I know, I know. Every time.

What negligence. But I can't apologize. I'm in CT, just barely as the trail flies. Chelsea picked me up and I've spent some time with her and her friends in New Haven. 

I surrender my Whites chapters. Rest assured I made it out okay. Mt. Moosilauke was wild and crazy party climb. 

Vermont was velvet. There were a few climbs, but mostly the prettiest kind of trail.

I hike with people now, though, which has significantly changed the dynamic of this adventure. We've developed some bad wake-up time habits, but are somehow managing to keep up with the other southbound bubble group. That's right. Other people. It's nice, guys. I don't know if we'll hike side-by-side forever and all of Georgia, but for now, I'm digging it.

So, to recap, Connecticut, people, slow blogging, all is well, too much happening to differentiate between good stories and just stories.

BEAR WITH ME. (Still no bear sighting. I think I sing too much to see wildlife. BUT I SAW A COYOTE OR A REALLY SKINNY DOG!!!)

Now, to eat that cold, Yale-y pizza.

White Mountain Molly: Chapter Three

The next day was clear and beautiful. For the first time, I saw the views New Hampshire is famous for. Six Slash, who had started later than me, caught up on a descent into the trees.

Nice day. Too bad we're in the fucking trees right now. I'm sick of trees.

We were looking for the next hut in hopes that leftovers awaited. Down we went. Down down down.

This is fucking taking forever. Are you sure we're still on the right trail?

I think so. I don't know.

Oh, guys, we were NOT. We were over two miles DOWNHILL, down STEEP HILL of our trailhead. Not even our destination. Just the place we'd gotten off. We were told by two very enthusiastic section hikers.

But that means you have to go all the way back up! No, you have to or you're not hiking the trail! You can't skip anything!

As you can imagine, Six Slash was... perturbed. He turned around and basically ran back up, I huffing and puffing in his wake. 

We ultimately did skip .8 of a mile of trail in favor of a side trail that took us straight to the hut. And I have not the tiniest qualm about that.

Mizpah Hut had a field of wildflowers, pleasant company, and tons and tons of leftovers. 

For the rest of the day, Six Slash and I hiked together. 

We got to Crawford Notch, the second of four roads that divide the Whites for thru-hikers. A guy we'd seen up the mountain who collects data on songbirds offered to  drive us to town for ice cream and beer and we refused (ONE of us spoke for BOTH of us and I will NEVER let that happen again). 

The next stretch was an uphill and then five miles of flat to the next hut. 

The climb was beautiful. It was soft dirt trail instead of rock, there were wildflowers everywhere. At the peak, it gently evened out and I was basically having a stroll. I was practically giddy with the smell of flowers and fresh air and the deep, thick sounds of a forest settling down for sunset when I came around a bush.

Molly!

There was a woman and a guy sitting on the side of the trail. 

Molly! Dumbledore!

I very definitely didn't recognize either of them. The woman was addressing me.

You're Molly, right?

That's... yes.

We met at Wayah Bald last year! In Tennessee! I was doing trail magic!

And damn it, I remembered! She and her husband had tons of candy. I was still hiking with Roosta at that point. She had been planning her own hike for the next year. Because I was a single female hiker, she remembered me and looked for me and would occasionally see my name pop up in posts by someone else. Did I cry? NO. (yes)

So I gave HER some candy and continued on my way with Six Slash, after he cheerily informed both our new friends that the next several hundred miles were literally hell and the trail was the worst thing he'd ever done. 

I lost him for good the next day at Zealand Hut. It was a gorgeous, hot day and there was cake at Zealand Hut, and other southbounders.

I realized that night that I was feverish. My throat got sore overnight. The next day was rainy and cold, and I had big climbs before Franconia Notch, the third of the four road crossings. Outbreak offered to come save me, but I didn't want to infect Dimples and I had strict orders from my best friend, who lives in NH right now, to contact her if I needed help. She wasn't far, so she headed out for the rescue mission immediately.

There's a song I heard in Costa Rica. It is similar to a song my sister Margie used to sing me in only one way, which is that I am unable to listen to it without laughing. Or at least feeling better. It's a reggae song called Nice Again, the artist is Jahvinci (get it?), and I understand 1/8th of the words. It's... the best song. I've been listening to it when I need to move. The only problem is that sometimes I have to stop and dance for a minute, so I'm not sure it's affecting my total ascent/descent time much at all. But I feel a lot better after.

So Jahvinci as my guide, I, feverish I, made it down the mountain and Cara rescued me. I took my first full day off with her and she showed me around the farm/traveling theater home base where she lives and works. We had nostalgic fun. She even hiked with me a mile or so the next day, earning herself the trail name No Gear.

WE'RE NEARLY DONE. ONE MORE CHAPTER.

White Mountain Molly: Chapter Two

So Mt. Madison, the beast, was slain. Hot cocoa and cold oatmeal in their bellies, Toastface and a distant Six Slash headed out to face the juggernaut, Mt. Washington. The temperature? High 30's. Visibility? Nonexistent.

The climb wasn't terrible, actually. Granted, I was so glad to be alive that maybe anything would have seemed decent (what song got me over Madison, you ask? "She'll Be Comin' Round The Mountain," sung at a feverish tempo probably 20 times back-to-back into a howling vortex of white mist).

Towards the top of Washington, the cloud problem started getting real. I could barely see to the next blaze. In the Whites, they use the cairn system- piles of rocks marking the way when blazes aren't always visible.

I knew I should be at the top because I'd passed a guidebook marker, but I (literally) wasn't seeing anything. Then, out of absolute nothingness, a t-shirt-and-jean clad hoarde appeared. It was as if a giant had picked up Walmart and shook it's human contents onto the top of the mountain. I was shell-shocked. 

I sort of staggered around for a few minutes before the obvious, simple thought "go to the place with pizza" blinked on in my brain and I wandered into the visitor's center. I hadn't looked at myself that day, and the mirror was a somewhat rude awakening. Seeing as I was wearing every piece of clothing I had, including socks on both hands and feet, I don't know exactly what I was expecting. But I looked frightening. 

Pizza was purchased. I headed towards one of two open tables. Next to me was a mom, grandpa, and three boys. When I sat, they moved to the other unoccupied table. I took this as an opportunity to claim space.

After lots more hot cocoa, I finally worked up the will to leave. The biggest of the huts was coming up, and I felt certain they'd have leftovers. 

I was soon caught by Six Slash, whom I'd lost at some point. Six Slash is from PA, and he has a very clipped accent that I came to enjoy and have come to miss.

Toastface! What the fuck! This is bullshit! My hands are fucking freezing! I hate this!

And he was off, leaving me to wander alone, occasionally singing Janis Joplin, but mostly trying not to wipe out on the rocks.

When I came to the hut, Six Slash was outside. He'd gotten us work-for-stay and I could have thrown him a damn parade. Neither of us knew what was expected of us, but we knew we'd have a warm place to stay that night. 

