Costa Rica: Surf and Stoners

My original plan for our fourth day in Costa Rica was to spend it spelunking in Barra Honda National Park (which is only about twenty minutes down the road from Nicoya, where we were staying). We'd had a great night's sleep at the bishop's house--I still can't get over how lucky we were to have ran into him the night before. Nicoya is a cute town during the daytime, but at night it looked a little sketch.

What's more, the city was preparing for a huge celebration the following week. On July 25, 1824 the region of Nicoya decided to annex to Costa Rica instead of Nicaragua. Every year, they have a week-long festival celebrating that annexation--and according to the the bishop, thieves come out in droves for it. Violent crime is extremely  rare in Costa Rica, but it's very common for tourists to have the contents of their car raided. So not only was I happy to spend the night inside a safe, comfortable house, I was happy that our car was locked inside a gated yard with a psycho  dog guarding it. (More on the bishop's dog later . . . but seriously, that thing was messed up.)

We woke up early and ate breakfast at the small restaurant owned by the bishop and his family. They were so kind to us and so fun to talk to! The bishop's older brother was particularly hilarious.

Gallo pinto, fresh OJ, cheese, fried eggs, and chorreadas--pancakes made out of corn.

You can faintly see Brock in the door of their restaurant.

After breakfast, we had a mini-adventure back at the bishop's house involving car alarms and a Walk of Terror past his demented dog (whom we lovingly referred to as The Beast a la The Sandlot). But it wasn't long before we were on the road to las cavernas!

Our day came to a screeching halt when, at Barra Honda, we discovered that only one of the three caves was open, and that you had to be accompanied by a guide to go down it. To the tune of $65/hour. In 'Merika, that's what we call A JOKE.

Several Costa Ricans have told us that tourism is really suffering down there--partly because of the global recession, and partly because Costa Ricans are shameless price-gougers. The thing is, if you are offering a service in a foreign country that caters to predominantly Canadians and Americans, maybe  it would be a good idea to find out what the equivalent cost of that service is in Canada and the US. A four-second Google search reveals that a 3-4 hour tour in the Carlsbad Caverns costs a mere $40/couple. So Barra Honda was charging 60% more for three hours less in a cave that, lo siento,  doesn't hold a candle to Carlsbad. And they wonder why we left.

Instead, we went the opposite direction to Tamarindo, where we rented two surfboards all day for $20.  (Kelly's Surf Shop--if you're ever in Tamarindo, hit this place up. Kelly is the man!) The waves were incredible that day--nothing big, but just easy and fun and rolling. Brock said it was the best surfing day of his life. I'm still learning, but I managed to get up on my own a couple times :) If anything, I was grateful for warm water and a soft, sandy ocean floor!

Funny story. Just as we were about to hit the water, I decided to go get something out of the car. So I'm running back to the car, on the beach, in a bikini, feeling mighhhhhhty  "Baywatch" when FA-POOM. I eat it FACE FIRST in the sand. In front of everyone.  It was so funny that I started laughing out loud, which I'm sure made me look like an even BIGGER idiot, but I mean, what else are you going to do in that situation?! I'm so sad Brock didn't see it! Funny moments like that are a shame if nobody films them, but they're a total WASTE if nobody sees them! (Well, at least nobody you know.) But guys, f'real. If I had been able to put this on YouTube, it would've become the next "Charlie Bit My Finger."

After a few hours of surfing we decided to explore some of the neighboring beaches around Tamarindo.

Playa Grande

You put the lime in the coconut . . .

We grabbed a quick bite to eat at a beachside taco stand in Playa Grande. That's when this happened.

Two minutes later, as we're leaving the parking lot, some drunk guy comes up to us and is all "HEY. It costs two dollars to park here." And Brock is like "There's no sign that says that. Where is your identification?" The man says "Here!" and points to his hat which has "SEGURIDAD" printed on it. Totally legit. Brock pulled his car out and drove away, with Mr. Borracho giving us all kinds of lovely hand signs in the rearview mirror.

Estuary into the ocean at Playa Avellanas

Behind where I took this picture was a small house--this estuary ran in front of it. Can you imagine looking out your kitchen as seeing this  every day?!

