Costa Rica is one of the most amazing countries on earth, with natural beauty, beaches, and a warm culture that's unparalleled. Every year, almost 2.5 million tourists visit the nation that has no army, and thousands of expats and retirees from the United States and Canada move there annually. If you're thinking about moving to Costa Rica - or just going for a vacation - you definitely will want to read these books. They're not guide books, but real life narratives by people who actually moved there and experienced Costa Rica first hand. The books are listed by popularity and you can click on the titles to link to Amazon.com

Feel free to email me if you have any questions about moving to Costa Rica. Pura vida and happy reading!  

-Norm Schriever   :-)

Happier Than A Billionaire.

In this humorous and witty account, Nadine Pisani shares what it is like to follow her dream of quitting her job and starting a new life under the sunny skies of Costa Rica. Along the way, she finds reliable utilities are not that reliable, quirky neighbors are unavoidable, and tackling red tape takes the strength of a linebacker. But with all its challenges, you'll learn why Costa Rica is ranked as one of the happiest places on earth--and you too may want to taste the Pura Vida lifestyle.

South of Normal.

A gonzo blast of laughs and adventure about a year spent in the tropical paradise of Tamarindo, Costa Rica. Frustrated and unfulfilled with the rat race in the States, businessman Norm Schriever quits his job, sells and donates all of his possessions, and moves down to Tamarindo, Costa Rica, with nothing but a laptop and a surfboard. But Norm soon finds that paradise has its dark side. Whether it’s adapting to the local customs and the language barrier, dodging lawless drug traffickers and corrupt cops, or spending “quality time” in a Third World prison, Norm always keeps his sense of humor and forges ahead, intent on finding the paradise he has been looking for. 

To download a free sample, click here.

In Search of Captain Zero.

In 1996, Allan Weisbecker sold his home and his possessions, loaded his dog and surfboards into his truck, and set off in search of his long-time surfing companion, Patrick, who had vanished into the depths of Central America. In this rollicking memoir of his quest from Mexico to Costa Rica to unravel the circumstances of Patrick's disappearance, Weisbecker intimately describes the people he befriended, the bandits he evaded, the waves he caught and lost en route to finding his friend. 

Two Weeks in Costa Rica.

Have you ever been attacked by monkeys, hiked in one of the most biologically diverse places on earth, or had your wallet stolen, then given back? Matthew Houde and Jennifer Turnbull share these adventures and more in the book, Two Weeks in Costa Rica.

Unraveling the Mysteries of Moving to Costa Rica.

Ever wonder what it would be like to leave the U.S. and move to the tropics? This book deftly blends the personal story of the author (who, along with her husband and parents, moved from Maine to Costa Rica) with incredibly helpful practical advice. A wonderfully readable resource for anyone considering moving to Costa Rica. First in the Mainers in Costa Rica series.

Paradise Imperfect.

Margot and Anthony were ordinary parents. With two jobs and three kids, there was soccer and carpool and too much to do, and a little chronic stress about money. Then one night, following a day that was a regular amount of hectic, Margot had an idea: “I think we should move to Costa Rica.” Seven weeks later, there they were, jobless on top of a mountain, hours from the nearest paved road. This witty, insightful memoir of a family's struggle to right itself in a leafy new world is about parenting and privilege, loneliness and connection. It’s about what happens when a stressed-out technology professional escapes with her loved ones to an idyllic mountaintop...and finds that even when everything changes, some things remain the same.

Hope, Happiness and Pura Vida.

Heart Attack = One Week Vacation = A Story of Adventure = Life Lessons = Is Your Life in Need of a Makeover? Go along on an adventure as Debbie Knight shares a seven year journey that she and her husband, Chuck, followed in pursuit of the “pure" life in Costa Rica. You will learn about the magic of Pura Vida in one of the happiest places on earth and learn sometimes why it can also be a rather frustrating experience. You will question if your life is on the right track or if it too is in need of a makeover.

I received an email from a reader the other day with these questions:  

"What would be the best advice for young adults trying to travel or move out the country?  And which countries are best to move to?"

Super questions!  My best advice for young adults trying to move out of the country would be to travel while you’re young.  Do it now when you don’t mind long bus rides and bad beds and you don’t have a lot keeping you back in the states  (or your home country.)  Life has a way of anchoring you as you go on, and pretty soon you might have a good job, an apartment lease, car payments, a house, or a relationships or marriage that keeps you grounded.  So do it now!  

I would also suggest that you form a plan how you are going to fund the trip a good ways out – maybe 6 months? - and work your butt off until that date arrives.  You’ll have to sacrifice a lot; eating out, nights partying with friends, the newest clothes or concert tickets, but all of that money will be essential if you’re going to travel. In that time you have to prepare, read everything you can about your destination countries, learn about the cultures, watch documentaries, and read some travel articles and books that will give you a taste of real life on the road, too. 