Ben, the manager of the hut (THEY ARE ALL NAMED BEN. EVERYONE ENPLOYED BY THE AMC IS NAMED BEN OR NICK. IT'S A CONSPIRACY), told us to go ahead and have a seat on the bench in the corner. We'd have dinner in a little.

"A little" turned out to be four and a half hours. We sat on a lone bench in a dark hallway with three other thru-hikers because we weren't allowed in the dining hall. We listened to the guests eat dinner. We listened to the crew schmooze the guests. We listened to a program on weather patterns in New England. We listened to the crew eat dinner. Finally, around 8:30 (on a normal night we would have all eaten and been asleep by then), they called us in to finish off the leftovers.

Did I mention before that the crew has to carry the leftovers off the mountain on their backs if we don't eat it? It's definitely symbiosis. Not that we deserve one of the $100 bunk slots, but considering that we did the evenings dishes while the crew took shots of Hennessey, I feel we could AT LEAST have had some soup during the wait.

Thru-hikers are allowed to sleep in the dining hall, which is a common space for the guests. "Lights Out" (#perpetualsummercamp) is at 9:30, but several families were still playing card games at the tables. We made our presence known by setting up and falling asleep within minutes. Several of the hikers snored. The guests hastily wrapped up their card games. We had won the battle, but the war would never be ours. 

I awoke at five in the morning to sunlight and faint rustling. I sat up. About ten people were milling around the dining hall with cups of coffee. 

There have been several times in my life to date when I've felt like an honest-to-god park bench homeless person, but this took the cake and sat on it. The coffee guests completely ignored our presence. I unzipped my sleeping bag. A waft of stale fart assaulted the neighboring atmosphere. A woman reading her kindle got up for another coffee and did not return. I, in filthy sleep clothes, stumbled through the LL Beaned to the bathroom, where I took a cat bath using a kerchief and hand soap. And honestly, I was proud. Of my filth, of my shamelessness, of the way I didn't need a mug of coffee to climb a mountain. I felt    a weird self-respect. 

Six Slash and I skipped breakfast and headed on into the bright, cloudless morning.

And that's where I'll leave you for now.

White Mountain Molly: Chapter One

Let's see. Where were we? (rifles through pages)

That's right.

The Whites.

When I left you last, my cousins were coming to spend a few days with me. 

We stayed at a campsite and ate smores, hobo pockets, cheese balls until the cheese balls were all gone. Dimples, the youngest of the three, is hiking pretty well now and Outbreak, Scoutmaster and I enjoyed watching her find dogs and appreciate rocks in ways I don't think I ever will. 

You want to talk about trail names for a second? Okay.

They're culture, part of the reinvention process, but also bear in mind that 90% of the trail is a white male born between '50-'96. They're all named Jim, Matt, and Chris. They're all tall and have beards. If someone is hurt or lost?

Jim!!! He has a white beard! He carries a black pack!!! Jim!!!

And thus, trail names. 

After a wonderful evening, the crew dropped me back off at the trailhead. I bade goodbye to my family (to which Dimples replied, "dog!") and headed into...

The Pinkham Notch Visitor's Center.

There, I met my first multi-day hiking partner, Six Slash. He's a flip-flopper. No one will re-elect him. HAHAHAHA just a little ballot box humor there for ya, little lady. No. A flip-flopper starts the trail in one direction and switches at the halfway point, usually because of time or weather.

Six Slash actively hates both the trail and hiking. Woof, is he done with it. I'd see him coming over a hill behind me-

Toastface! This is awful! This sucks!

But he won't get off the trail. Every day, he is filled with a deeper and deeper resentment towards his surroundings and chosen situation, but he will not quit it.

First day back, I went up Madison. The forecast actually read, "in a cloud." In a cloud was right, and a windy, windy cloud at that. I got blown over, literally. To the rocks on the ground, where I crawled on all fours for several moments. 

But those huts, guys. The weird huts. They have hot chocolate, and the hostile, post-adolescent staff will serve you soup. It saved my sanity several times.

Okay, that's enough for now.

"One more, one more!"

No, you must wait until Hanover. I need to use the beautiful days I have! And today is stunning.

MORE TOMORROW.

And She Loved It

Oooooh, you guuuuuys, I'm in the honeymoon period!!!!! I now love hiking and being alone and I got my pack weight down a little; I feel like every thing that happens makes me happy. I'm moving quite slowly; a rough 11 miles a day. I take tons of breaks and read and sing ALL the time. When I run out of songs, I make up more. I like rain, I like heat, I like sleeping late and getting up early. I'm just thrilled all the time.

This has been the case since entering New Hampshire. I'm not sure why. I think because I'm eating enough and maybe the endorphines that come with finally climbing instead of stumbling through bogs? Who knows?

Cousin Abby is meeting me today! I've been looking forward to seeing her for so long! The Pinkham Notch Visitor's Center serves all-you-can-eat breakfast and my little belly is bursting. The weather looks decent for the next three days and my new shoes are wonderful.

The Whites are heavily touristed. While occasionally overwhelming, this is mostly cool for me because it's my first encounter with thru-hiker hype. The tourists talk about us like we talk about bears and moose.

Shhhh! Is that one? Ma'am? Are you thru-hiking?

Why yes. And I WOULD like an apple, thank you.

Tourists also mean huts. Those are the "remote" mountain lodges that "hikers" can "hike" up to, some of which are located along the trail. They offer work-for-stay for thru-hikers AND, because the staff has to hike all their trash off the mountain, they THROW leftovers at us. Whatever we'll eat. Full meals and desserts and delicious lemonade? The best.

Last night, I stealth-camped between two boulders. It was mostly me showing off for myself because I thought it looked cool. It wasn't very comfortable. But guys, it... It looked so cool. It really did.

That's really my one major problem. I'm having a lot of trouble sleeping. 

But I don't feel tired, so no real complaints.

The hardest part of The Whites is very much yet to come. I'm rather nervously looking forward to it.

And then. My birthday. And Dad and Margie's visit.

Why is EVERYTHING SO GOOD??????

But really. Cynics want to know.

Live Free Or Hike

I'M IN NEW HAMPSHIRE!!!!

The hostels are full, except the one I'm staying in, which is totally empty except for me. It has a bare-bulb chic. The first floor is a breakfast joint where "the locals" (two old men) hang out. The Polish owner brought me my food and placed a bottle of ketchup beside it.

Here is ketchup. To drown the taste.

White Mountains are next. Some of us are duly nervous.

OH YEAH. MAHOOSUC NOTCH?

http://youtu.be/85cz6W-8slY

The Hangry, Hangry Hiker: A Play In One Act

(HANGRY, a hiker, enters. She unsnaps her backpack and sinks to the ground. She digs through the pack and removes her food bag, opens it.)

HANGRY: Damn.

(She digs.)

HANGRY: Oh, damn it!

