Autumn Leaves Me Hanging

Yes, yes, it's been awhile.

Another season is upon us, and my favourite one at that. Pumpkin spice, cider, scotch, dragon's blood red wines and all things autumnal make me happy. Falling leaves, warm sweaters layered under swooping wool coats that sashay with every step made in fabulous boots, boots and more boots... All in historic, tree-lined Gastown.

It's been a year since I moved down here and I absolutely cannot imagine living elsewhere. Not only because it's central and easy to get around town. Not only because the brightest new culinary and bartending stars are all within a 4 block radius. But because there's a sense of real community here. Neighbours talk in the elevator, comisserating about last night's party in suite 1906. Business owners wave you down as you pass by tho show you that special something that made them think of you. The staff of aforementioned restaurants and bars blow kisses out their windows as they prep for their nights work, making you mouth promises to return later that night. The tourists are gone. The locals trundle through the streets, dodging wind and rain, umbrellas lifted as you pass. (I hate umbrellas and never carry one. Yes, I live on the Wet Coast and always have. I just don't like having my hands full. Makes me batty. Hats are good enough.)

Fall always tends to make me want to change something in my life. More-than-a-hair-cut kind of change. It usually revolves around work, and this year is no exception. After five years with one brand in particular, I wonder if it's time to move on to something else, and if that something else should look like what I've done in the past. Back to school? Retrain for something new? Relocate? So many options.

The reality is that I'll likely make no change whatsoever and muddle though another year. Change is getting riskier these days. Not really harder. Just less certain for success. And god knows I hate being out of my comfort zone.

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I just got back from the doctor. My regular yearly check-up. This year was the first time I was actually aware of the different things he's checking now. He asks more questions than he used to. There are less tap-tap-"good" mutterings and more note taking. Blood work is now required at every check-up, and this visit he mentioned mammograms. Not that I'm technically old enough to worry about this, but larger-breasted women have to be more award of this stuff, evidently. My breasts are moving from asset to liability as I edge toward 40.

More on this later...

C

Week Four: Ass Sweat and Other Related Humiliation

Is it week four already? Thank god. Time has gone by quickly, but I'm glad to know that I've actually stuck to this for a month. I don't stick to much for a month, as my dating history and shoe impulse purchases will illustrate.

I was thinking about being motivated, staying positive and all that rubbish the other day and I came to a realization about myself. I hate being motivated. I'm not motivated by motivation. I'm motivated by motives, certainly. Vanity, as previously discussed, is a major motive. Fear of cardiac arrest before turning 50 is another. Basic self-respect is in there somewhere. But the happy, sunshine-up-my-ass "staying motivated" isn't a me-thing.

The reality is I'd rather be sitting on a deck drinking beer or a bottle of Riesling, or stiletto shopping, or eating a barrel of potatoes, or dying my hair or really doing any of my normal hedonistic activities, but not working out. Not drinking another protein shake. Not swallowing another chicken breast. The brutal truth is this - I do it because there's no other option. There's no pill (trust me on this - I've looked into the pharma-angle) and I can't afford surgery or a regular cocaine habit.

As Bill Maher put it so succinctly, "Ask you doctor if getting off your ass is right for you." I'm off my ass because I have to be, not because I WANT to be. And yes, the endorphin and adrenaline surge helps make up for the grueling pain and panting and wheezing in the moment, but you must realize, lovelies, that all biological pleasure is for a reason. Procreation, for example. If sex was menial and even mildly painful, we'd have died off eons ago.

So, we get a little happy feeling after we almost have a heart attack. I am neither fooled nor impressed. Because it wears off. And left behind is PAIN. Like oh-crap-I-have-to-pee-but-that-means-getting-up-so-I-guess-I'll-get-a-bladder-infection-instead-pain. Costco-sized Ibuprofen-pain. Can't-wear-stilettos-pain.