Last thing: be careful.  The rest of the world is not a fantasy land and most people have problems that we can’t even imagine in the US.  So getting too drunk, walking around alone, messing with drugs, getting in with the wrong crowd, etc. could lead you into situations you can’t get out of.  Slow play the partying and keep your eyes open and you’ll be fine.  

The other question, "Where should you go?"

That all depends on what you’re looking for, but I’m going to take a wild guess and say you want someplace warm, with a beach, that’s not too expensive, where there are other backpackers?  That opens up one set of possibilities, but others want to volunteer, or to experience authentic culture more than partying and lying on the beach.  It also makes a huge difference if you’re just going backpacking around or trying to live there for a year and work.

When I chose a country to live in (not just vacation!) I have a rough guide of criteria, based on priorities.  Make your own list and then do some research what might be a good fit.    

Tier 1
• Cheap – lodging around $300-$500 a month, total budget around $1,500 a month.
• Nice beach – a beautiful white sand beach goes a long way in balancing out all other factors!
• Friendly people – Then again, I don’t care how beautiful a country is, if the people aren’t warm and friendly, I’ll keep it moving.  I’m not down with snobbery or arrogance.
• Safe politically – don’t be freaked out by one news story in a country (if we judged the US by that same standard we’d never want to visit!) but also don’t mess with places where a coup or political violence is occurring.  Same thing goes for countries with terrorism, religious radicals, or drug cartel problems.
• Good WIFI (no kidding – I write/work as I live abroad so I’m screwed without a serviceable internet connection)
• City, town, or village?  There are pros and cons to each as you balance amenities, convenience, laid back vibe, nature, etc.

Tier 2
• Healthy, cheap food – I want to say “Yummmmm,” for $3 a meal, not for $7 a meal and up.  
• Culture – things to do like visiting temples, ruins, archeological sites, natural wonders, etc.
• Night life – of course you want a little bit of fun, but are you looking for mellow beach bars or clubbing all night long?
• Safety walking the streets
• Ability to get work –teaching English, teaching yoga, or working at a hostel or bar are some of the best possibilities for local employment
• Some tourism, but not overrun – the problem you’ll encounter is that the places you want to go, everyone else in the world wants to go there, too.  The trick is to find a place that is ahead of the curve, not way behind it when it will be too crowded/too expensive/soulless.  
• Diversity of population – I like a place that has a healthy blend of backpackers, expatriates, vactioners, and plenty of locals who still live there – not just work there.  That’s harder to find than you’d think!


Tier 3
• Speak some English – you should attempt to learn the local lingo but it really helps when they speak a few words of English.
• Proximity – The southern tip of Patagonia in Argentina is amazing, but don’t think you’re just a hop, skip, and jump away from main cities.  It’s fun to be in a city/country where you can get around easily, hopping buses and even small flights around the country or region easily.  
• Good gym – since I’m living in these countries I want to go to the gym every day and especially love boxing or muay thai, etc., but maybe you just want to surf or do yoga, etc.
• Family friendly – I like locations that don’t just have a bunch of 20 year old kids but a cross section of real life, including families and people who are old (my age.)

Based on those criteria, some great spots I’d suggest:  Costa Rica, Panama, Nicaragua, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Cuba (I’m dying to go there!), India, Sri Lanka, Israel, Jordan, Ghana, Senegal, Vietnam (good one,) Cambodia, Thailand (a little too touristy for my liking,) Laos, Mynmar, the Philippines, and Bali in Indonesia.  That’s a short list.  You can do the Caribbean and Europe when you’re older, plus they’re a little too expensive. 

I hope that helps, and happy travels!

-Norm  :-)

1. Prostitution is legal but possession of pornography is illegal.  They even have unions, membership cards, health benefits, and police protection.

2. In most areas people cannot flush toilet paper because the pipes are old and only 1” wide, so toilet paper goes in the trash basket.  

3. Pedestrians have very few rights in Costa Rica.  They joke that Ticos love to use their horns but hate to use their brakes!  It’s so bad that the Tico word for “speedbumps” is “Son muertos,” or, “The dead people.” 

4. When raising your glass or beer to say “cheers” to Ticos you are supposed to look them directly in the eye, or else you’re cursed with seven years of a bad sex life. (apparently I haven’t been making very good eye contact, then). 

5. Costa Ricans have no addresses and very few street signs.  When mailing something or giving directions, they just point out proximity to nearby landmarks.  So when I lived in San Pedro, a suburb of the main city, San Jose, my address was “50 meters south and 100 west of the church of San Pedro.”

6. Earthquakes are common in Costa Rica.  They may get 2-40 per month depending on the movement of techtonic plates.  Almost all of them are small, though they got a 7.6 last time I was living there.

