It was 3 hours to Houston on a rickety long-in-the-tooth Continental jet, packed to the gills; then a 3 hour wait, then another 3 hour flight from Houston to Costa Rica, this time in a brand new B-757, with individual TV screens for each seat — better! Still, discomfort and indignities abound in 21st century air travel, like the officious jerk who removed every single one of about 40 objects in my backpack.
I got a room in a little hotel in a small town close to the airport because I was picking up my friend Chilón, who’s coming in from Mexico City tomorrow morning. I hit the streets, groggy from no sleep, but excited by how different everything was. Comfortably warm.
A lot of people in the central park, big very green trees and a deafening din of birds. Two serapé-wrapped Peruvian guys had recorded songs on a loudspeaker and were playing along with pan pipes. A lot of young lovers snuggling and nuzzling on the benches. Hey, it’s the tropics! People are relaxed.
Young punkish dude had a pet iguana and in a surly manner said OK to take pics, and that he’d had the iguana), which was a beautiful specimen) for 5 years. I walked over to the corner ice cream store, got an espresso milkshake, and went back in the park, and listened to Peruvian pan pipes playing a Beatles song.
I walked around for a couple of hours, reveling in the different landscape, and shot photos. As I was walking back to the hotel, two motorcycle cops came down the road on nimble and lightweight bikes, doing wheelies. Skateboarders doing incredibly graceful things on 4 little wheels…
