The blight of tourism arrived yesterday. A week ago Samara was quite, tranquilo - static pulse of seashore, the occasional motorbike, unseen birds singing Guanacaste caballero war cries from palm trees, a tinny radio playing Marley from the bar. Now the town is roaring, barely enough room to bicycle on the beach. Americans stomping around looking pale and insatiable, making crude, condescending demands to the breezy locals who seem to just sort of hang on and bare the rush like a bad joke while it lasts. Gringo business-types from places like Palo Alto and Phoenix talking too loud, oozing anxiety and a misplaced sense of entitlement: but of course this is my picture postcard week on the beach whole town propped up on toothpicks just days ago in anticipation of my mighty influx of Dolores (meaning either dollars or pain when you shift the accent) and what the fuck kinda of hamburger is this anyways want my money back.

Savages.

Up the coast a few kilometers, near Cristina´s house, is Playa Buena Vista, aka “Mel Gibson Beach.” It is quieter here, out of the way. All the charm of Samara is obscured by tourism. Tourism insists on homogenized mediocrity, cheap comforts, familiar logos, and above all, absolute predictability.
In high season, a person can easily overlook the subtle nuances of the place. Like how the locals honk their horns at everything. Not the blatant amplified “Fuck You!” of the American SUV; the Tico beeper is a more articulate instrument. It says: “Hey mae, right behind you”, “¿que pasa, Esteban?”, “Sweet ride!”, “¿Donde esta tu novio?”, “Hey, I´m driving a truck, too!”, or simply “Hey”, because we´re two people driving down the road in paradise so why not?
Or how they Ticos never really took to the idea of refrigerating eggs or milk but they taste just as good all the same. The Tico way is relaxed to the point of being lazy, except for the fact that most of the people work well over 40 hours a week. But you wouldn’t know it from the looks of them. The concept of “stress” is non-existent here. The most common response to anything is “tranquila” (relax), or “tuanis” (cool). Free time is spent playing futbol with friends, drinking Imperial at the beach bar, hollering “priopos” (witty and not-so-witty pick-up lines) at girls, and making playful accusations at passersby of being “mariposas” (butterflys = queers).

At the end of the day, a sense of camaraderie permeates the lackadaisical palm treed shoreline at sunset. One becomes absorbed in the realization that there is absolutely nothing to do except sit and watch, in awe, as the sun disappears down the neck of your beer and a lone coconut thumps the warm sand, somewhere down the Costa Rican beach.