After goofing around, we went back to Tamarindo for dinner at a place called FT's. Is there anything better than tropical smoothies and hot wings after a day of surfing? Well, maybe. But that was still freaking good. We had a great time chatting it up with the young Canadian couple next to us. Tamarindo was definitely the most touristy place we went to, but that was kind of nice for a day.

You'd think a super touristy place like Tamarindo would have a gas station. WRONG. Our tank was on empty, and the nearest station was a good ten miles away. Single gallons of gas were sold at little soda shops along the road, but of course they gouge like mad ($8/gallon or more). We decided to take our chances and go look for "cheap" gas--only $5.30 at regular stations!

Naturally, it makes sense to put a gas station at the top of a HUGE-A hill. Brock and I were so paranoid that we'd run out while going up!

But we made it! Thank goodness. After an hour-long drive back to Nicoya, we both passed out in bed within fifteen minutes. What a day!

Future Me

I was MIA last week.

You'll notice in my last blog post (written on Monday) I had grand plans to finish writing about Costa Rica. I was going to be productive  last week! On my to-do list were two projects around the house, lots of running, fulfilling some church assignments, etc.

But then my body (and brain) got all funky on me. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that even though I wasn't sick  sick, I could tell I wasn't normal. Physically, emotionally--things were off and I didn't know why. 

PMS? Pregnancy? Nope, nope. It was like I had turned into a wimp overnight. I didn't want to do anything, see anyone, go anywhere. The smallest things overwhelmed me. I cried. A LOT. But then I did something brave.

I gave a talk in church about feminism. It was scary because Mormon feminists have all sorts of uphill battles to climb in terms of, you know, people not hating us. I hoped people wouldn't misunderstand my words. 

I think much of what I felt last week was due to confusion. In case you haven't heard, your 20's are rough. Who am I? Who should I be? What do I want? What SHOULD I want? Where do I go from here? You're standing at the edge of your future and going OMG, IT'S HERE. IT'S REALLY HERE.

I think Mormon women feel this acutely because of the conflicting ideals pulling us in different directions. I won't speak for others, but I take on a lot of guilt. Guilt for wanting some things, guilt for not wanting others, guilt for twinges of resentment, guilt for being stubborn, myopic, difficult. 

The talk I delivered seemed to strike a chord with people (in a good way). I was relieved that the response was positive, but even if it hadn't been, I would've been alright. I didn't need that talk to be a validation of my beliefs. I needed a chance to be brave again.

I guess it's dumb to ask Now, how did God know that?  because, well, He is  God and all. But three weeks ago, when I was assigned to speak in church, I had no idea how much I would need it.

If God was looking out for Future Me then, I bet He's looking out for Future Me now.

And that's really, really  nice to know.

***

See here for the article I based my talk on. 

Arts Wrap: July 2012

The July Arts Wrap is here, albeit a tad late. I'll also be finishing up Costa Rica posts this week. It's been a busy month, to say the least, so blogging has been spotty. Arts Wraps are especially daunting since they take me so long to do, but I love them nonetheless. Enjoy!

Book--Fiction: Girls of Riyadh

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Or, as I like to call it: Fifty Shades of Grey: Saudi Style.

Published in 2005, this book was immediately banned in Saudi Arabia for its salacious content. (Heaven forbid somebody--a woman, no less!--points of the hypocrisies and double standards of Saudi culture.)

On the surface, it seems like a kid in junior high wrote this book. However, I know enough about Arabic to recognize a poor English translation when I see one.  (The translator herself expressed dissatisfaction with the end result, claiming that both the publisher and author, Rajaa Alsanea, interfered with the initial translation. You can totally tell.)

From the LA Times: "I was informed that the author intended to rewrite it, and thereafter I was kept entirely out of the process. The resulting text, with its clichéd language, erasures of Arabic idioms I had translated, and unnecessary footnotes, does not reflect the care that I took to produce a lively, idiomatic translation."

Poor translator. I would not want to be dealing with a wealthy, know-it-all Saudi girl.