Another non-motivator is sweat. I've never been a fan in general, but dripping from places that should not be dripping is out-right humiliating. Why does my ass need to sweat? Can't it be re-routed to a normal sweat place, please? Getting off one of the medieval contraptions I have to shove around, only to leave a wet impression of my butt on the seat is no way to make me think highly of this business. And there is no way, especially as a red-head, to sweat and look sexy. I go beet red from the neck up, and look like I'm either suffering from heat-stroke, or imitating a freshly cooked lobster. Combined with the beads of sweat, the lack of breath, and the muttered cursing, this is simply not a pretty picture. Oh, and the sweat stained ass crack on my yoga pants that are now sticking to me in places that cause yanking and twisting in a most unattractive manner. My mid-workout mannerisms make Elaine from Seinfeld's dancing look like a Janet Jackson routine.

But... the biggest cause of ill-will toward my trainer, the machines, and skinny people in general is plain old lack of results. Or evident results. Remember when I was excited about losing 6 pounds? Scale was off, it was only three. And I have since gained all three back. Trainer says "It's muscle, that's a good thing." Oh reaaalllly? A good thing? I almost threw the scale through the mirror (hoping for a Labyrinth-like dream sequence), but refrained. I mean, if I don't lose weight, what the sweaty &$@# am I doing this for?

My reaction? Thirty minutes of cardio, everyday, no exceptions. No booze Monday to Friday. No eating out during the week. No cheating.

Finally, I get it. I'm motivated by anger. Whatever works.

A small aside on workout wear

There is something uniquely humiliating about buying work out clothes. I've never done it before now, but it's comparable to swim suit shopping, though in some ways, even more degrading.

Step one is always admitting you have a problem, and buying clothes specifically for the purpose of absorbing sweat denotes you have something to fix. So even before the gun goes off, you feel like a twit.

Designers of these togs obviously have mastered schadenfreude. If I need to buy these things, I need to lose weight. So then why are all the designs skin tight and low waisted to sit right under the gut I'm trying to lose? And these wee jackets I can barely get one boob into? Come on now.

And, you'll forgive me for saying so, I hope, but if you are a size XS, what in sweet sweaty hell are you doing buying yoga pants? Go eat the poutine I can't have and screw off. Just seeing XS work out wear is demoralizing. They should have a separate section for small work out wear. Like they do for Plus size in regular wear. I'd be happy to be surrounded by women bigger than me, I'd love to pull a pair of capris off the rack and say, loudly, out loud, for all to hear "Oh these are WAAAAAY to big!" Throw the plus size workout wear in my section, keep the skinny bitches over there, next to the candy aisle, along with the small dog accessories and Hello Kitty purses.

Yes, I'm stereotyping. Get over it.

And no, Amber, I did not buy Lululemon yoga pants. I don't care how great they supposedly make my ass look, my ass is 35 pounds overweight, and I seriously doubt that a pair of pants, no matter how well marketed or designed they may be, can alter the fact that it is what it is - large.

And in the financial scope of reality - I'm not going to fit them for very long, so I'll just go to Army and Navy or Costco and buy the cheap stuff. Maybe once I thin out, I'll join the skinny bitches in the Thin People's Workout Wear Section at Lululemon. Right after I carry Peaches the Precious Pooch home in her Hello Kitty doggie-sac.

Working things out

So, I gained a whack of weight a few years ago. The cause is irrelevant at this point, but I will say it was a combination of a physical state and a mental state. It got worse, I got worse, I got fat.

Now, my friends, god bless you, will say "not fat, just a bit overweight", but I say, no, any 5'3" woman in good health should not weigh close to 200 lbs. This is where I maxed out.

(Thankfully, the only person I think who has pics of me at this weight is Joe, and I hope he's deleted them by now, because, well, he's married, and that's what you should do with old pics of old fat girlfriends.)

Life improved, and I dropped considerable pounds just by liking myself again. I got down to 160 and stayed there, seemingly forever. Well, it has been three years, at least. I've toyed with the idea of losing more weight. In my twenties, I weighed 115 lbs bloated, so I know what thin feels like. I like what thin feels like.

And before I go into a whole disclaimer on why women should feel good about themselves at any weight and why we're all lovable, let me explain something about myself that is base and true.