7. Costa Ricans are not good at soccer compared to their Central and South American neighbors!

8. Ticos put coffee in their babies bottles along with milk, and also give it to young children.   

9. The most popular national beer is Imperial.  They drink it over ice with lime and salt, called a “michelada.”

10. "Guaro" is the national liquor, sort of like a fire-water sugarcane tequila. There is no denying it's strong,  but I find it kind of nasty.   

11. Fast food restaurants like McDonalds, Burger King, and Kentucky Fried chicken do home deliveries.

12. The meter in a taxicab is know as the “Maria,” which is a loose reference to the Virgin Mary and her honesty and virtue.

13. Cheap brand cigarettes are only about $1.65 per pack. 

14. You aren’t allowed to wear sunglasses or hats inside of the banks (due to so many robberies)

15. The slang is much different than proper Spanish.  Slang is called “pachuco.”  

16. One slang word is to call someone “Mopri.”  This is supposed to mean “primo,” or cousin, backwards.  In the 90’s Costa Rican teen culture went through a phase where they were saying words backwards.  Maybe around the time of Kriss Kross here in the US?

17. A lot of popular bands play the main stadium in San Jose, most recently the Red Hot Chili Peppers and then Lady Gaga.  

18. Scientist actually named a species of Costa Rican fern after Lady Gaga after she played there.  I’m not making that up!

19. They have bullfights in CR but instead of the bull being harmed, it runs free around the ring and tries to harm the brave teens and men who jump in there for sport.  Almost every little town has a festival with bullfights during the holidays.  

20. CR is one of the biggest cocaine transit nations in the world, as 90% of the cocaine that ends up in the US comes from Columbia to Costa Rica, and then up through Central America into Mexico and across the border.  

21. There are roughly the same criminal penalties for marijuana as there are for cocaine and all drugs

22. Robert August brought the surf scene to Costa Rica with his 1968 documentary, Endless Summer, and then Endless Summer II.

23. If you get pulled over in Costa Rica the police can probably be paid off for around $40.  

24. You are not allowed to wear shorts in a government or public office in Costa Rica - they see it as disrespectful and may turn you away. 

25. They say there are Three Great Costa Rica Lies.  It took me a year of living in Tamarindo, Costa Rica, to find them all out.  They are a bit secretive but I do reveal them in my new book, South of Normal.  

-Norm  :-)

If you liked these, check out 30 Fun and Wild Facts about Costa Rica. ​

     Can I be honest with you? I was really worried about dating in Costa Rica for another reason. When I finally did get the chance to meet a lovely nice young lady and we courted and went on seventeen dates and I met her family and got her father’s permission and we got matching tattoos and Googled each other and were finally ready for a special, intimate night together, there was one possibility that could scare Little Norm right back into my drawers: Jungle Bush. You’ve heard of 70s Bush, right? Well Jungle Bush was (in my mind) the tropical equivalent of 70s Bush. I won’t go into too much detail, but for my readers who weren’t born until Puff Daddy started rapping, here’s a snapshot: In the continental United States in the 1970s there was a whole generation of young people who were…how can I say this with the utmost sensitivity…they were all DIRTY. It was hip to wear filthy bellbottoms and man-blouses and everyone went barefoot and slept with each other because, of course, STDs weren’t invented until the second term of the Reagan administration. They listened to horrible music with finger cymbals and three-hour sitar solos and did a lot of drugs. Somehow that was all supposed to stick it to THE MAN and bring the troops home from Vietnam. In my opinion, they should have made THE MAN listen to the music and they would have signed a peace treaty the next day. Anyway, a horrible byproduct of their lax hygienic life choices was that they didn’t have time to focus on personal grooming south of their equators, if you know what I mean. So everyone walked around with 70s Bush, and when they took off their undergarments they all looked eerily similar to Kareem Abdul Jabbar when he fought Bruce Lee in “Enter the Dragon.” Somehow they found this attractive and kept copulating with reckless abandon—it must have been the drugs.

Yes, it was thirty-something years later, but I was in Costa Rica, a Third World country of rainforest where their main economic exports were bananas and sugarcane. Where were battery-powered personal shavers on that list, I wondered? It was called a Brazilian Wax and not a Costa Rican Wax for a reason. They couldn’t even pave their own roads, for Christ’s sake. Pornography wasn’t legal and I had to smuggle in vibrators for the local women! I was terrified that when I finally get intimate with a nice Tica, she’d suffer from a case of Jungle Bush and I’d have to excuse myself from the festivities by faking a groin pull and climb out of the bathroom window naked and run away and possibly move out of town.