"Perhaps the larger scandal, though, is that for some publishers and writers, literary translators remain derivative servitors rather than creative artists, a notion fostered by a long tradition within Euro-American letters of the writer as solitary genius and translation as a mechanical exercise."

Sadly, this is true. I haven't read much foreign literature, but Brock has. I never understood why he was so picky about buying the "best" version of Madame Bovary, War and Peace, The Brothers Karamzov, Don Quixote, etc. A book is a book is a book, right?

Well, I get it now. Unfortunately, there is only one available translation for Girls of Riyadh. If you're interested in Arab culture, it's worth slugging through. For my single friends complaining about how complicating the dating scene is in America: Count your blessings!

Life for Saudi women is changing dramatically, so this book is timely. I hope Rajaa Alsanea is not alone in her views and convictions--yallah, Saudi feminists!

***

Book--Non-Fiction: Eat and Run

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Growing up the daughter of an ultramarathoner, I was familiar with Jurek. He's arguably the best ultramarathoner of our time. And he's a vegan.

This book was a siren calling my name. Along with great storytelling (props to his ghostwriter, Steve Friedman), Jurek incorporates fantastic vegan recipes into this autobiography (ultrarunners are notorious for fueling up on junk food during races, and he completely bucks that tradition). Just as inspiring to me is his mental toughness. Setting a course record at Hardrock with torn ligaments in his ankle? Are you kidding me?

Eat and Run  is the Born to Run of 2012. For anyone interested in running, health, or pushing limits in general, I highly recommend it.

***

Television: Downton Abbey

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I won't do this show a disservice by trying to describe its brilliance.

Watch it. That is all.

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Film: Bridesmaids

A few months ago Brock and I caught The Hangover on TBS. I don't think either of us have ever laughed that hard at a movie, but we still felt good about our Mormon selves because it was EDITED.

Well, I caught Bridesmaids on HBO. Unedited. 

It was worth the guilty conscience.

***

Music: KRCL Radio Station 90.9 FM

When you get sick of hearing a Gotye remix for the eleventy billionth time, tune your FM here.

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***

Photography: Tiffany Rebecca 

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One of my best friends in the entire world, Tiffany, is a very gifted photographer. For proof, check out this post. My favorite photo is the one above--a grandmother holding her new grandson.

Can you believe this is the first birth she's ever shot?

I'm so inspired by her work and so proud to call her my friend. Seeing a shoot like this makes me want to move to Chicago just  so I'll be in her neighborhood when it's time to deliver a little one! :)

***

Comedy: The Office

A few weeks ago, Brock and I decided to start re-watching The Office from the pilot episode. It's a sign of a well-made show that even though I know  what jokes are coming, I still laugh. And even though I know  what happens with Jim and Pam, I still tear up when I watch this:

***

Food: Talenti Caribbean Coconut Gelato

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Brock and I picked this up on a whim at Harmon's. Even though we've slashed our dairy intake, we're not above a buy-one-get-one-free deal on gelato--especially when it comes in such tempting flavors!

What I love about this gelato is its ingredients list: milk, sugar, cream, powdered milk, coconut, dextrose, guar gum, vanilla. Short, sweet, and (mostly) simple. That may explain why it TASTES SO FREAKING GOOD. Few things are more satisfying than cool, delicate coconut ice cream on a simmering summer's day.

***

Fashion: Kate Lanphear

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Black and white never looked so good. Lanphear is the style director of Elle. As much as I love bold colors and patterns, I'm so impressed by Kate's minimalist approach to those things. And even though I'm drawn to feminine pieces, I'm love  women who rock androgyny. 

I'm a firm believer in The Sartorialist's admonition that hair plays just as big a role as clothing in our personal style. Kate epitomizes this. Her black-and-white, edgy closet is complemented by white, edgy hair. Love it.

 ***

Journalism: Nate Silver

Which Records Get Shattered? by Nate Silver 

I am unabashed in my love for Nate Silver. He makes statistics sexy.

Consider the men’s long jump, for instance. The Olympic record in that discipline was set more than 40 years ago, in Mexico City, by the American Bob Beamon. About nine months before a man landed on the moon, Beamon made a giant leap — 29 feet two and a half inches — that has yet to be surpassed at the Olympic Games. (Mike Powell beat Beamon’s record at a non-Olympic meet in Tokyo in 1991, a record which itself is now more than 20 years old.) 

