Jabberwock Jaunt

April 30th, 2020

There are plenty of reasons why I'd rather spend the entire paranoia apocalypse in Costa Rica than just about anywhere else, and reasons one through three are about coffee. Nearly as importantly, though, is the fact that a couple hundred kilometers' drive --down a road that knows no rival in any category that matters ((The 34 sports: flanking palm groves, ridiculous mountain twists, sudden all-encompassing ocean vistas, scarlet macaw flyovers, multiple roadside fruit vendors, bridges over egretted estuaries, and probably the least amount of potholes as compared to any other road in CR.))-- yields absolute relaxation. I don't know that any particular spot on the Southern Pacific coast is "better" than any other, nor do I think there's much point to the debate; there's too much beauty abounding, and why stick ourselves with the plight of Paris anyway. This particular escape-from-paradise-towards-interestingly-different-paradises settles itself in Dominical.

Where, happily, hospitality is humming along, no shoes no shirt no masks no alcohol in gel no problem. "I hear toucans. Do you have toucans here often?" "Yes, in the afternoon, every day you can see them." Sold. Well, and there are other factors, like a very pleasant, minimally chlorinated pool.

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In the Central Valley pools tend to veer on the brisk to shocking side, but on the coast, it's like dipping oneself into endless silk. Utterly perfect and nearly impossible to leave.

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This guy hung out poolside all day, allowing all manner of silly anthropomorphisms as he showed off various poses on the theme of laziness. Friends and enemies --who knows?-- came and went, climbed trees, went about their business in the basilisk recruitment depot I mean mangroves, chomped on yellow orchids...but our friend was committed to the path of most languidity, may he ever prosper (slowly, one toe at a time).

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Have you ever seen an iguana ear?

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Also attendant, wayward baby frogs! Nikki here briefly interrupted her regularly scheduled program of noodling to rescue a tiny guy who was swimming for his life in the deep end.

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All while King Jurassic MiniPok looked on.

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The leaf-cutter ants, perhaps overwhelmed by sheer choice, left emerald carpets wherever their trails marched on.

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And the momeraths outgrabe.

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It might as well indeed've been a Lewis Carrollian dream, giant candycorn fruits fallen from the peaks of plants where ruby-throated lizards rustled and crows impersonated the unpacking, shuffling, and dealing of cards.

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I still don't know what sort of tree this was, but these are its shiv-roots, fully aerated and housing who knows what ecosystems of scaly chimeras.

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But in case anything too terribly gnarly should emerge, there's a very nicely manicured safety zone. Also, for earthquakes.

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...Or Clint Eastwood Octopi.

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The Sealing Wax Palm ((Really its name. I only make shit up like 80% of the time.)). It eats the previous night's sunset and releases it, partially digested, the next evening ((See?)).

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Probably the pool iguana's idea.

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"In here, life is beautiful."

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"The girls flowers are beautiful."

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"Even ze orchestra foliage is beautiful."

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Wild chili peppers peeping out from passionflower vines overhanging the reptile reserve. Every outing here has some moment where the fascination and splendor of nature makes one downright incredulous. "Oh, COME ON!" This was it, for me anyway.

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The coming-down passiflora.

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The wee snake dames' room.

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The serenity now.

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And, why not, let's end with an antique dulap, pentru cheful dulapului. I don't know if it's seen better days, but it's certainly seen a lot of them. Likely enough, other, older days offered up to the hysteria of "pandemic" --but not nearly as consumed by it. The cabinet goes on, and so will we, even if our contents are a little rearranged.

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