Yup, times we're tough on the dating front in Costa Rica. Tamarindo, Costa Rica, surf, ski, snowboard, diving, pura vida, Central America, Nicaragua, San Juan del Sur, Amazon best seller, travel, adventure, backpack, hiking, sharks, Endless Summer, Robert August, memoir, fitness journey, globetrotting, perfect beach, paradise, spring break, expat, live abroad, work abroad, summer reading, around the world, great read, humor, laugh out loud, South of Normal, Pushups in the Prayer Room

That day has arrived, the highly anticipated moment that only comes twice a year and completely rocks your world.  No, I’m not talking about the two times a year you have sex, I’m talking about Daylight Savings Time.  

I’m not a big fan.  The morning of the time change we run around the house furiously, trying to set every clock back as if a giant comet will slam into the earth and wipe out humankind if we don’t get it all done by 8 a.m.  Just when we think we’ve adjusted every clock, watch, radio, and appliance timer in the house, we’re reminded that there’s the matter of the dashboard clock in the car to attend to.  That in itself takes 45 minutes, trying to cram the end of a paperclip into a microscopic opening while simultaneously pushing the correct buttons with the other hand, crossing us up and eliciting curses that aren’t appropriate for a Sunday morning.

I highly recommend leaving the clocks alone and just waiting six months until they move back one hour again, but that doesn’t seem to be a popular opinion.  

Instead, everyone complains about the hour of sleep they’re going to lose, so much so that they lose 2.3 hours just talking about it.  I have to admit, when someone cheerily tells me “Don’t forget to spring forward eight Sundays from now!” I want to slap them.  And if I hear another bad joke about how we lost an hour, I’m going to kick someone in their balls.  We did not lose an hour.  You can’t just “lose” an hour (other than by watching Burn Notice.)   And we don’t ever “get” an extra couple hours of daylight.  They’re all out there anyway, no matter if we set our clocks backward or forward or stand on our heads and speak in tongues. 

I understand it used to be a “sunlight thing,” but why didn’t people just wake up one hour earlier?  Wouldn’t that have been easier than all of this nonsense?  Imagine if aliens came down and examined our society from an objective, clinical viewpoint.  There would only be one conclusion they could come up with about the bizarre concept of Daylight Savings Time, before they got in their spaceship and went back to the planet Zerthion Phobius 9.2 and sent another flaming comet down to blow us up: whoever invented Daylight Savings Time was really, really high. 

You have to smoke something pretty strong to come up with: “Dude let’s just pretend that it’s an hour earlier, and we’ll tell everyone to change their clocks at exactly the same time, all over the world.  Yeah, that will work.  Now light that incense and roll up another one.”

A little internet digging reveals that a nice fella named George Vernon Hudson from New Zealand invented Daylight Savings time in 1895.  I’m telling you, Georgie was smoking the good shit.  He's #1 on our list.  DST was used on and off in Europe during times of war, but didn’t even become universal in the United States until the 1970’s, to help cut electricity usage during the energy crisis.  The 1970’s?  People talk about DST like it was some biblical mandate.   

This all led me to thinking, as it often does, who else throughout history probably smoked marijuana.   

Some of them seem obvious…

2. Whoever came up with the spelling for “Wednesday” was definitely hitting the pipe.  (I recommend we officially change it to “Humpday.”)

3. The astrologists who all of a sudden decided Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore were baked.  How are you a planet one day and then you’re just a 5,000 mile round ball of rocks the next day?  That’s like saying one day, “Sorry New Jersey, you’re not a state anymore.”  Well, bad example – that would actually make sense.  But you know what I mean.

4. Who else?  Albert Einstein?  What do you think?  Have you seen his hair?  He shagged Marilyn Monroe.  That dude could party.  

5. Mother Theresa probably hit the bong every once and a while – she was WAY too nice. 

6. Ben Franklin was as high as a kite.

7. Michael Jackson was an alien.

8. Whoever built the pyramids had to be smoking reefer.  In fact, the Egyptian Pharaohs did use marijuana for its health and transcendental benefits.  

9. Christopher Columbus carried cannabis sativa seeds on board his ships, and thus takes credit for introducing marijuana to the Americas.  No wonder why he sailed hecka slow and kept getting lost.

10. Queen Victoria’s private physician prescribed marijuana when she had bad menstrual cramps. 

11. Joan of Arc led the French army to victory over the British in the 15th century when she was only 19 years old, but then was accused of using “witch drugs” (including cannabis) and burned at the stake.  She probably fucked up the rotation.  Puff, puff, pass, Joan.     

12. They’ve found residue of cannabis on clay pipes unearthed from William Shakespeare’s garden in England, though he would claim “Doth thinketh it belongs to yee landscaper.”  

13. Jesus was a hippie, walking around the dessert with Birkenstocks and stinking of patchouli oil, never having any money or bringing enough food, but somehow still making do.  I saw him selling hash brownies at a Dave Matthews show in Colorado once – true story.

14. Buddha?  He sat around naked except for a loincloth with half-closed eyes as people brought him incense and snacks as offerings.  Yeah, that’s an easy one.