I'm vain. Vain as a fucking peacock. I like to look good, at all times, bar none. I like to stop traffic, make an entrance, take breaths away, you name it, I'm in. It's not an insecurity, either. I don't feel unattractive now - I walk into rooms and turn heads now, too. But not like I used to. I want that "Holy Shit" look to some back in the eyes of the beholders. And not just men. To get a dirty look from a woman is a stroke you can't replace. These days, I get comments about my shoes, my outfit, even my eyes, but not my smokin' hot bod.

This is because, my friends, my bod ain't smokin'. It's really not even steaming, and that a nasty thought anyway. The only assets I have, and largely due to the weight I've gained, are my darling breasts. They keep my vanity assuaged these days. I may not be my skinny bitch self, but I usually have the best rack in the room.

But I digress.

I want to lose weight for a plethora of very good, very healthy, very Oprah reasons. But really, let's be honest, I want to be thin, attractive and energized. Not passable, middle aged and tired all the time.

So I have embarked on a new journey. After denial and procrastination, I called a personal trainer and have started this horrible thing called working out. I have paid in advance, I'm committed for at least 8 weeks, and while I was excited and jubilant last week in my first two sessions, after sessions three and four, which just ended, I am sore, cranky and not thin yet.

I assume writing about this will serve me some purpose, if not for the exercise (hyuk hyuk) in itself, but to keep my wits about me as I torture myself with protein intake, epsom salts, work out wear and the like.

Welcome aboard the good ship Just One More Rep Then We'll Move On To Cardio.

A Letter to the Gekko Population of Costa Rica

My dear Gekkos,

I know that most people think you're all quite cute and harmless. As humans, we have animated you with British accents and made ad campaigns with you. Surfers and other outdoorsy types have bumper stickers of you in quasi-ethnic motifs. My niece thinks you're the cat's ass.

I'm an open minded woman, gekkos. I try not to judge. I give second chances, perhaps even when I shouldn't. So I'll let last night go. But I hope you take the following advice to your cold gekko hearts, lest I become a redheaded woman scorned.

First of all - if you have sticky feet and can hang upside down, please be consistent. If you're feeling tired and think your sticky powers are failing, stick to the ground. Or at least try to avoid the large white blocks under you that humans use as beds. I don't know, perhaps my visitor last night was a gekko at the end of his life and just wanted to end it all, but regardless, if you MUST fall from the ceiling, please pay attention to the following:

The long, stringy stuff on top of our female human heads is HAIR. It's attached. It can be straight or curly, it comes in many lengths and colours. The curly variety, as my nocturnal halo diver can attest, tends to be tangled. Again, avoidance is the best policy, but if your unstuck self hurtles south into a pile of hair, please, don't panic.

The twitching and scurrying that said panic induces has a particular affect on a sleeping female. We're likely dreaming, and the incorporation of critters in our hair into any dream will only result in a rude awakening for all involved. There will, at least, be utterance of vulgarities. Some may scream. (I did not.)

Once you have been fished out of the hair, for god's sakes (and yours) stay still. Flicking about in the hand of a now irritated female is a bad idea. This makes us want to splat you against a wall.

The act of throwing generally involves bringing the arm toward the body, then thrusting the arm away to achieve some velocity and distance for the object being thrown. The moment when the arm is closest to the body is NOT the time to engineer your escape.

The resulting flailing upon your arrival on the bosom and torso of the female is not a celebratory dance, nor is it a religious ecstasy. It is fear, disgust and hate.

Once you are recaptured and thrown, take the hint. Don't land on the bed. If You do, and you are kicked at from under the sheet, LET GO OF THE SHEET. This is not the time to reclaim your sticky feet.

Once you land on the tile floor, make your way to the nearest exit. Please note that the female will spend an hour looking for you to ensure her sleep will be uninterrupted, even though it's more likely that she'll move out to the couch rather that risk another "visit".

I thank you in advance for your cooperation.

Christina

Days Two and Three

I slept in Wednesday morning til about 11 and woke up a bit groggy. I ordered the Costa Rican breakfast, which was tasty, though the rice was undercooked. A couple of cups of coffee and I was ready to go. I changed into a bathing suit and hit the pool with Aislinn. The water was refreshing and the pool shaded by giant palms, so I was happy to float around for an hour or so.

