On the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica, about halfway between Nicaragua and Panama, is a wonderful stretch of white-sand beaches. And just inland from these beaches is a string of wonderful towns, from Quepos up north to Manuel Antonio Park in the south. The pale gringos come to the beaches for the sun and surfing, and the towns provide them with breezy hotels, restaurants full of fresh seafood, and bars overflowing with rum and guaro. These towns are strung like pearls along Highway 618; and among them is a hostel called In the Breeze.
The little hostels are where the gringos go when cash is short; the usual clientele is young backpackers who are spending a summer in Latin America before going back to university in Europe or America. They're crowded, simple, and above all, cheap. And In the Breeze is one of the best, if it's even still there. It's run by a young French-Canadian woman named Roxanne, a sexy and rather intimidating salsa instructor who speaks four languages. She liked the country and just decided to buy a building and turn it into a hostel. That's the kind of woman she is.
And I wanted to spend as much time in-country as I could before returning to the freezing and drizzly town of Albany for the new semester. That meant I had to go cheaply, which led me to In the Breeze. I did have a private room instead of the cheaper dorms, because that's all that was left by the time I showed up, but it was still a third of the price of the local hotels. The place was quaintly run-down, with used furniture and Indian rugs covering threadbare sofas, but it had a helluva lot of character. It housed a lot of characters, too -- surfers and students at the local language school and scuba divers from all over the world. They came and went almost as frequently as the tides, heading to the next destination.
The dining room had a handpainted sign on the wall: "The Three Biggest Lies of Central America Travelers: 1. 'I'll never drink again!' 2. 'I'll leave tomorrow!' 3. 'I love you!'" And Claudia was sitting under the sign, drinking an Imperial.
She was about my height, with short blonde hair against deeply-tanned skin and hazel eyes. I struck up a conversation and she told me that she was in town for the surfing. She had a thick Australian accent. She asked where I was from and I told her.
"I take it you're Australian," I said.
"No, I'm German."
"Really? Oh, wait -- you learned your English in Australia, right?"
"Yes, I lived there for five years."
"That's why. Because you sound exactly like an Aussie girl."
"Thank you!"
She was staying another week, so when she wasn't surfing, we went into one of the towns for dinner, riding the rickety bus that lurched up the highway much too fast for the road, packed with drunk, laughing young gringos. We went shopping together in Quepos, wandering the market, and brought back bottles of wine and drank them on the back deck where you could watch the sun set over the Pacific. It was like all hostel friendships, light and breezy, with no time for dramas; you were in and out of each other's lives in days, so how could it get difficult?
Finally came the night before I had to leave for San Jose -- I'd decided on an afternoon bus because I knew I'd be out drinking late. A bunch of us, including Claudia, went bar-hopping up and down 618 until about two in the morning. Then we managed for find our way back to In the Breeze. I collapsed into my bunk.
I got up at about three to use the one bathroom which serviced the entire floor. When I was finished and opened the door, Claudia was standing there with her bedsheet wrapped around her like a toga. I guess it was easier than finding her clothes in the dark. She was just waiting her turn.
I smiled and said, "After you." She just smiled and walked past me in the dim light.
I went back to my room. No sex in this hostel, I figured. That was alright; there was always the next one.