15. Michelangelo had to be stoned when he painted the ceiling of the Sixteen Chapels.  That’s a lot of manual labor. 

16. Thomas Jefferson grew marijuana.

17. So did George Washington.

18. Michael Phelps, who won more Olympic medals than anyone else in history, had the munchies so bad that Subway signed him as a spokesperson.  

19. Clinton tried it but couldn’t figure out the inhale thing correctly, 

20. Where Barrack Obama got it right.  

21. Not only did George Bush smoke weed, but Mr. “War on Drugs, God talks directly to me,” was a sloppy drunk and a big cokehead when he went to Yale. 

22. Al Gore invented marijuana.

23. The ancient Greeks gave marijuana to teenage boys to try and calm their sexual urges enough to sleep through the night 

Who else are some documented marijuana smokers throughout history?

24. Winston Churchill,
25. Walt Disney,
26. The Chinese emperors,
27. John F. Kennedy,
28-30. Mega-wealthy entrepreneurs Bill Gates, Ted Turner, and Sir Richard Branson.

That’s pretty good company.  Me, personally?  I can care less about smoking or not smoking these days, but I’m glad to see the U.S. is starting to get its head out of its ass and loosening up on a plant that’s been on earth as long as we human beings have.  

But either way, please, I’m begging you, someone get stoned enough to come up with a better idea than the Daylight Savings Time thing.  

Wait…what’s that?  What did you say?  Someone just reminded me cheerily to “remember to spring forward today, buddy, because we lost an hour.”  Please excuse me for a second – I have to go kick someone in the balls.  

*****
To read more semi-funny writing by Norm I would recommend picking up his new book, South of Normal.  Click on the book cover to see more.

 Tamarindo, Costa Rica, surf, ski, snowboard, diving, pura vida, Central America, Nicaragua, San Juan del Sur, Amazon best seller, travel, adventure, backpack, hiking, sharks, Endless Summer, Robert August, memoir, fitness journey, globetrotting, perfect beach, paradise, spring break, expat, live abroad, work abroad, summer reading, around the world, great read, humor, laugh out loud, South of Normal, Pushups in the Prayer Room

TamaRumors

One morning I watched a dog eat a dead iguana in the road. We all did—it was our morning entertainment. The crew at Sarita’s Bakery sat outside and watched the mangy dog circle the carcass, ripping it apart. After it was done it rolled in its kill and laid down to sleep in the sun. When a car drove up, the driver had to swerve around because the dog was too lazy to move.

“Look at that dog. He’s not even moving,” Surfer Scotty said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“It’s going to be a hot one today,” Salty Dog Rodney said.

“Sure is,” I said. It always was hot so I don’t know why we bothered saying it every day, but we did. 

I liked the streets when it was early, sitting outside Sarita’s when she first opened, watching the other shopkeepers hosing down the sidewalks in front of their stores, a deliveryman with bread steaming from the basket of his bicycle. Sleepy Nicaraguan and Dominican workers walked up the road toward the nice houses in white uniforms, their feet still hurting from the day before but smiling and thanking God just the same. 

Sarita’s Café was the center of the Tamarindo gossip exchange. Gossip, or “el chisme” in Spanish, was the central activity in town, the only currency shared by all. It was so prevalent that locals referred to our town as TamaRumor. We had plenty to talk about—there’s nothing more dynamic than a small town in the tropics. In fact, the smaller the town, the more complex the relationships, the more the vines grow intertwined. 

Information in Tama spread strictly by word of mouth. There was no local TV coverage, no local radio, no town hall I could see, no town meetings, and no community bulletin board. There was one monthly rag that covered local events and posted a surf report, called…the TamaRumor. The only daily newspapers were in San Jose, so far away, both in distance and culture, that it was like reading about another country. 

It was easier to get our world news from Sarita’s, and I liked it there. Sarita gave me a local discount so coffee was half price, only 400 Colones. To further entice me into her establishment she kept a bottle of Baileys behind the counter just for me. Where else in the world do proprietors in a café gladly contribute to your 7:00 a.m. alcohol consumption? 

For a lot of us, Sarita’s was our town center, our water cooler since we didn’t have real jobs. There were five seats out front so the regulars joined me in our stakeout of the dirt road. 

“Oh no, here comes Big Teeth,” Rodney said.

“Ahhh shit, I can’t stand this guy,” Sarita said. “He’s so rude.”

“What’s his real name again? Mike? Carl?” I asked.

“Who the fuck knows? Big Teeth,” Sarita said. Big Teeth pulled up on his motorcycle in a cloud of dust, his German Shepherd running closely behind. He dismounted, took off his helmet, and started up the steps to the café. The dog followed, barking. 

“Jesus, he’s got some nasty choppers,” Surfer Scotty said. “Those things could really do some damage if they got a hold of you.”