Sufficiently prun-y, I towelled off and sat with Mom and Dad for a beer. I was fully intending on spending the day at the hotel - I had no desire to go on a wander quite yet. Aislinn went off and found a boogie board, so watching her was excerise enough. The sand on the beach was ridiculously hot, and sticky. The tide was strong enough to give her a good ride, and tricky enough to catch Mom, Dad and I all off guard at least once.

After a rinse and a short nap back at the hotel, I got dressed for the weekly BBQ dinner the hotel hosts. A margarita to start while I waited for the rest of the fam set the mood, though the waiters were nervous that I had sat at a four top alone. Whatever, buddy. I get it.

We ordered. Caesar salad to start which was surprisingly good, Dad ordered a T-Bone (well-done. eek.), Mom ordered shrimp, Aislinn, filet mignon brochette, and I ordered a whole red snapper. All of the dishes came with baked potato and veg. The fish was juicy and perfectly cooked, and everyone else seemed happy with their choices. I found myself quite tired by the end of dinner, and after a brief walk alone on the beach, I went to bed. We had an early start planned for tomorrow - a day at Playa Coco up over the hill, so I wanted to get enough rest to handle whatever the morrow was to throw at me.

Thursday morning I woke up with no problem at 6:45. (Yeah, me. 6:45 in the morning. I know.) I got dressed and had an early fruity breakfast. Lots of people were up at that hour - the temperature was still mild and the tourists were all out running their dogs or riding bikes along the beach.

Mom and Dad eventually came out, long with Aislinn, and our ride to Coco arrived on time.

Cresting one of the hills on a winding road, Coco spread out beaneath us. A stunning little cove full of boats and choppy waves breaking on small clusters of rock, I was duly impressed. Mom and Dad were dropped off for a condo sales pitch, and Aisy and I headed into town for the town's reputed shopping.

Some of the shops were open, and we started scouring for trinkets, sarongs, flip flops and hats. The souvenir shops were huge, and most of them rather repetitious. Aislinn picked up a frog thing that I knew was going to drive me mental. It was hollowed out and had a spiny ridge on the back. You ran a stick over the spine, and it made a frog-like sound. Pretty realistic, too. She got a medium-sized one, and proceeded to play it incessantly, all through the town-o. I threatened to take it away. This is as effectual on a thirteen year old as an umbrella in a monsoon.

We waited for Mom and Dad at the agreed upon spot. They were running late. We were waiting in front of a real estate office, and the owner stepped out to chat. He was from New York, and you could tell. Got some interesting information from him about properties and such. Mom and Dad arrived, so we hopped in the van and were driven back to Hermosa.

A quick pack and check-out and we were picked up by another driver to take us to our condo in Flamingo. Carlos was pleasant and early, two things I appreciate.

While I was checking out, an older man stepped up beside me and asked what part of Canada I was from. When I told him, he snorted and said "All Vancouverites are arrogant. You think you've got it all." Well, fuck you then, why are you continuing to talk to me? I was very annoyed. He was one of these old geezers that obvious;lt would take negative attention over none at all. In my annoyance and hate to get the hell away form his cranky self, I forgot my camera at the front desk.

(This is why I have no pics up right now... but don't worry, fearless reader, Puck will make amends.)

We headed ou in the tour van for Flamingo. It was a longer drive than I had expected, but we go a glimpse of the farms and rural life around us. Small houses, large sugar cane farms, occasional bars and nightclubs... with very very little advetising or commercialism at all. Barely has signs on the bars.

We passed thorugh Huecas and Brasilito, two fairly substantial hubs with souvenir shops, grocery stores, gas stations and restaurants. Finally turning into Flamingo, we wound up a small alley to a locked gate.

The woman at the gate wouldn't let us in. No reservation, she said. Oh lord, is this a scam? Have we been duped? As we argued our way into the lot, I knew we were in the wrong place. The Condo is called MAISON BLANCHE, not Maison-every-colour-under-the-sun. As I rounded a corner, I spotted our building up on a hill. I pointed this out to the driver and he seemed to know how to get there.

