(1) Los Ticos Deportistas
-I recently had the chance to play both soccer and basketball with the local Costa Ricans, or Ticos. For those of you who know me well, you know that my level of proficiency at these two sports varies greatly. It was quite a blessing to be invited to play both, though.
For my soccer match, we played at a small field encapsulated by netting. It had just rained quite heavily (and it was still drizzling while we were playing), so the field was a sloppy mess . . . all the more fun. The guys I was playing with were mostly in their upper 20s or older, although I think one guy was a few years younger than me.
Basically, to put it nicely, I’m terrible at soccer. My only chance to succeed on a soccer pitch would be if I got to run with everyone. However, on a miniature field, that’s not going to happen. Instead, it’s all about ball control and ball movement, quick passes and skilled shots—four things that have never been a part of my athletic repertoire.
My stats for the 20 to 12 whooping that my team put on the other (we just kept playing and playing): 4 assists and 1 goal. You may think, “That’s great, Will!” Well, if you look at my assist to turnover ratio, it was probably 1:4. And, if you consider that I took about 13 shots on goal, my one goal doesn’t sound so impressive. Regardless, it was an awesome time.
I also got to play basketball with the locals. That was much more up my alley, and I had a wonderful time playing with them. I even got invited to go play with some guys at the pickup courts in San Jose, where all the apparent “ballers” in Costa Rica get their game on. However, my team lost 2 games to 1, and I was obliged to buy a Coke for the guy I was guarding. Shucks.
(2) Zoo Ave, o Zoo Araña (Bird Zoo, or Spider Zoo?)
-So my mom and I decided to go to the Zoo Ave, or Bird Zoo, just outside of San José. I was told that we would be able see some interesting birds and some wonderful Costa Rican wildlife. Well, both of those things are true. However, I never thought the whole “wildlife” bit would also include one of my least favorite animals in all of God’s marvelous creation: spiders.
But it wasn’t just innocuous spiders behind glass cages, no sir. These bad boys were strung all over the birdcages, in every part of the zoo. And they were big honkers. I need to find a picture of them online. They even had really long legs (which is extra creepy in my book) and would just sit in the middle of their webs, waiting for a chance to strike. Well, I guess there was one that wasn’t really waiting, he was actively munching down on a freshly trapped butterfly. Two other spider “friends” were trying to get in on the butterfly action, and it was as if the three of them were wrestling each other. Why were there 3 spiders fighting each other for a butterfly? Because all their webs (and the other 25 webs in that area) were so closely strung together that I’m sure they get confused as to whose web has caught which insect. Ugh.
Anyways, I write not to tell of my fear, but of my realization that the spider problem at Zoo Ave was a rather large one. You see, I was taking a picture of something (I don’t really remember what), and my mom had chosen to walk ahead of me to get a glimpse of a tapir, a really goofy lookin’ animal. And all of a sudden I hear my mom let out a blood-curdling scream.
I look to my left, and there she is, stumbling backwards over herself after having looked over the wooden fence of the tapir “zone.” I come a runnin’ to see what the problem is, and she’s lost all semblance of composure. For all of you who know my momma, please picture her with her hand over her chest, deep sighs coming from her mouth and an occasional, “Oh, William, oh my goodness!”
“What, momma, what?!?!?”
“Well, I was looking over that fence to see if there were any tapirs around, and, well, there was a spider instead!”
And there it was, in all of its glory, two inches from where my mom’s face had been nosily peering over the wooden fence: a huge honkin’ spider, long gangly legs and all, just chillin’ on his web, waiting for his next victim to come along. I bet he never thought that victim would be a 40+ (being nice here) year-old woman with a fanny pack and an ear-riveting scream . . .
Later on in our Bird Zoo tour, which full realization of the spider issue at hand, my mom and I were walking along in the pure center of the walking path (not wanting to get too close to a spider-webbed birdcage), when we came upon some rather funny looking monkeys. They were small little guys, I wish I could remember their name, and they were dancing around and having a heck of a time in their cage. They were hopping from tree to tree, climbing up and down the cage, making noises, chasing after some of their babies . . . it was hilarious.
The only problem was, my mom and I couldn’t see them from up close. Not because their cage was set back from the walking path, but because my mom and I refused to walk on the path next to their cage . . . there were too many spiders. Floating across the walking path—from one tree to another—was a plethora of spider webs, fully equipped, with their long-legged friends dangling from the center of each. My mom and I weren’t going anywhere near those things.