“Yeah, and the dog does, too,” I said. 

Big Teeth ordered coffee and came outside. The rest of us just sat there and didn’t say much. He hiked his khakis up to his chest, made some racist comments, and offended a passing girl before getting on his bike and driving away with the dog. 

“He’s always complaining about my muffins and my prices,” Sarita said, smoking a cigarette.

“I like your muffins,” Scotty said.

“We like your muffins, too” Rodney said.

“What about my prices?”

“I like your muffins a whole lot more than your prices,” I said. She pretended to pour coffee on my head. 

Sarita was from Rhode Island, a fiery redhead with the sass to match. Her real name was Sarah, but there were so many Sarah’s in town that I think she opened a café just to differentiate.It was nice to have a fellow east coast ball-buster in town. Every morning I looked forward to being lambasted with insults the moment I walked through her door. 

Where I’m from everyone talks shit, whether it’s puff-chested Italian bravado, mellifluous banter from the hood, or biting Jewish sarcasm. If your friends weren’t talking shit to you then you knew there was a problem. Growing up in New Haven was like being at the Olympic Training Center of shit talking, and I was a prodigy fast-tracked for the gold.

That’s why being a writer is my dream job—I get to talk shit for a living in a semi-socially-acceptable forum where I won’t get beat up or thrown in jail. I can make people laugh and hopefully get paid for it one day. What are the alternatives for me? A used car salesman? A politician? My God, those are some horribly scummy vocations. No, I think I’ll stick to writing. 

Sarita had a first-class yapper on her, too; not quite on my level, but then again, who is? East coast shit talking isn’t meant to be hurtful at all—quite the opposite; we understood that the frequency and viciousness of the verbal attacks actually corresponded with how much we cared for each other. So a typical east coast shit talking session at Sarita’s might have sounded like this (with translation for the rest of you schleps):

I’d walk in.

“Ohhhhh nooooo! There goes my morning,” Sarita would say. (Good morning, kind sir. I hope you are well.)

“Excuse me, I must be in the wrong place. I was looking for a café and this is obviously a shit hole.” (I wish you a splendid day too, fair lass.)

“No, please, come in—you’ll fit right in then. Wow, you look like crap!” (So nice to see you. Did you sleep well?)

She’d pour the Baileys and fresh café into my cup and hand it to me, noticing the t-shirt I was wearing. 

“What’s with you and yellow shirts all the time? You wear one like every day. Do you think you look good in yellow or something?” (I like your shirt. You look good in yellow.)

“Wow, that’s a LOT of lipping you’ve got going on. You’re at about an 11 and we can use you at a 4.” (Why thank you, I appreciate that.) 

“Oh, whatever, Norm. Why do you even come here? No one likes you.” (Thank you for coming. We really like you.)

“Hey, if you prefer, I can leave and never come back.” (I like you too and appreciate your great café.)

“Don’t threaten ME with a good time!” (Don’t threaten me with a good time.)

That was Sarita’s favorite saying: “Don’t threaten MEwith a good time.” 

And so it went, on and on every day, a witty repartee amongst eastside friend-emies suitable for framing. 

Sarita had an apartment near me in Pueblo del Mar. I helped her carry supplies to and from the café because she’d injured her foot. The first time I saw her apartment I was absolutely certain she was running a meth lab. White powder snow-flaked the countertops and it was approximately 187 degrees, even though the ceiling fans were working overtime. Everywhere I looked there were bins, tubes, and beakers containing spices, icing, and white powders of mysterious origin. I estimated the street value of her apartment to be $600,000 U.S. dollars, but she claimed it was just where she did all of her baking. Yeah, right.

She lived there with Jason, her gringo boyfriend. He was a personal chef who didn’t have much work so he sat around the apartment smoking weed and watching Patriots games on his laptop all day. If I had to pinpoint his personal philosophy on life, I’d say that Jason was a follower of “I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuckism.” I respected him for that. We’d sit in front of the café in the afternoons, when he was watching the place for Sarita, and talk about old school punk bands, end-of-the-world conspiracy theories, and whether you’d rather get hit in the face with a lead pipe or a baseball bat—important stuff like that. I liked Jason. He looked a little rough around the edges, and suffered from crippling social anxiety that kept him from hanging out in public a lot, so we had more in common than he might have guessed. 

Jason and Sarita were always on-again, off-again. Sarita would need someone to talk to at the café, or knock on my door to say hi. It’s useless giving relationship advice to anyone, but I did root for them so I just said “yup” and “I hear you” and shook my head in agreement every 14 seconds, secretly wishing she’d brought over some of her famous meth cinnamon rolls. I liked them both but I wanted nothing more than to stay out of their relationship woes, though the human stain always seems to follow me.