Another driveway, another gate, another gate-keeper who had no idea who we were. AT this point, I was getting pissed. Where was the condo owner who was supposed to meet us? We finally go communication straightened out and headed up to the uliding, where a mess of baggage, facility tour and related stupidity gnawed at my patience. I unpacked to avoid confrontation and got ready to head out to get groceries. This would be fun, and I was looking forward to getting my hands onto some local food.

The Massai, our local grocery store, is two doors down from our front gate. It has pretty much everthing you can imagine. It's geared for visitors, and they keep fairly "normal" foods around. Mom and I stocked up on food, I grabbed rum, vodka, beer, wine, mix and juices. A few packages of frozen chicken, some potatoes, etc. We were set. All in, 117 USD. Not bad.

I sauteed the chicken and made a rough potato salad, served up with bread. I love cold potato salad.

A couple of Vodka Tonics later, we all sat and watched some Olympic coverage. (NBC, so not a lot of Canadian stuff - just the Yanks).

A relatively early night to bed - I was beat from all the running around and slept well, considering it was the first night in a new place.

Ginger2 out.

Well I actually did it. I got on a plane and have now departed on a two week holiday. Last time I took a two-consecutive week holiday I think I was in college. And I have been looking forward to this rather desperately. I'm drained, worn and in need of recuperating in a bad way. I have been taxed in energy to the point that even seeing my most favorite people was getting to be too much. Family, friends. Not good. It was time to treat myself to the same kind of holiday that would make me green with envy when my friends would share their experiences.

This is where I'm writing from...

This is how I got here...

Sometime last year, my mom approached me and asked if I was planning to take any holiday time this year. I missed out on my family's holiday last Xmas, which was upsetting for all of us, so I was hoping to get some time in with the kids and my parents as much as the rest. I told her I was planning to be away during the Olympics, wouild that work? Yup, it would, but where? Costa Rica was decided upon,but little detail work was discussed until close to December of last year. Where did we want ot go? Who was coming? For how long? My schedule was flexible, but the Olympic dates made the most sense from a client-management point-of-view. So, blah blah blah, emails sent bcak and forth, and TADA - Mom booked a condo in Playa Flamoingo for three weeks. It was actually coming together.

Sunday, Feb 15 was a daze. I had spent the weekend participating in Olympic fever, as well as my usual weekend debauchery. That weekend the impending departure gave me new vigor for getting in as many bars and restaurants as I could... after all, I'd be gone for two weeks. I had done nothing to prespare for my trip, and had work that absolutely had to be tied up before I left.

Through a true hungover fog, I managed to get it all done. Monday morning I was up at 7 to get a project delivered to a client (I kept Sunday night light... was only out til one). Then I had to pack. Yes, i left this to the last minute. But a jammed everything sunshine in a suitcase and was out the door at 11 on my way to New West to meet the parents and my niece, Aislinn. The travelers.

We left New West a bit longer than I had expected, due to last minute prescription drop offs for Grandpa and a return over the Patullo bridge to get Mom's ac cord for her laptop. But then we were on our way across the border to SeaTac Airport.

We had purposefully given ourselves tons of time, anticipating Everett and Seattle rush hour. We stopped at Everett Mall and chowed down and Famous Dave's BBQ. If you haven't been, make a point of finding this place. Amazing. We ordered the feat for 2, if you can believe that. And any place with 23 oz beer is fine by me.

All of us now in full pork and brisket comas, we managed to get to the parking place close to SeaTac and in the shuttle. Check-in was a breeze, and we found ourselves at the gate a full 1.5 hours early. I didn't care. We spent the time in crosswords and laughing through the Lonely Planet Latin Spanish phrasebook, which includes a whole dating and "getting closer" section. My 13-yr old niece now knows how to say "Easy Tiger!" in Spanish, as well as "Piss off!", which I'm pretty sure is really saying "Eat Shit", as the word mierde is pretty recognizable to me.

The first leg of the flights was SeaTac to Dallas Ft Worth. The pork coma was still sitting heavy, so it wasn't hard to just fall asleep. I woke up about 30 mins out of Dallas, and as we flew over the city, I remembered how much I hated that town. I was glad to be over it rather than in it. Memories of being chased home from school, being mocked by student and teacher for being Canadian, church embarrassment, and general I-hate-being-13 crap sifted through my head as we went in search of our next gate. We had to take the Skybus, which was an efficient way of getting around an otherwise labyrinth of an airport.