(She sinks back into the ground. She lamely kicks a rock. She glares at nothing in particular, then drinks some water.)

HANGRY: This is the worst.

(SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS enters. He is wearing jean shorts, loafers, and a puffy fly fishing vest. His name is Larry. HANGRY sighs.)

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Hi, Toastface!

HANGRY: (weakly) Hey, Larry.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Great climb we had back there, huh.

HANGRY: Mmmm.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: You know what I did last night?

HANGRY: Huh-uh.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: I got up between that dip? Between Baldpate? There was that thunderstorm. You remember?

HANGRY: Listen, Larry, no offense, but...

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: (continuing) Well, I didn't want to cross that in the thunder, you know. So I found a little spot, put up my tarp and cooked dinner, then climbed up on the peak to watch the sunset! I saw the storm pass, I saw the moon rise, it was beautiful!

HANGRY: That's great.

(HANGRY pretends to be busy with something. SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS doesn't notice.)

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Called the wife today.

HANGRY: Cool.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Said rain on Wednesday.

HANGRY: Mmm.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Well, I'm gonna stay here for the night. You moving on?

HANGRY: Uh, I...

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: (interrupting) I figure we made pretty good time out of Stratton.

HANGRY: LISTEN, LARRY. I AM A HANGRY, HANGRY HIKER RIGHT NOW AND IF YOU DON'T STOP TALKING TO ME, I'M GOING TO SAY SOMETHING WE'LL BOTH WISH I HADN'T.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Oh, look at that! I have reception! Well, I'm gonna go to bed. Night, Toastface. I'm real glad you made it in today. I just know you'll achieve whatever goal you set for yourself out here.

(SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS exits)

HANGRY: DAMN IT, LARRY!!!!!!!!

(Cries)

End

Eight Mile

The trail is getting harder. The hike keeps becoming more challenging right as my legs adjust to the previous terrain.

Sometimes, as I catapult into rocks or slide knee first down a muddy slope, I laugh to myself at the hilarity of my predicament and how ridiculous it is before wincing in pain because pine needles have found their way through my shorts. 

I'm camping with tweenage summer campers tonight. They gave me their leftover potatoes.

Eight miles to the border. Eight miles to the first state border. Get. Me. Out. Of. MAAAAAAAAAINE!!!!!!!!!

Oh, Little Town Of Bethel, Maine

On July 20th, I climbed Mt. Katahdin. On July 20th, my tennis shoes, my carefully debated shoes of choice, my vehicle, ripped. Straight across the top. 

I've been hiking with them for 240 miles. They've gotten worse. I have made attempts to patch them, but alas. No avail. They are comfortable and lightweight, but ultimately, unsustainable.

Remember me mentioning the cool guy from New Orleans and the woman who taught at NIU? I hiked on and off with them for a few days, but ultimately got seperated.

Every town I've come to in Maine has been preceded by hype.

Dude, your shoes are a mess. That's okay, though, there's an outfitter in Monson. In Caratunk. In Stratton. In Rangeley.

And every time I would listen, get off-trail, go into town, and every time THERE WOULD EFFING NOT BE AN OUTFITTER. Or if there were, no shoes.

So this time, I was sure. Bethel, Maine DEFINITELY HAD an outfitter and they DEFINITELY CARRIED shoes. I got off trail in Andover and was shuttled to Bethel. The shoe selection was pretty slim and all of them were very pricey and looked hard to break in. So I decided I was done. I would just fight through the Whites in what I had, get shoes on the flip side.

In Andover, there's an all-you-can-eat pizza night at the local bakery. First of all, guys, Andover is kind of sweet. It's so small, but really charming and friendly. There were advertisements up for a lost beagle and someone had written helpful notes on it, there are only 33 kids at the school... It's sweet here.

So I was enjoying the pizza night when who should I see walking up the stairs? New Orleans and NIU friends! They had come to say hi to me! I was so happy to see them. They immediately asked about my shoes (it's kind of my thing out here). I told them my resolution. And Birdlegs, my New Orleans friend, who had already found a phone charger for me, grabbed a pair of shoes out of the back of his truck (he's got a truck, yes; section hikers sometimes drive to the part of the trail they're working on). They're his backup shoes. They're so so so nice. AND HE GAVE THEM TO ME. Then, Painted Lady, who taught at NIU, gave me some moleskin and band-aids in case I get blisters.

And, as is the theme for this trip, I wept. 

There's a radical generosity in people, and I've seen it on the trail before, but... Man. I'm floored by this one.

The Body In The Woods

I had a stretch of good days! Eating enough makes a big difference, I've found. Maybe I've just been hangry for 210 miles.

A lady went missing last year. Yesterday, in the heavy mist and cold, I hiked the section where she was last seen.

I was BUGGING. Every noise made me jump and I was afraid to go or look off-trail in case I saw hair or a hand AAAAAAHHHH!!! I'm freaking out just thinking about it.

To set your minds at rest, I was not set upon by an undead hiker. I finished the section. It was fine. But in case anything DOES happen to me (as I'm expecting it to literally every morning and evening), I want you to know that when I feel endangered, I belt Christmas carols. So I will die in that manner. 

I'm at mile 220. Maine ends at 280. I'm pretty excited to make it past the first state line of this trip. Hopefully in the week, at that!

Today is cold and grrrross. 

God, I compose so many blog entries on-trail but they are just WHOOSH! gone by the time I get in town. 

I made some friends today! Also southbound. There are two couples about my age that I really like. I think we'll be roughly in the same bubble.

Okay. Goodbye. Here are pictures. I have video for you, too, but can never upload it...

My phone's back!!!

The first 150

This is a very different hike than last year. In the 12 days I've been out, I've met 9 southbound thru-hikers. Northbound day 12? Probably 50. 

Katahdin was numbingly hard. The 100 Mile Wilderness? Here's an excerpt from my journal:

"Today, I ate wild blueberries and cried. I wept."

Now, I'm moving through rural Maine. 

Things are better, emotionally. Physically, I'm starting to get tired and my shoes are wrecked, but I want to keep going until after the Whites. Then I'll take a day off and be at peace about it.

Maine is water. Wide, shiny lakes and green drowned Ophelia ponds and orange pools and amber rivers. 

Maine is blueberry, bunchberry, clintonia and lichen spread thin over pockmarked rocks, and spruce and fir and deciduous invaders.

Maine is bogs, which are pretty in the cold thunder because you have nothing else to lose at that point; you can see the slimy inside-out-umbrella mushrooms and the Venus flytrap plants. Otherwise, they're just bugs, and you see nothing.

Mosquitoes, the used heroin needle of the insect world, are the dominant life form. Does anyone know if blood type factors in to how often you get bit? Because I get bit alarmingly often. There's not DEET enough. I also have been theorizing that southwest Maine may have a wormhole that allows every mosquito that ever was and ever will be to exist together; this to explain the size disparity of my hunters.