In another prestigious event, the women’s 100-meter dash, the world record of 10.49 seconds was set in 1988, at the Olympic trials in Indianapolis, by Florence Griffith-Joyner. She also set the Olympic record, 10.62 seconds, later that year in Seoul.
Those cases are not as exceptional as you might think. Only five track and field world records were broken at the Beijing games in 2008 out of 47 events. And it was actually a relatively productive Olympics by that standard: only seven world records had been established at the prior four games combined.

By contrast, 25 world records were set in the swimming competition in Beijing — out of just 34 events. The longest-standing world record in any swimming discipline is barely more than 10 years old. It was set by Grant Hackett in the 1,500-meter freestyle short course at the Australian Championships in 2001."

If you go on to finish the article, you'll read why  track records often stand for decades. It comes down to simplicity and accessibility. What Mr. Silver illuminates here factors heavily into my philosophy on exercise--namely, that I believe it should be free (or as close to it as possible). I know this sounds dumb, but I like knowing that people all around the world--rich, poor, rural, urban--could duplicate my workout regimen. In a small way, it helps me feel connected to both the earth and the people I share it with.

I Have No Pictures Of This Weekend

And maybe that's why it was perfect.

***

On Friday we visited a used bookstore. We're suckers for those places, with their musty shelves and creaky floors and out-dated wisdom. Bookstores are museums, in a way.

At the glittering mall downtown I showed Brock my favorite perfume--Versace's "Bright Crystal." We didn't buy it, but I sprayed two tester strips to put in my car.

We curled up in bed with air-popped popcorn and laughed our way through Netflix re-runs of The Office. Then, what was supposed to be one episode of Downton Abbey  turned into three, and we went to sleep with Anna's singsong "Mr. Baaaaates..."  echoing in our heads.

***

In the morning, Brock played football with friends while I went running. We undid it all with RubySnap cookies before going rafting in Henefer, Utah.

A few years ago my parents gave us a small inflatable boat. They'd found it at a discount store for $15, marked down from $85 (probably because it had a hole in the bottom...).  I think you're only supposed to use it in pools, but what fun is that?

We patched the hole as best we could and took off down the Weber River. I'm sure we looked ridiculous. I channeled Pocahontas and sang "Just Around the Riverbend" more than a few times. We navigated like pros--snaking around boulders, under highway overpasses and abandoned train bridges--but the last rapid of the day (a Class III!) proved too much. Our trusty raft scraped over a craggy rock, and as we went over the falls we heard the sppeeeeeeeeeeee  of deflating air. We scrambled to grab loose shoes, shirts, and oars as the current pushed us along, our bums bouncing along the rocky riverbed like pinballs.

We hitched a ride back to our car with three stoners and their Rape Van. (Our other option was to walk the seven miles back to Henefer, so Rape Van it was.)

One of our new friends was a self-proclaimed "Ladies' Hair-Band Maker."

"Yeah," he explained. "It's a lot better than the manual labor I used to do."

"I bet," said Brock. "You probably have a lot of time to think when you're making hair-bands."

"I guess so."

"What do you think about when you're making ladies' hair-bands?"

"Um . . . just about making more hair bands, dude."

***

We ate macaroni and cheese after church on Sunday and laughed to more Office  re-runs before afternoon naps.

I fell in love with miniature eskimo dogs after Mojo played with one at Sugarhouse Park. Brock and I sat on a bench as they ran circles around us.

That night, we parked up Emigration Canyon to watch a meteor shower. We laid down the back seats of the car and lied on our backs, heads poking out the open trunk, looking up at the night sky. The inversion and clouds made it hard to see, but we both saw one shooting star. (One is all you need for wish-making.)

By the time we got home, the whole wheat bread I'd made earlier was done baking. We drizzled honey on two warm slices, washing them down with almond milk before going to sleep.

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Job Fair Do's and Don'ts. Okay, Okay. Mostly Don'ts.

I've been to quite a few job fairs, ya'll. And I've seen things that you can't un-see.