We got to the gate as it was boarding... off to Miami. There was an older gentleman sitting in the aisle seat, wearing a navy sports coat, very neatly pressed grey slacks and the shiniest black shoes I had ever seen that weren't actually patent leather. The baseball cap on his head explained it all, Air Force. He looked like Donald Sutherland, and sounded a bit like him, too, but with a deep southern accent, and the manners to go with. After we sat, he asked if we were heading home. I informed him of our home town and that we were on route to Costa Rica. "Well, ma'am, there's no better way to get anywhere than through America." I smiled and suppressed a chuckle. I hadn't been around blatant American patriotism in a long time. "Now wher'd you say you were from?" he asked. "Vancouver," i repeated. "Why do I think that's familiar?" I'm sure my eyebrow wiggled as I tried not to sound to huffy. "Well, the winter Olympics are there right now." "Oh, right. That's it." Not a winter sports fan, I guess.

It was only a two hour flight, but I managed to sleep a bit. I awoke to the sunrise coming over the low lying clouds, which was spectacular. Aislinn and I did a couple of crosswords, oohed and aaahed over Key West, then watched in awe as we spun around over the ocean and landed in the middle of the city. Last time I flew that close to buildings was when we landed in Hong Kong. Well, there was a trip involving mushrooms, superpowers and New York, but that wasn't really real. I've never been to New York.

American Donald Sutherland wished us safe travels and thanked us for flying American. We were on American Airlines, but I doubt that's what he was referring to.

A one hour layover in Miami gave us time to grab a quick sandwich. It 11 a.m. our time, and we had been travelling 11 p.m. the night before. I was tempted by a bucket of beer at the coffee shop, but decided against it, knowing my bladder's relationship with airplanes. The woman screeching into to mic at the gate was so annoying I actually felt like punching her in the face, so i tried to concentrate on the sandwich. i was actually pleasantly surprised by the quality - most airport food is shite. This was fresh, and the coffee had real coffee in it, not the watery excuse for caffeine they were serving on the plane.

The news was on. Not a smidge of Olympic coverage, which I suppose isn't too offensive considering we were in Miami.

Once on the plane, both Aislinn and I were suddenly pooped. I crashed out for a good two hours, and when we both dragged out eyes open, we were flying over what I think was Nicaragua. OR Honduras. We pulled out the map and tried to figure it out, which we thought we had until we began out descent into Costa Rica. I have now idea what direction we were flying in from, and we both had the map turned in all different directions. So many coves with beautiful, pristine beaches were passing underneath us.

We landed in Liberia. I shed my cardigan and shoved my leather jacket in my bag. Aislinn unraveled her layers as we got ready to step out in to the heat. The wind was up, and as we stepped off the plane, it felt like a million hair driers had just been turned on us. I'm sure I swore out loud.

We met up with the parentals inside the "Arrivals" building, which was an open air truss-structured barn with customs immigration desks. We zoomed through Immigration, got our bags, and then through customs. Both processes involved handing over paperwork and being waved through. I could see the gaggle of transportation people hovering outside and had a pang of nervousness. I was reminded of China and the Change-Money's (if you ever traveled to PRC pre-one-currency, you know what I mean).

My nervousness was assuaged as a lovely gentleman in an official looking green shirt approached me and quickly asked where we were going, did we have a reservation and how many of us were there? Boom, in a cab. An air conditioned cab. Flat rate, dropped off to the hotel. Yes, please.

Off we went, heading for a twenty minute trek to the coast. I must say, i was happy for the trip. We got to see a bit of the interior, with huge sugar can farms, road-side "sodas", or lunch shacks, and more real estate signage that the Westbank in Kelowna. One such sign advertised beach from property for on 25K. I knew I was going to like it here. And a giant Home Depot type store with a very full parking lot. A promising sign for investors.

We pulled up to the hotel, found rooms and literally dropped all of our belongings, grabbed the bikinis and headed straight for the pool. Well, I headed straight for the bar and downed two ice cold Bavarias before Mom made it out.