There are roots over the trail like octopus tentacles. There are climbs straight up, where you have to play a "Would I Rather" game:

Would I rather lose my trekking pole or die?

Would I rather break my ankle or die?

When it rains, the world is gone. There is nothing except the tree in front of you. I've gotten so disoriented that I've lost the trail and ended up hiking about .5 north.

I'm at mile 151. Maine ends at 280 something. 

And honestly?

I'm just ready for the Whites.

Katahdin

In a small cafe

Knees knocking, veggie omelette 

Katahdin today.

Of all the trips to have my luggage lost, it would be the one where my bag is literally necessary.

I'm staying at a lodge in Millinocket. My bag didn't make the same flight as me, so I waited in terror and tried to learn Rummy with Fairway, Sprout, and Trevor. My trail name this time is Toastface, a nickname given to me my freshman year in college because of how easily my face turns a toasty pink. I imagine it will remain that color until mid-October.

A man from the airport literally drove my bag out to me. What service, eh? 

I told all my old buddies about the hike, so you might see some cameos over the next few months. Hopefully Rooster, at least. Definitely Shepard (Garret). 

I'm nervous.

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Explore Monteverde: The Fourth And Final

That morning, at breakfast, I made an appointment with Allan (tattoo person) for the next day. And then we left for THE MONTEVERDE CLOUD FOREST.

This place! You guys! This is one of the most diverse places on earth. I encourage you to take a moment to google it.

Have you? No? I encourage you again.

Good. So. 

We were planning to take a bus up, but the bus wasn't running. One of our favorite (actually, the only favorite we mutually agreed on) hostel workers, whose name is Ro (Rrrrrrro. Ar oh. Eets very short.) -

Actually, a short pause. Let me give you some Ro.

Ro doesn't look Latin American. He's got sandy blonde hair and is, yeah, pretty tan. He is 57. He does not look 57. He's flamboyant and has ear gauges and wears punk stuff and has a something mullet haircut. He's very good at making you feel comfortable by teasing you mercilessly, if you know what I mean. We all know those people, right? Anyway, we love him. His running joke with me- because Chelsea is engaged, he wanted me to propose to him. Whenever I'd walk into the hostel, he'd tap his ring finger.

Where's my diamond? I want one so big I cannot lift my hand. When are you getting it?

And I'd make up some story about being mugged or a hawk stealing it and he'd pretend to cry. 

Anyway. Ro drives a... Hm. A... Well. It's like a scooter with... How do I describe this? It has three wheels, it's covered like a rickshaw. With a roof. I... Picture a tiny, tiny red car with three wheels and a roof that appears to be made of plastic-coated sheep bladder and no doors. That's roughly it. 

Ro doesn't have a driver's license, so he had to call to make sure no police were patrolling. Then, we were off.

There was an ever-present awareness of our own mortality as we slowly chugged over the rough, torn road, looking straight out the doorhole and into the green canyons. At one point we ran out of gas. Ro showed us some flowers we could eat. I think mustard. Do you guys know of people who do this in the US? Who can just drop flora/fauna knowledge bombs on you with no preamble? I don't. I love that about Costa Rica.

We made it to the top and gave Ro a hug (little did we know it was the last time we'd see him!), then headed into the cloud forest.

First, we stopped at the hummingbird gallery just outside the park. THE BIRDS!!!! The numerous, iridescent birds!! Purple and green and electric blue, jousting and feeding and flitting around. I thought I was going to get hit a few times. 

But then. Then the forest.

Like pictures, words aren't going to do it any justice. I'll just say that we could barely take five steps without having to stop and stare open-mouthed at some gooey plant or practically tangible stream of sunlight through leaves or clouds so thick you can feel them in your hair or caterpillars the size of your index finger that are orange with white tufts of fuzz spiking out... It was humbling and awesome in the most literal sense. 

After a while, maybe in a subconscious attempt to normalize our experience so that we wouldn't fall off the planet, we started making up jokes. One would set the circumstances, the other would add something, the first would add more, the other would tie it up with a punchline. And they were all Russian themed. Don't... Don't worry about that part.

This was the best one, punchline by Chelsea. Feel free to use it when at the 1950's dentist's office.

A woman was walking down the street in Vladivostok when a young thief ran past and stole her handbag. The woman chased after him until she saw a police officer. 

"Officer, that boy just stole my bag!"

"I know," said the officer.

"Well, aren't you going to stop him?" She demanded.

"I would, you see, but it looks better on him."

After the cloud forest, we blearily rode a literal school bus back towards the hostel. On the way, I recognized the turn-off for the giant strangler fig I'd gone in search of the previous evening. We hopped off the bus and made our way up the hills and through the vines, wondering if every strangler fig we saw was the famous one.

But when we saw it, we knew.

It is several stories high. Inside, it's like someone braided wet tree limbs into a loose jungle gym. It's just a cylinder of lacy tree.  

I climbed to the very top. It was scary and invigorating.  

Back at the hostel, Allan was giving a tattoo to David, the owner. He asked if we could move the appointment up to that evening, since all his gear was set up. 

While we waited for him to finish David's, we went back to the Herpetarium to see the night snakes. 

First of all, WHAT A COOL THING TO DO, HERPETARIUM. 

The snake house was dark. We were given flashlights and set loose. Most of the animals were just chilling in the same positions as before (which is one of the many tragedies of captivity), but some of the frogs were out and bouncing. 

As we watched the boas, an employee came by. We asked a few boa-related questions and he got a little excited with us. He told us one of the boas eggs had just hatched.

Stay here. Just a second.

When he returned, it was with a large red plastic tub. He opened it and we peered inside. There, slithering thick on the bottom, were forty baby boa constrictors. They still had pieces of egg and hatching slime clinging to them. We just stared for minutes and minutes. BABY BOAS. 

Oh! Also, this was the day we saw the baby sloth! But it was pretty low-key.

Okay, so we leave the snake house and head back to my impending tattoo. 

Why did I decide to get it? I don't know. I liked that the hostel had a resident tattoo artist, I wanted the tattoo, I had had a profound moment during canyoning when I realized how deeply I love the natural world and I wanted to memorialize that somehow, and I guess the fact that my tattoo artist had been making our breakfast for the last three days sat well with me, as opposed to the clinical meet-stab-pay relationships you get with most tattoo parlors. 

However. I was feeling just slightly uncomfortable with Allan. The getting of the tattoo itself was fine, although there was a slightly awkward moment when I was asked for a down-payment to cover "materials" (read as: cocaine). The good hostel dog, Sacha, sat beside me the whole time to make sure I wasn't too scared. For which I am extremely grateful.

Allan had had a little trouble with the gun, so he seemed pretty relieved when it was over and asked Chelsea and I out for drinks with the rest of the Tico entourage. Chelsea declined, but I went. 

Things I learned while at the one bar in Monteverde with people who actually live there: 

I guess shots aren't a social thing. People kept taking shots alone. I don't know if that was specific to this group or if it's cultural, but I definitely prefer social shots. Otherwise, it's just weird.