Running a business in Tamarindo was a daunting task. Sarita had bills to pay and already had to work twenty hours a day trying to hold it all together. I don’t know how she did it, but it didn’t look like fun. She hired my neighbor’s daughter to help, but that just created another salary to pay. Sarita was always exhausted and stressed, but to her credit she kept up her usual chipper, crappy attitude with us. 

When tourists came into the café, us locals tried to put on a good show and watch what we were saying. The café wasn’t like your neighborhood Starbucks back in the States. Every morning, tourists poked their well-shampooed and conditioned heads inside and asked for a vente caramel Macchiato or inquired if she served Frappachinos. No matter what they ordered we all just pointed to the big metal coffee pot sitting on the counter. We had coffee or more coffee—drink it and don’t complain. 

I think I speak for everyone who thinks a “barista” is just a dude who makes coffee when I say that the whole Starbucks thing has gotten a little out of control. It’s to the point that the corporate coffee culture is gentrifying the last place I’d ever expect—the hood. 

Before I left Sacramento, I was sitting in a Starbucks one afternoon on Stockton Blvd. For those of you who aren’t familiar with that particular street, it rivals any avenue ‘cross the country named “Martin Luther King Jr.” or “John F. Kennedy” as ghetto-fabulous. So I was just sitting there, chilling, and this thug walks in with a gangsta limp—gold teeth, hoodie, jeans sagging. I figured he was there to rob the place, which was perfectly fine with me, but instead he walked right past the line of customers up to the register, leaned his tattooed forearms on the counter and said: 

“Yeah, like, ya know what I mean, yo yo—hook me up with some of dat…grande triple shot half-whip vanilla soy decaf mocha. Please.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I wanted to shake him by his Sean Jean shirt and scream, “Really G?! Come onnnnnn, boo boo, you gonna go out like THAT?! That’s not a coffee you just ordered—that’s a Prince song!” 

Well, I can promise you that you wouldn’t find any of that same opulence, pretension, or insect-free cleanliness at Sarita’s! But alas, she did need to cater to the tourists because us deadbeat locals weren’t enough to make a living off. So we helped her out any way we could, even inviting them to sit down with us. You know me by now, I HEART Tourists. I was more than happy to answer any questions they might have…about sharks. 

The surf posers came right off the plane with legs so white they were unsuitable for public viewing, wearing Bob Marley t-shirts they’d just bought at Target, holding short boards they could never ride. They’d come into Sarita’s for a quick shot of java on their way to the beach. Once they saw Surfer Scotty, Salty Dog Rodney, and me sitting outside, they’d figure it was a good time to ask some locals a few of questions. Which beach was best for surfing? When was high tide? What was a good place to buy a new rash guard? But most of all, they wanted to know about sharks before they jumped into the ocean. 

“So, fellas, are there any sharks in the water down here? I mean, is it safe?”

“Oh yeah, perfectly safe. Nothing ever happens,” I’d say.

“For sure, you’re fine in the water. No worries,” Surfer Scotty said.

“Yup, 100%,” I said.

“110%!” Scotty chimed in.

“Whewww! Okay, cool. I was a little worried because I’ve never been in the Pacific before and before I left it was Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.”

“Well…except for that guy last summer,” I said. “Right, Scotty, remember him?”

“Oh yeah, of course. Except for the guy.”

“Guy? Guy?! What guy? What happened? What happened last summer with the guy?”

“No one knows for sure,” I said. “He was a local, a good surfer, too, out at Playa Grande with a couple of his friends. He got bitten by a shark and died. Does that about cover it, Scotty?”

“Yeah, but some say it was a crocodile. Not sure. But something definitely bit him on the leg and he died.”

“You’re not kidding?” the tourist said, looking over his shoulder to make sure his better half wasn’t listening. “We Googled it but nothing like that came up. Please don’t tell my wife—she wanted to go to Amish country, instead.”

“Ohhh, you have to be careful with those Amish, too,” I said. “They’re sneaky bastards once they get ahold of you.” 

“But, to be fair, he bled to death because they took forever getting him to the hospital,” Scotty said. “He was only 200 meters away from the medical clinic but instead of putting him on a boat across the estuary they called a taxi. It took 45 minutes to show up and then they drove around for a while.”

“Jesus, that’s awful. Please—I don’t want to hear anymore.”

“Oh yeah, so listen to this,” I said. “I heard he bled out in the back of the taxi in a gas station parking lot across the street from the clinic.”

“Big shark, too, from what his friends said. Ripped half his leg off. And once they get a taste for human blood, it’s just a matter of time,” Scotty laughed.

“Ughhhh, oh my God!”

“Hey—watch out, you’re spilling coffee on my flip flop,” I said. “But really, don’t worry about it, buddy. It’s perfectly safe and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Perfectly fine! Never better!” Scotty said. “But just remember if you DO get bitten by a shark, or a crocodile, just don’t call a taxi! Hahahaha.” 

