suggest a place, a safe place, for a single girl to visit.

Hands down, they all proclaimed Costa Rica to be the premier destination spot.

So I went.

I brought a tape recorder, a point and shoot camera and a journal to document my experience.

It was on this trip that I discovered one really shouldn't make wise cracks at customs officers. My passport was thumbed through repeatedly for what seemed like an eternity. I nearly received a full cavity search. I learned, rather quickly, to keep the old mouth buttoned and remain calmly stoic.

I had no plan. Not really. I had borrowed a couple of travelogues from the library, did very little research and headed down. The air was thick with diesel exhaust in San Jose. Everyone and everything seemed dusty. I didn't want to stay in the bustling town. I'd just come from a bustling town. I wanted to see some nature. Dunk myself in water. Water, particularly oceanic water, is essential to the Comrade.

I boarded a small charter plane the next day. A 10 seater, or so. Cockpit exposed, individual hair follicles of the pilots visible from my vantage point. Destination: Quepos/ San Antonio. The books contained a blurb about the white sand beaches, preserved rain forests, creatures, creatures, creatures and a promised lush paradise. Perfect.

My first night there I drank so many margaritas I had to adjourn to my room to sprawl all over the bedspread. As I'm a Virgo, I do not make it a habit to sprawl or even touch bedspreads as I know the chambermaids don't clean those very often. Sprawl I did, though. That first night.

The second day I had met a lovely young couple from Oregon who invited me to dinner. At the time, they were on their honeymoon writing postcards to thank the invited guests from their "special" day; thanking those who had at least partially funded their honeymoon.

At another time I had met 2 men from Fire Island, NY. Reputedly not gay, though they were travelling alone together; both from the highest per capita concentration of homosexuals in the eastern US. And one of whom had a moustache. I wasn't judging. They were rollicking good times.

Over breakfast they'd announced they'd found a local, a Tico as they're called, who was willing to take them to a secret waterfall that only locals knew about. They asked if I wanted to accompany them.

Yes, please and thank you!

The ride was bumpily rough over red clay, pot-hole speckled roads. The air was thick with moisture, making skin dewy and radiant. My expression mirrored my skin. There was not a cloud in sight, on either front. We meandered through roughly hewn forks created in the road, no visible signage. There were no markers denoting this way or that, one way or thoroughfare. The Ticos simply knew.

We had to abandon the car at one point, taking the rest of the journey by foot. Along the partially worn path I saw pineapples growing. In my supermarket-sheltered life I have never seen pineapples grow. I had assumed that they grew not unlike coconuts. Wrong. They grow from flora that look not unlike giant aloe vera plants. They're only about 3-4' high. The fruit grow at 45˙ angles. They absolutely delighted and confounded me at the same time. I had to be dragged away from them, neck still craning in amazement.

I saw guava grow out of giant furry boomerang-shaped pods. These, too, I had to be dragged away from. Not first without having one peeled, opened and offered to taste. My small eyes grew quite large that day.

When we arrived at the destination we were at the base of an epic, staged waterfall. Midway up there was a natural basin where warm falling water careened and pooled briefly before jettisoning down to form a little lake. The little basin formed a natural jacuzzi where we sat, took turns trying to drown each other and laughed and laughed.

I had rented my first 250cc scooter there. I don't remember loving a vehicle as much as this. Riding alone on a cloudy day, where it had just started raining, wearing a sundress, no helmet, travelling at 110kms/hr on an open road. It felt like I was being shot in the face and chest repeatedly by a small collection of BB guns. To observe from the sidelines I was nothing but a blurred bit of flesh and huge grinning teeth. This image became the symbol of ultimate freedom for me. I began to want to travel alone more and more.

This weekend I visited a very covert farmer's market hidden in the ruins behind a downtown church steeple. I felt like I was intruding. It almost looked like a soup kitchen set up; fresh, organic meats and unattractive vegetables were prominently displayed on collapsible 8' tables, nestled in freshly fallen snow. I bought organic chicken livers, ground beef, butter, broccoli and brussel sprouts.

I love brussel sprouts. Steamed, tossed in butter, cracked pepper and Kosher salt or raw, shaved in a salad. I'd never thought about how brussel sprouts grow. When I saw them the same feelings that I had, when I first saw the pineapples, came flooding back.












I'll be leaving for Chicago in a few days. I'll be travelling alone again. I am meeting a few treasured others. This time I'll be bringing my laptop and digital camera to document with. This time I'll be stoic and well behaved at the airport, all the while secretly, excitedly jumping up and down on the inside at the prospect of any further adventure.

I wonder if I will discover how something else grows?