Cocaine. That IS a thing. My friend group at home definitely smokes weed, and although I don't personally, I'm comfortable around it, but this was the first time I'd ever seen a hard drug. It went like this:

Allan: Hey, we're going to get high. Want to come?

Me: What kind of high?

Allan: The other kind.

Me: (some inane response and a retreat into the bathroom)

I don't know a lot about coke, but it seemed like these people were doing A LOT of it. I just danced and lurked near the Swedes we'd met before until it was time to leave.

Chelsea pointed out that hard drugs could explain the construction of the hostel's bunk beds and bathrooms, which did seem to never have known a professional builder.

The next day, we took a bus to San Jose (AND IT ALMOST FELL OFF A CLIFF. The driver got out and measured the distance and the whole bus applauded when we made the turn), spent a peely night working off our sunburns, and flew home the following morning. Right now, I'm sitting in an airport in Philly, with hair severely shorn in an effort to avoid Lyme disease, awaiting a transfer to Bangor, Maine. Tomorrow, I'll start my southbound crack at the Appalachian Trail.

Costa Rica is a beautiful and sad place. I wish I could go as a non-tourist. Countries that rely on foreign moneys break my heart a little, but as tourism goes, I think Costa Rica is walking the line between tacky sellout and genuine artifact in an impressive way. I hope if it falls one way or another, it falls towards Screw The Northern World And Do Our Own Thing.

And I really want to learn Spanish now.

  

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Explore Monteverde: Part 3 of 4

We were a little banged up from canyoning, and there was the World Cup final, so we decided to postpone our hike through the cloud forest until the next day. We checked out the Herpetarium, which houses probably 30 species of snakes, as well as frogs, toads, lizards, turtles, and tarantulas, all native to Costa Rica. A lot of the slithery residents are nocturnal, so the snake house stays open at night and you can reuse your ticket to come back when they wake up. More on this later.

Chelsea made a friend in Monteverde. Our first night in, we stopped at a taco stand called Taco Taco and Chelsea ordered our food in decent Spanish. The woman taking orders/making food was totally charmed by her. We ended up going to Taco Taco every day, and whenever she'd see Chelsea she'd say,

Oooooh, mi amor!!

And giggle. It was darling.

So after some yummy Taco Taco, we went to watch the game. There's only one bar in Monteverde (that we're aware of) and just about everyone was there. We sat at a table with Swedes and Canadians, next to ROARING Germans that kept singing the national anthem (which, for the record, should have been changed after WW2 because some of us have seen Holocaust-era stock footage and yes, it's the same song. May I add a hearty cringe?).

Aaaanyway, I think we just crashed early that night. I attempted to find a strangler fig - Hm. Let's do an explanatory tangent.

Strangler figs are members of the ficus family. They're parasites. They attach to the tops of trees and their roots grow down, down, down, around the trunk of the host tree, and the strangler embeds itself and sucks the nutrients out, eventually killing the host. Then, the original tree rots away, leaving eerie structures that look like enormous Chinese finger traps. Remember me talking about the trees that look like lattice? Strangler fig.

Anyway, there's a really really big and well-known ficus in Monteverde that you can climb. It's pretty hard to find and not owned by anyone, so you just do it on your own. I got directions from a lady at the hostel, but it was getting dark by the time found the hill after the bank around the corner from the blue house after turning left up the sharpest of three hills (...), so I postponed. 

When I got back, the hostel's resident muralist/visual artist started asking me about my ankle tattoo. He said he had worked as a tattoo artist and was just starting to get back into it. 

Jesse, our friend from canyoning, had gotten an Allan tattoo. I've been loosely wanting a scarab beetle, but since tattoos are a zillion billion dollars, I figured I wouldn't get it. But I like supporting nice people and this is an artist without a studio, so I'd rather give him my money than someone that doesn't need it. Was my logic at the time. So I told him I'd been wanting a tattoo and he said to think about it and get back to him.

Then, sleep.

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Explore Monteverde: Part 2 of 4

We woke up at 6:30 to the sound of rain. Chelsea had a canyoning tour planned for 7:00, but since the only thing we really knew about canyoning was that it involved walking in a river and repelling down waterfalls, she decided to cancel. She left a note for the guide and our friends, since no one was at reception. I fell back asleep.

At 7:30, there was a knock on our door. The tour guide, a totally charming man named Emel who had checked us in the night before, was outside. And angry. I was in and out of sleep, but the gist of the conversation was that Emel had gone way out of his way to get ready for the tour (he told me later that he typically only gives one tour a week) and that he would be giving one to Chelsea and that she needed to get dressed right then. So she did, but the Texans were nowhere to be found, which meant the tour would be Chelsea and the guide team and a father/son group who lived in the hostel. Emel wanted more people to come. Chelsea told me all this after getting mean-mugged by everyone in the establishment. She looked like she was going to cry. 

Everyone hates me now, Amalia.

So fifteen minutes later, a very grumpy Amalia was shoving eggs into her mouth and resigning herself to an activity that sounded like her least favorite day of Appalachian hiking.

But how wrong she was.

We drove out to Santa Rosa, which is a teensy hamlet outside Santa Elena (the main town connected to the Monteverde Cloud Forest). Emel, who was now in high spirits, told us that tourism wasn't an industry in Santa Rosa. The people were mostly farmers, raising fruit and livestock.

This was my first time in a vehicle with an uncensored Tico driver. The regular tours usually crawl around curves and potholes. Eduardo, less so. Pretty much just blasted across the mountains.

We pulled into a little cottage. Emel picked manzanas de agua, or water apples, from a tree. It tastes like a pear/mango hybrid. 

Our companions on the trip were Jesse and Connor. Connor is 9. They're Americans who've been traveling for a few months. I adore them. Jesse is a very low-key guy and he and Connor are obviously best buddies.

We got geared up and were deposited on a dirt road. Me, Chelsea, Connor, Jesse, Emel, and Emel's friend who only spoke Spanish.

It was a gorgeous day already. On the walk down the hill, Emel and his friend found some ripe guava. There's such an immediate taste difference between hothouse and wild fruit.

Costa Rica is very hilly, maybe even mountainous, but this doesn't seen to phase livestock. Cows and horses graze precariously on the 70 degree slopes. We saw a horse on a neighboring hill. Emel put his hands to his mouth and made a perfect imitation of a horse's whinny. The horse answered. We died. 

We reached the creek which was to be our path and started out. It was amazing. We hopped from rock to rock and splashed through the water. Emel pointed out morpho butterflies and glass frogs and blue shrimp and peeling indian trees and strangler figs. He told me about the politics of Costa Rica - that the government is very corrupt, that there is a lot of unaddressed poverty. It felt like a cool new friend showing us his favorite local spots.