For the common-senseless, may I present a guide?

LADIES

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Unless you're applying to a sketchy Craigslist job, you should not be wearing five-inch heels. I say keep it to three inches maximum, and even then I'd go with a wedge (more demure). Or play it even safer with a classy pair of ballet flats (please none of those cheap-looking ones from that Teen Shoe Superstore in the mall...oh yes, I'M JUDGING YOU AND YOUR PLASTIC ROSETTES).

Also, strappy heels? What is this, prom circa 2002? C'mon. If you haven't outgrown these yet, do.

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For those of you not  applying to a fashion house, lay off the bold lipstick. You  may know it's in-season, but who's to say your interviewer does? Remember: Demure, demure, demure! Rock those reds, corals, and hot pinks once you've nabbed the job.

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I love me some ghetto hoops. Really, I do. But WHAT'S THE WORD OF THE DAY, LADIES?! Say it with me. Demuuurrrreeeeee. Again, wear these when you're employed. Until then? Studs. Keep it simple.

You are not J. Lo.

GENTLEMEN

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Common looks like an idiot with a too-short tie. So do you. Spend ten minutes of your life at GQ's website learning how to do it properly, FOR THE LOVE.

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Square-toed shoes are disgusting. There is no debate over this. If you plan on working for the government or another sector where men have ugly shoes (I'm looking at you, engineers), then whatever. But if you plan on working in business or just generally don't want to look like an intern, plan to shell out at least  $200. Remember the three A's:  Alden. Allen-Edmonds. A. Testoni. 

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Freaking get your suit tailored. You're a big boy now. Also, notice what an idiot he looks like in the first picture with SQUARE-TOED SHOES???

OTHER AREAS OF CONCERN: 

A CHECKLIST

• Are you using the font "Impact" on your resume? 
• Are you wearing Uggs?
• Are you wearing jeggings?
• Are your fingernails grubby?
• Are you smacking gum? Or chewing it at all?
• Are you wearing a black suit with blue shoes?
• Are you any non-neutral colors? (Remember: DEMURE!!!)
• Do you have a resume on hand?
• What the? Why would you not bring a resume to A JOB FAIR???
• Oh, you do have one?
• Good.
• But you're just holding it in your hands and it's bent and crumpled?
• Seriously?
• Ever heard of a briefcase?
• A portfolio?
• A MANILA FOLDER?????

Costa Rica: In Which Monkeys Try To Pee On Us

After a wonderful  night's rest (is there anything better than falling asleep listening to rain on your roof?) we woke up early for breakfast at the lodge. With full bellies, we headed into Malpais to scope out the town. I don't know how that place even has a name, because there is definitely no "town" anywhere. Scattered shanty houses, a church, a cemetery . . . that was just about it. It made Santa Teresa (about 5km to the north) look like a thriving metropolis. A true feat.

Santa Teresa

The beaches near Malpais are rocky, so we headed back up to Santa Teresa to check out the surf.  It was a little overcast and windy, but the waves weren't too bad. Not good enough to convince us to rent boards, in any case. (Besides, there is NO WAY our stuff would've been safe parked at the beach.)  

So Santa Teresa and Malpais were a total bust. Bummer. We headed back to the lodge for a few more rounds of cards, grabbed some ice cream in town, a stash of snacks, and hit the road for Nicoya.

On the way to Nicoya we stopped by the Curu Wildlife Reserve for a few hours. On our way in, we saw a half dozen howler monkeys chilling out in the trees above the road. Sweet!  We stopped the car and got out to look at them closer.

All of a sudden, a trickle of MONKEY PEE hit the ground in front of me. Then to the left of me. Then near Brock! IT WAS A COORDINATED MONKEY PEE ATTACK. I swear I heard one of them yell Leeeeroooooooooy Jennnnnnkiiiiinnns! 

I guess those monkeys didn't want to be bothered, because they've certainly figured out how to get tourists to high-tail it away from them! We parked our car a little farther down the road and set off on some nature hikes.

Fanny pack, map--ULTIMATE TOURIST.

No tourist ensemble is complete without binoculars.