Aislinn and I went for a quick walk down to the beach and saw a beautiful hammock, empty, hanging between two trees. I beelined for it and we jostled our tired bones into it. We managed to grab a couple of pics before...

Aisy in the "borrowed" hammock

... I heard a female voice behind me... "Pardon, senorita..." I turned my head. Surely you can't reserve the hammock. "Dees ees my ammock." "Oh, you're next?" I asked, trying to get my bearings as Aislinn and I wrung out of the fabric. "No, senorita. Ess my ammock." Oh. Like literally. I apologized and Aislinn and I giggled back up to the hotel. Another beer and a bite of salad and I felt normal enough to get in the pool. It was cool on our very warm skin, but quickly became just right. The pool is shaded by giant palms, and so is kept at a decent temperature instead of getting too hot under the sun.

It was three p.m. local time. 34 degrees, windy and a touch more humid than I'm used too.

I wandered down to the beach with another beer and sat watching the tide come in. There were boogie boarders, wave jumpers and beach bums, but not too many. Not a sign of commercialism... which was remarkably refreshing. Nothing to remind me of work. Nothing to remind me that the tide was coming in.

Flip flop and Bavaria in the grey sand

Swoosh.

I managed to save the camera, but my flip flops wound up waaaaay down beach, and my hotel towel, covered in black sand and beachy goodness. I sheepishly traded it in as i headed to my room to rinse off my sarong.

Mom and Dad wanted to go for a walk, so we all shoed up and started a trek up a road we didn't know. There was a group of seedy looking young men with scrawny dogs at the intersection, obviously there to "guide" strangers about. I was offered a map to buy by one such ambassadore who's sunglasses looked like Ray Parker Jr's in the Ghostbusters video. I wanted them. I didn't ask. Nor was I overly enthused about the map.

We walked past and headed up a dirt path, past a cement school with soccer field and cow... then we realized we couldn't really walk through anywhere to get to the beach, so we pulled the dumb tourist move and trespassed through another hotel, coming back out to the beach-side path to make out return. We found a shop that rents boats and boogie boards, and the owner was pleasant enough to offer his sons as instructors. Which would have been great if any of them were over 14. But they also ran a seafood restaurant three, and the menu looked promising. We decided to go there for dinner later.

Dad and Aisy on the beach... no one else seems to be around...

Mom and her shadow at the shore line

Sun starting to set over the hill

Upon return to the hotel, I realized I was in much need of a siesta. The rooms are ac'd so I quickly fell asleep for 20 minutes, and woke up feeling rested and cooled off. I dressed for dinner (because I believe in that sort of thing) in capris and a light olive tank, with a wrap and some bangles for style. Wrap lace sandals. (yes, I will be reporting my wardrobe during the trip, as well as shopping and meals.)

Mom and the sunset

We walked down to the restaurant and sat. And sat. And sat. Now I get "Island Time", "Indian Time" and even "Hammer Time", but you all must know I hate waiting for food and drink service. I did a lot of breathing. The owner's wife is American. She spies us and rushes over with menus. A Spanish speaking waiter comes over 15 minutes later and we figure out drinks and order food. Aislinn is suffering from massive low blood sugar and naps with her head on the table. The food is taking forever. There are six tables out of twenty possible. This should not be a problem. I hear the server explain to another table that it's "busy". Oh dear.

Once the food arrives, we're more than happy. Dad's breaded shrimp is hand down the best i have ever had. Most breading makes the shrimp tough and it's so easy to overcook, but this was very fresh shrimp, and was so juicy. Seriously. Best evar. (that was for you, PBE) I had a mixed grill that was over-cooked, but still tasty. Aisy devoured her Hamburguesa con papas fritas before we could ask how it tasted. We assume good things.

Aisy and I headed back to the hotel first. Dad settled the bill. Which was 40 bucks, tip included. 250 g shrimp, mixed grill, huge veggie salad, burger. All with sides. Two beer, one glass wine, one coffee. Love this place.

The walk back ot the hotel was mild and dark. A few random "Hola"s came drifting to us. the stars were huge, bright, and close, with the sliver of moon already gone. The surf crashed next to us as we walked silently by starlight.

And then to bed. A long, solid dream-fuelled sleep awaited us.