And we repelled down waterfalls! I never really got the hang of it, but I loved jumping into the pools at the end. Chelsea, less so. She was eventually threatening to start a travel show called Bewilderness that features herself, a non-outdoorsy academic from Evanston, doing high adventure activities. If only she would...

We were pretty worn out after canyoning, so we hung out in the hostel that night. We had intended to go to La Fortuna for a few days to hike up the volcano, but neither of us wanted to be stuck on a bus for that long, so we revised our plans and decided to stay in Monteverde for a few more days. Which is ultimately how I got my new tattoo. Stay tuned.

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Explore Monteverde: Part 1 of 4

We stayed an extra day in Playa Samara, splitting a hostel room with the Texans, but only shortly after learning that the Texans themselves are splitting. We felt like kids stuck between parents, until later that night, when we felt like parents trying to keep their drunk toddlers out of traffic.

The next day, we drug our belligerent new travel companions onto the bus headed for Monteverde. 

Monteverde is an apt name. There are greens I haven't seen in nature. Looking out the bus window was like watching a Planet Earth panoramic. The hills are soft and rounded, with occasional trees crouching low against the skyline. A lot of the summits are bald, though, presumably because of deforestation. 

As we gained altitude, the heat faded into chilly, misty breezes. And may I add a hallelujah? Samara reached stagnant body temperature. 

About thirty seconds after getting off the bus, we were set upon by a hoarde of hostel and lodging representatives. They followed us down the street, yelling prices and shepharding us towards their establishments. We finally broke away and Chelsea found a well-rated hostel on TripAdvisor (which had NOT sent minions to hound us), and the Texans found room nearby. 

We immediately signed up for a night hike, because most of the coolest animals are nocturnal (it's what it sounds like - guided hike through jungle at night). Chelsea also signed herself and the other two up for canyoning the next morning at 7:00 am, which was too expensive for this dude. What is canyoning, you ask? Oh, dear reader. Just you wait.

So that evening, Sarah, Chelsea and I boarded a night-hike bound van (Eli didn't come; he and Chelsea had a tiff which apparently was friendship ending as we've seen neither since bidding Sarah goodnight a few hours later).

There's an oft-repeated expression in Costa Rica. In Spanish, it's "pura vida," which I assume literally translates to "pure life" but seems to be (when not slapped on every souvineer that will hold still long enough) the rough equivalent of "right on." 

Our night hike guide, however, used it as a punctuation.

This is a tarantula, found only in the mountains of my country. Pura vida. It will move when it feels vibration. Pura vida. 

It must be stressful to have a job that is only successful with the cooperation of unwitting wild animals. Our guide seemed to be feeling this pressure. He kept darting off into the jungle, alternating between shouting "Don't get off the trail!" and making a kinkajou mating call. 

We saw a tree frog and two distant porcupines, then a toucan (sleeping), then a green toucan (sleeping), then another brightly colored bird (sleeping). The kinkajou noises increased, full of desperation. 

The guide left us again to examine some trees. We stood around, shining our flashlights at leaves and each other's faces, until Sarah inhaled sharply.

What's wrong?

I think something bit me.

Five or six flashlights panned down. Sure enough, we were standing on an anthill. Sarah had pinky-nail-sized ants crawling on the legs of her pants and over her feet. We were trying to brush them off when the guide appeared. He looked at us quietly for a moment, scanning the group, then landed on me.

My friend, you have many ants on your feet. I will help you. Pura vida.

I hesitantly looked down. Tiny red and brown ants completely covered the toes of my shoes. We got them off as best we could, but ants had progressed up Sarah's pants by now, so we had to get moving before things got worse. I would find ants on myself as I got ready for bed, three hours later.

So the hike continued, with only the occasional panicked slap.

The guide was very peculiar and insisted repeatedly that we stay very, very close to him. Every animal's description fit this basic formula:

This is the beautiful (animal/insect), native to the mountains of my county. There are (number) species in the world and (number) species in Costa Rica, my country, and only (number) species here in Monteverde. (Then, usually, "it is asleep.") Pura vida.

We were getting tired. At first, it had been thrilling to tromp around in the dark after tarantulas, but now we wanted to go home. We were seeing a lot of the same animals and at increasingly distant intervals.

But then he found the sloth.

All the individual groups had seen sloths already, separately, and the sloth in question was difficulty placed. We would have been happy going "oh, cool, a sloth" and continuing our hike. But no. This man had promised us nocturnal animals, and by god, we were going to see this sloth.

He sprinted into the woods, off the trail, and tried to highlight the sloth from different angles with his flashlight. When this failed, he encouraged us to follow him. So we grumblingly tripped through the long grass and hidden logs and clumped as we had been taught.

This sloth is a two-toed sloth, only native to the mountains of my country. It is not fat, as it looks! It only has long hair, just like my friend Amalia (here, he lifted a chunk of my hair as proof that it was, in fact, comparable to a sloth's). The sloth only comes down once a week for poop and peep. It will not poop and peep from the tree or big cats will smell it. It will come down once a week to bury it's poop and peep. Pura vida. Why are you laughing, Amalia? 

Finally, the moon high in the sky and cicadas deafening us, we made it back to the van and were carted home, heads nodding in time with the rocky road. We bid our final goodnight to Sarah and fell asleep to the whistling mountain winds.

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Avoid Sun Exposure

Yesterday.

Our sunburns are comical. We slathered ourselves with aloe and watched the Argentina-Netherlands match in the shade of a bar. 

Costa Ricans (who refer to themselves as Ticos and Ticas) are notoriously vague with directions and addresses. Our second night, staying with Jesus, we were given probably a cumulative hour of verbal directions of this nature:

Drive until you see a bridge with the second bridge. There is a For Sale sign and house construction. Turn there and follow the road until you see a woman. She might not be there. Turn at the woman and drive 80 meters but if you see a fork, you've gone too far.

(real examples).

Once, a man gave us very specific, excruciatingly detailed directions to a laundromat, only to finish with,

But it's closed right now.

We warily asked for directions in town and, after wandering for about 15 minutes, found someone who just walked us to the bar we were looking for. 

We were rooting for Argentina and the Ticos were just rooting against Holland, so we had a pretty good time. The bartender invited us to hip-hop night. We were thrilled to see what that meant. 

We walked home via road instead of beach, through little pockets of real towns (a welcome change from the resorts and hotel compounds). We saw a girl almost get smashed in the head by a falling mango. We saw a flattened snake in the road. 

About halfway through our walk, we came up to a little grove of trees. There was a deep, throaty echo coming from above us, and rustling. 

I looked up and probably six feet above my head, locking eyes with me, was a monkey.

There were nine total, counting a baby. They were suspicious of us at first, but eventually went about their monkey business. Their calls were eerie, bouncing against the rocks and trees.

After a shower, we walked beachside back to town for hip-hop night. Hip-hop seems to be a very loose term here. I would have called it, "generic English-language music night." I think I heard three technical hip-hop songs, total.