The best hike was to a look-out point that showcased the Curu Reserve's private beach. It was a little bit of a trek, but so worth it!

We went on another hike called the "Monkey Trail", but we didn't see ANY MONKEYS. False advertising. It was still a beautiful walk through the rainforest, though! Ironically, all the monkeys chill out at the administration building--30 feet from where we parked our car--because they know they can get scraps of food from tourists! There were about a dozen white-faced capuchins leaping from tree to tree--they're so funny! I loved seeing a momma monkey with a baby clinging to her back. Didn't slow her down one bit!

Our hike had made us all sweaty, so we headed to the beach to cool down. I've never had the problem of ocean water being too warm  before, but there's a first time for everything! It was like stepping into mild bathwater . . . not the sensation I was looking for after an hour of hiking!

We bid Curu adieu (HEY. That rhymes) and started the drive to Nicoya. Mind you, Nicoya is not very far away--maybe sixty miles or so from the reserve. But the first fifteen miles took a solid hour to drive. When a map indicates an unpaved road in Costa Rica, expect the worst! I can totally see why locals don't even bother with cars--they buy ATVs or dirt bikes. Luckily, our crappy little car made it out of there alive, and when the road finally became paved again, we literally shouted with joy.

Oh, but our driving adventures for the day weren't over yet.

A tree blocking the entire road. That'll stop ya.

When we finally made it into Nicoya, we were so hungry that we literally stopped at the first restaurant we saw. If you've never eaten at an all-in-one Chinese/American/Costa Rican/German dining establishment, lemme tell ya, you're missing out. On some nasty food.

The best part of the restaurant was its background music. We're pretty sure they bought a "Best of the 90s" CD without knowing that they'd purchased the karoake version. For some reason, we got the biggest kick out of this. (Exhaustion + hunger = Mormon drunk)

After dinner, we popped into a grocery store to grab something sweet. Lo and behold, we found nearby BIRTHDAY CAKE OREOS!!! I was so happy! They're a limited edition type of Oreo that I haven't found in America since last year. We stocked up ;)

By this time, it was completely  dark outside and we still had no idea where we were going to sleep that night. On our way into town we'd seen an LDS church, so we went back to see if by chance it was open. It wasn't :( There was a PERFECT grassy area behind it, but everything was locked behind a tall chain-link fence to prevent vandalism.

We started asking passersby and neighbors of the church if they knew any Mormons when I saw a black 4Runner pull up to the front of the church. 

It was the bishop.

What luck! The garbage man had forgotten to come by that day, and dogs had ravaged the sacks of trash outside the church. The bishop rarely stops by the church after 9pm, but he did on this particular day to pick up the mess outside. How is that  for providence?!

Rather than camping in the grassy backyard (where he would literally have to lock us behind a fence) the bishop told us to just stay at his place! He was a divorcee who lived alone, so he was more than happy to have company. Especially when we insisted on buying him a huge two-liter of Coke that night as thanks :) We all kicked back that night and sipped our Cokes while watching TV, and, since it was Monday, ended the night with a Family Home Evening (he hadn't had one in years and was so excited to do it). 

When we set out for Nicoya, we were simply hoping for a  place to sleep. We ended up with a place to sleep that was comfortable and safe as well. God is good.

Fat Day

Sometimes, when I'm having a Fat Day, I dream of a future doctor appointment that'll go a little something like this:

Doctor:  Oh . . . my . . .

Me:  What? What is it, doctor?

Doctor:  Your tests came back. I . .  [stammering]  I . . . I can't believe it.

Me:  Wait--after all these years? Is it true?

Doctor:  I'm afraid so.

Me:  You're serious?

Doctor:  Yes, Kristi. You have the worst thyroid condition I've ever seen in my life.

Me:  So you mean to tell me that--

Doctor:  Kristi, let's put it this way. If any other woman ate and exercised like you, she would be dead. Not underweight. Not waifish. Dead.

Me:  Just as I suspected.

Doctor:  It's a miracle you're not 400 pounds. Wow. I . . .I'm speechless. You are defying everything we know about modern science.

***

Until that day happens, I'm ordering a batch of this stuff. Seems legit.

Photo by Matt Holloway