“Hahahaha, good point, Scotty!”

Bob Marley suddenly lost his appetite and left half of his banana bread on his chair for the ants to swarm. He looked a little green when he left, carrying that surfboard like a tombstone, heading in the opposite direction from the beach. Odds were that they’d spend the rest of their vacation in the hotel pool. 

The moment the tourists were out of earshot we started up our shit talking session right where we’d left off. Game on. From our chairs in front of Sarita’s we had a perfect vantage point to watch people in town pass by. It was a great way of ascertaining everyone’s personal business each morning, the perfect forum to judge without amnesty. It was immature, irresponsible, and borderline cruel, but hey, what can I say—you’d do it, too. 

Big Chuck, the jolly personal chef, walked by. I liked Chuck—he was always really cool to talk to as he smoked bud, wading in the pool at our apartment.

“Didn’t he and Angela break up? She’s been a hot mess at the bars every night.” 

“I don’t know. I think they keep making up and breaking up.”

“That’s too bad, I like Big Chuck.”

“It’s too bad for her. I heard she borrowed money from Longboard Sarah and never paid her back.” 

My big-boobed alcoholic neighbor walked by, squinting against the sun. She wore the same dress as the night before and carried her high heels. She crossed the street before she passed us in a feeble attempt to evade notice. 

“Hiiiiii there! How are you? Did you have a rough night?” we called out. She walked faster. 

“You should have seen her at the barbecue the other night. She was sloshed! I think she hooked up with Grant.” 

“Your friend Gringo Grant? I thought she was a lesbian?”

“Your mom’s a lesbian.”

“Yeah, well, your dad is a lesbian.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” We all took a timeout, and sipped our coffee.

“Didn’t Grant’s apartment get broken into? He lives in Langosta with that tall guy who plays online poker, right?”

“Yeah, while they were away doing their border shuffle someone broke in and cleaned ‘em out: TV, laptop, nice camera—they got it all.”

“Damn, that sucks. Who was it? A Critter?”

“Well, I’m not supposed to say anything, so you didn’t hear it from me, but Grant thinks it was Tony Touch.”

“Who’s that? The crack head guy dating the waitress from Le Beach Club?”

“Yeah he works at Blue Turtle tours. I’m pretty sure he’s clean these days, or at least off that shit.” 

“I heard he owned a gun.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I heard he beat her up.”

I didn’t say anything.

Lena drove by in her black Mercedes. I ducked down, but she didn’t see me anyways because she was on her cellphone. I’d been dodging her for months and had no desire to deal with her ever again. 

“Look at that one. Someone told me that she married a rich old gringo years back and took him for all of he was worth. That’s how she got her money.”

“Yeah, sounds about right. Chris said she ripped him off in a real estate deal and stole five acres of his land.”

“I guess they’re going bankrupt on those condos he was building.”

“Oh, speaking of bankrupt…guess what I heard yesterday...”

It went on and on, all morning, talking about who was on a bender and who ripped someone off and, who was acting like a prick, and where everyone was trying to put their pricks. 

“Man, I saw Nayla, the yoga teacher/Spanish teacher/personal chef yelling at someone outside the market yesterday. She was really losing her shit.”

“Yeah, I think she was yelling at Mack White. I heard he was sloppy drunk the other night and grabbed her ass, and she slapped him.”

“He was at Casa Crack last week—I saw him walking out of that Dominican girl’s apartment.”

“Really? And what were you doing at Casa Crack?”

“Never mind.”

Someone was going crazy. Someone else was pregnant. This one had a venereal disease, that one was broke and selling their surfboard to buy a ticket back to the States. Nothing was out of bounds and we didn’t have to worry about being politically correct. That was Sarita’s Café, the best source of information Tamarindo, excuse me—TamaRUMOR—had to offer.

“There are rumors about you, too, you know,” Sarita said to me one day.

“What? Are you serious? Like what?” I said.

“I heard that you used to be in the army, but now you’re ultra-religious and don’t even curse.”

“What the fuck? Who the hell said that?”

“You know, people talk. That’s just the word around town,” Sarita said.

“Jesus Christ, that’s crazy talk! How do these rumors even get started? People should be more responsible with what they say.”

Sarita, Rodney, and Scotty shook their heads in agreement and we looked out at the road. The stray dog rose from the dirt, yawned, and started dragging what was left of the iguana down the road. 

“Sure is hot today,” Rodney said. Tamarindo, Costa Rica, surf, ski, snowboard, diving, pura vida, Central America, Nicaragua, San Juan del Sur, Amazon best seller, travel, adventure, backpack, hiking, sharks, Endless Summer, Robert August, memoir, fitness journey, globetrotting, perfect beach, paradise, spring break, expat, live abroad, work abroad, summer reading, around the world, great read, humor, laugh out loud, South of Normal, Pushups in the Prayer Room