Hip-hop night's population was the DJ, the bartenders, and ten or fifteen other people, all sitting and talking pleasantly. Not exactly a rager.

A very strong-smelling man in his fifties asked me to play darts. His name was Amir. He told me Amalia meant "the labor of God" in Hebrew and that he was from Israel. He asked for my star sign. 

Chelsea noted that his pants looked like a rug that was made of pieces of other rug. She sat with us and mocked me for being bad at darts, which was a huge help as it stopped Amir's prolonged hugs.

After we escaped him, Chelsea said,

Wow. He was as creepy as he looked.

We were then set upon by a really young guy named Diego. Chelsea made the point that it's hard to speak English, even bad English, with a Latin accent and not sound sexy, but Diego definitely managed. His words were so strange and confusing, and his attempts at picking us up were impressive feats.

-How old are you?

-I'm 24, Diego.

-(Pause) Oh. (Pause) You don't know how old I am.

-I would guess 19.

-(Pause) No, I'm 24, too!!!

-That's great.

-(Long, thoughtful pause) Yes, my birthday is 1989!

Finally, we got bored of not hip-hop and no salsa (it had been implied that there would be salsa) and left, Diego in hot persuit. He met us on the stairs. 

Amalia, I need to stil.

What??

I need to stil. Like at bank, give me all your money.

Steal?

No! Rob! I need to rob a kiss.

So we literally ran away. 

Today is our last day in Samara. Monteverde up next.

Monkey Count: 13

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Try To Impress Their New Friends

In Nicaragua, children stand in front of buses until the driver gives them money. Horses block traffic. Hammocks are $5 and no amount of "I have only a small backpack" will deter the salesfolk. In Nicaragua, the star beach is muddy. In Nicaragua, the police ride around in the back of pickup trucks with AK47's.

We left early and arrived at our next destination late. Bus bus bus bus bus bus bus. Costa Rica Bus Tour. 

When we got in, the sun had set. People from the tour have started to really care for one another - Chelsea and I expected our companions to be mostly 80-year-olds, but it's actually a lot of people in their late 20's/early 30's (Groupon's prime demographic). 

Everyone was going off to drink together. I'm not a big social drinker unless I really love the company, so I snuck away and started wandering the labyrinthine premises until I was on a beach.

The moon was out and the waves were shining in a bizarre, gelatinous way. It was so beautiful I had trouble blinking. The stars were up and the water was warm and I walked for five or six minutes until I couldn't see lights from the hotel and I sat and stared at the huge Pacific. In my periphery, I thought I was seeing rocks rolling across the beach. Upon closer inspection, I learned I was watching hundreds of hermit crabs scuttle through the low tide.

After about 40 minutes, a German family came out. They couldn't see me because they had flashlights and were blind to the dark. A little girl and her grandfather released a red lantern, and it floated out over the water until it was the size of a star. It was so beautiful, I cried.

This morning, Chelsea and I tried to figure out what people do for fun at beaches. We concluded that we had the wrong gear for fun.

Our friends from Houston joined us and Sarah suggested we swim to the island in the center of the cove.

Chelsea and I are well aware that our Houstonian friends are a lot better and cooler than we are and we will basically do anything they want us to do. So,

Yeah! Let's swim to the island! That sounds so fun!

And, as we headed back to the room for more sunscreen,

Do you think there's beach patrol? They know we're gonna, like, doggy paddle, right?

We started out around noon. At first, we were trying to keep to the edge of the cove to avoid heavy waves, but that entailed shredding our shins and feet on the spikey rocks, so we headed into open water.

I enjoy swimming, but I do not enjoy having salt water in my eyes.That, I find unpleasant. 

Guys, it was hard. Sarah and Eli are fit and athletic and THEY said it was hard.

We got to the beach of the island, which was getting pounded by waves from both sides, and realized we were extremely tired. We explored a little, but mostly just laid around. Finally, we started discussing a return strategy. Obviously, sticking to the edges was out of the question. We figured our best bet was to swim straight across, even though it was probably three times longer than swimming to the rocky shore closest. 

I was getting uncomfortable and burning to a crisp and salt water is such a horrible substance, so I booked it towards shore. I pulled out my lap swimming moves. Chelsea struggled, but Eli and Sarah stayed close to her and, with the help of some gnarly waves, we made it safely back around 4:30.

We didn't realize how long it would take and we had nothing to carry our sunscreen in, and guys. I have never, and let me assert that I have had some rough sunburns, NEVER been burned like this before.

So there's basically no way I'm leaving the shade for four more days, until all my skin falls off.

Monkey Count: 4.5. 

Monkey Tours was a misnomer. 

In Which Amalia And Chelsea See Some Nicaraguan Monkeys

WE SAW THE MONKEYS. They are trapped on an island and run to the tour boat because sometimes boats mean food. One monkey had a baby. They will never leave that island.

Granada, Nicaragua, aside from having the most rhythmic and beautiful name, is a rhythmic and beautiful city. It was built in the 1500's by the Spanish colonialists and has been burned to the ground by pirates over seven times in it's esteemed life. 

We climbed to the rafters of the bell tower in the Merced cathedral. The view was enchanting. 

Granada reaches me in a way the resorts cannot. Granada knows something.

In Granada, men hiss at you. Understand that this is the beginning of a short list of complaints about Granada.

I was looking for an ATM and I walked past a young boy and a few adults. Young like five. The boy yelled, "Hey, Mami!" Since he was barely out of diapers, I assumed this was in reference to his actual mother. It was not. He started hissing and making kissing noises at me. The toddler. The toddler did that. THATS A CULTURAL PROBLEM, NICARAGUA. Your infants do not need to be harassing 24-year-old people.

End of list. 

We met our friend Daniel, whom we'd hung out with in Liberia, and got to spend time with him and his traveling companions, whom I adore. We got cheap cheap cheap delicious Cuba Libres (extra lime) at a gringo bar with the Daniel crew and our favorite Monkey Tourers. It was, all in all, a wonderful evening. I quite like Granada.

Monkey Count: 4.5

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Ride Horses, Zip Line, Watch Soccer, And See No Monkeys.

Today, we were shipped to a corner outside of Rincon De La Vieja. I feel that this particular monkey tour was really hitting the natural wonders angle in their advertising and is, in practice, exploring the would-you-like-a-beer-and-a-towel angle. We didn't hike up the volcano. We haven't really done anything Costa Rica specific yet.

We rode horses up a huge hill to a twelve part zip line canopy tour... I guess that was more specific than the whitewater rafting. It was fun. What you'd imagine it being. I don't know. Many "high adventure" activities in this context ultimately feel clinical. The workers are quite bored with us, so when something is genuinely amazing or exciting, it's squashed by the cloud of apathy seeping from the nearest tan polo.

What was genuinely amazing today, and without price tag, and without bored twenty-something guiding me through it, was getting to watch Costa Rica play the Netherlands in the (outdoor sprawling gazebo of a) hotel bar.  Just us and the staff. They closed everything for the game.