So there we sat, a good 20 feet away from the funny monkeys and their cage, because we didn’t dare get any closer. There we were, laughing our heads off at these monkeys, feeling sorry that we couldn’t get closer to see what kind of monkey they were, and yet, we wouldn’t budge. Couldn’t have paid us a million dollars. I’m sure the monkeys didn’t mind.
(3) Glade, anyone?
Amanda and I needed transportation from the northwest coast of Costa Rica back into the central valley and San José. It’s about a six-hour car ride, so we found a private bus company that does direct transport—we figured it’d be better than 8 hours in a public bus.
So we hop into our “private” mini-bus that holds 7 passengers and the driver. When we leave the beach, there are only 5 of us, so Amanda and I have the spacious back row to ourselves, and it’s lookin’ like it’s going to be a comfortable ride home. Within 10 minutes, we’ve picked up another passenger who joins Amanda and me in the back row—an older Costa Rican gentleman who refuses to greet me in Spanish when I do likewise. Apparently, I don’t look like I’m Costa Rican, so anyone who sees me and knows English automatically thinks that they should talk like so. Anyways, I find out later his name is Alfredo, and he’s a lawyer. He now becomes an integral part of this humorous story.
About 20 minutes after we pick up Alfredo, we pick up another passenger, completely filling our private bus with the driver and co-pilot in the front seats, 3 passengers in the middle row and another 3 in the back row. This final man who entered our bus was an interesting character.
We roll up to our stop and there he is, an imposing figure, tall and lanky but with a huge gut. His hair is graying, his skin looks tough as leather, and his small beige vest-shirt is unbuttoned all the way down the middle. So, BAM, there’s his gut. He’s got some free-flowing black pants on and, we find out later, nothing underneath.
In one hand is a clear 20 oz. plastic bottle, lacking its original labeling and its original contents—I just haven’t seen too many plastic-bottled drinks come in that amber color. In his other hand is a cigarette that comes into the bus with him, until the driver yells at him to throw it out. All of us in the bus knew it was going to be an interesting ride.
Within minutes of this man’s entry into our bus, we realize that he’s French (he’s been yelling on his cell phone since he got in the bus) and that he is indeed a little intoxicated. However, he’s also probably lived in Costa Rica for years, per the condition of his Spanish speaking and his mannerisms.
Alfredo, my lawyer friend, is having a fit. He can’t believe that the driver let this man in the car, and he’s about to lose all composure. To the Frenchman’s credit, he’s not in that bad of shape, but he was definitely making the Swiss couple uncomfortable in the bus’s middle row. Then, the Frenchman (as we’ll refer to him now) raises his arm to scratch his armpit and . . . WOW. The smell that emanated from his pits was unbearable. While I was fine with this man’s presence in the car, I was not fine with the state of his armpits. Those bad boys needed to be cleaned, and fast!
At this point, Alfredo loses it. He’s been clenching his hands for nearly half an hour now, and finally he’s reached his breaking point. The smell is just too unbearable.
“That’s it!” he says, “This is why I always come prepared . . .”
Now, at this point, I believe that Alfredo is capable of anything. He’s an older man, definitely doesn’t have the brute strength to reach in front of him and put the tall Frenchman into a chokehold or anything, but I’m still uncertain as to what drastic measure he’s about to take in order to control the nastiness that is/are the Frenchman’s armpits.
So Alfredo reaches down into his bag and starts rummaging around. My curiosity is sparked, but so is my fear. Then this gleam comes into his eye, and his hand comes forth from the bag with . . . a miniature-sized Glade air freshener spray-bottle.
Alfredo literally pointed his portable Glade spray-bottle (a necessary travel component for all lawyers, I presume) at the Frenchman, and doused him with Glade. No shame, no apologies. Not to the Frenchman, nor to the other passengers in the bus who were now choking on the high concentration of Glade in such a small space. But he sprayed. And sprayed.
Because, sometimes, the smell is just too much to handle.
Now, I want to see all of you try to keep a straight face when the man you’re sitting next to in the bus pulls out a portable Glade bottle to spray down the smelly culprit. It was tough. For both Amanda and me.
(4) Tina Fey on Saturday Night Live.
-Enough said.
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