I loved it! I love soccer now and everyone was yelling and I learned three swear words! It was sad when they lost, but everyone stood up and applauded and they were so proud of their boys. I saw this a little in England during the Olympics... Seems like less competitive teams from smaller nations get loved on a lot more by their fans. Whereas we're ashamed of our teams if they come in second. 

I snuck away from the group to check out one of the resort's hiking trails, which was beautiful. Sometimes the tree roots grow around the trunk like lattice. 

Tomorrow, we go to Nicaragua.

Monkey Count: 0

In Which Amalia And Chelsea zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Alright, listen. I want to say stuff about today, but Chelsea and I got massages and I don't know how much stamina I have before sleeping. 

We went whitewater rafting. Some of you may remember the canoe disaster of '13, but probably not as vividly as I do, and truthfully, being in rapids was... challenging. But fun. I saw a sloth in a tree eating a leaf.

Guys, we're at a resort? It's... Something feels gross about it to me. So much wasted space and so many resources used for so few and such boring people. 

I like two other members of the monkey tour. They're from Texas and they snuck cheap beer into the Hot Springs and are just generally actual humans. They might travel with us a little after the monkey tour. The guy of the two got a massage with us and we called it Chelsea's bachelorette party.

Monkey count: 0

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Go Swimming, Are Right, And Arrive For The Tour.

We left the hostel at nine and spent the morning swimming in a waterfall. 

The Spanish word for 'waterfall' is catarata, which is fun to say.

The first was enormous. I climbed into the spray and it felt like I was being thumped in the head with heavy pillows.

We got confused and the Canadian boys moved slowly, so it was a while before we made it to the second, smaller waterfall. Off of which we wanted to jump.

I asked a swimming man how to jump it, and he said he didn't know, but a boy nearby seemed to. We asked for his help. Actually, what we said was,

Tu primero.

Darling Juan is probably 14. 

He swam Chelsea and I to the base of the falls (boys were still onshore, drinking and pretending they weren't nervous about jumping).

Juan climbed and helped pull me up. Chelsea decided to wait a while.

Juan and I jumped from low, then a little higher, but when I asked about the top, he said,

Es peligrosa.

He looked scared. 

The Canadians swam out and immediately stormed the top rocks. Juan hesitantly followed.

They jumped.

I jumped.

Finally, with much trepidation, Juan jumped.

We cheered, and he grinned.

Later, we saw him with the man from earlier.

Es tu papa?

Silence. A confused nod from the father.

Chelsea said,

Wait. I think you just called that man a potato.

And indeed, I had.

The final stop of the day was Ocotal Beach, black sand bordering the Pacific. Renowned sunset views. Long, long car ride. 

In the end, there were too many clouds to see the sun. I went for a walk along the beach. The sand felt like velvet. I played chicken with the waves.

When I came back to the group, a fight had broken out.

I'm just saying, no one needs to see a full-grown man in a tutu. 

Chelsea is a human rights activist and the Canadians were saying very stupid, illogical things. It was messy. Finally, Steve called a truce and we drove home in some kind of silence, the Montreal boys speaking rapid French in the front.

Later, on our bus ride to the eerily posh hotel where we meet our group tomorrow morning, Chelsea said,

I really didn't start it.

But I would have been proud if she had.

Tutus for everyone.

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Arrive In Liberia And Make Some New Friends

We were told that the free breakfast would be good. They said that. What they did not say was five kinds of homemade bread, fresh fruit, delicious rice with eggs, beans, potatoes in huge silver vats, real passionfruit juice and, inexplicably, tiny slices of gourmet chocolate cake and other impossibly small delicacies. 

We were, needless to say, pleased with our hotel.

Our ultimate goal today: Get to Liberia, where our monkey tour starts. 

In total, we must cross San Jose, navigate the bus terminal, voyage through the mountains, land (mapless) in Liberia, locate a hostel, and procure lodgings.

It seems unrealistic.

1. Cross San Jose.

Avenieda 7 spans the city from north to south. We see El Parque National, with it's drooping bird-of-paradises. We see La Casa Amarillo, a colonial leftover. And then, there's REAL San Jose. Brightly painted tin roofs, rotting food in the gutter, men staring you down and winking caddishly, broken glass, barbed wire.

2. Navigate The Bus Terminal.

La Pulmitan! A mirage after our botched but charming encounter with a cocos frios saleswoman! Our bus terminal is in sight.

Cuando es la proxima bus para Liberia?

A las doce.

Bueno. Dos... Um... Tickets.

Our bags are too big, but we jam them where our feet should go because the guidebook said not to leave them, even for a bus ride.

3. Voyage Through The Mountains.

Here we go. The bus ride is constant curves and vistas. Ravine, cliff, mountain, river. Ravine, river, forest, mountain.

We read from our Spanish phrasebook and quiz each other.

There are two beautiful young people next to us.

Ah! A field! Un campo! 

I say.

Y esta es un caballo!

I say.

The young boy turns to me. 

No,

He says, in English,

Those are cows.

Daniel and Isabella are word-perfect. They're cousins from San Jose, probably 13 years old. Their grandpa lives in Miami. They've been to Miami.

They play an English-language game on Daniel's iPhone and sing Christmas carols in English under their breath for over an hour.

Xhave yourself a merry leetle chreesmaaaas...

I love them and will for all time. I grinned the whole ride.

4. Land (Mapless) In Liberia.

We are shocked at our success.

Daniel, is there a downtown?

Yes, but it's... How do you... Ugly.

We find a Soda (cafeteria) immediately outside the bus station. It is delicious and the woman speaks only Spanish with us. We are in heaven.

5. Locate A Hostel.

We ask for directions. We get three different sets. We walk to the highway in confusion. The hostels, in actuality, are only four blocks from the bus station.

6. Procure Lodgings.

Steve, the bro from Toronto (Canada has bros??) goes with us to get bug spray. Other Daniel is from Los Angeles. We drink rum and mango juice in the backyard. We learn that lizards chirp.

Juan Paulo joins us. Juan Paulo is from Costa Rica. He only speaks Spanish. Chelsea and I speak to Juan Paulo in Spanish from 8 to 12.

He has to stay in hostels because of low salary but everyone else always speaks English and his conversations are short. He has an eight-year-old daughter and takes off his wedding ring during a trip inside. He asks where my boyfriend is.

He asks how we can travel without our boyfriends and not be afraid.

I tell him if I were afraid, I wouldn't get to live. I am angry and sad.

Two men from Montreal show up. Jesus, the hostel owner, pulls Chelsea and I aside.

Ladies, you know the big waterfall?

Yes.

They have a car.

We befriend the new Canadians. Tomorrow, we will go to the big waterfall and return in the evening to meet the rest  of our monkey tour group.

This, then, is backpacking.

Mealy Cyrus

This was in my hair this morning.

It's a mealy bug.