50 Cents said it best with “All the things they said you shouldn’t do: I did them.” Well, me to 50.  I stood many times in the garden of forbidden fruit tasting each flavor: only then can you decide what fruits are right or wrong for you.  I remember Kerouac boldly stating that the appeal to being a writer was having to live the biggest life possible.  And that has always been the life for me, both for better and worse.  This post contains a tale of drunken debauchery, if this doesn’t appeal to you, stop reading and click on another entry or category. 

So after a 3 hour car ride to Seattle, a 5 hour flight to Houston, a 6 hour delay, another 3 ½ hours to Liberia, a 1 ½ hour shuttle ride to Tamarindo; I finally arrived exhausted and sweaty.  Most travelers would rather relax and take it easy on a night like this, but I’m not most travelers.  I went harder on my first night in Costa Rica then I have in years.  Because this night was the start of an important celebration for me; it was the beginning of a new dream; the dream of Costa Rica.   

My new buddy Sage and I decided to go to Babylon for our first night.  I bought two local Imperial beers to begin with, but to my surprise, Sage didn’t drink; so I was double fisted from the very beginning.  It was Reggae night at Babylon and the DJ was bumping out fresh beats as the crowd filled in.  Babylon was an old dingy bar that had taken it’s beating over time; it had both an inside and outside part to it, with a stage and half pipe at the back.  The crowd was half tico and half gringo, which suited me just fine.  The Imperials went down like smooth water to dehydrated half dead desert beast.  The excitement of it all had caution thrown to the wind within the first hour.  Before long I was bopping my head to the sounds echoing from of the DJ booth.

I consider myself to be a seasoned traveler who always tries to maintain certain rules when abroad.  I kept none of them this evening.  Sage eventually left me to go back to the hostel; seeing my progressing inebriation, he tried to give me the proper directions home.  I listened closely because I knew these details would be important later; but they were soon floating up in the wind with caution to keep them company.   Having been a bartender throughout university, I always bond quickly with the barman standing two feet behind the service area, what I like to refer to as my comfort zone.  So with all the excitement in my heart; I felt it was time to do some shots.  With no one to drink with, I can always rely on the bartender as an accomplice.  So it was Jagers to get it started right, and then another and another: I will stop there because you get the vibe of it.

It’s hard to pin point the exact moment in time when the buzz lifts you away from yourself; but it happened.  I was the drunkest man in Tamarindo that night, and just maybe Costa Rica.  Before long, and sooner then I could find a cute girl to rap drunken lyrics to, the lights came on and the night was finished.  It was time to go home, if I could find home.  I missed the pinnacle left turn that brings you back on the main drag.  As I stumbled forward, I soon found myself no man’s land.  It was dark and there was not a light to the guide the way.  I was walking into to Tico turf without any clue or idea where the path was leading.  Luckily, this realization hit me when a Tico rushed up to me trying to get me to taste some of his forbidden fruits.  I knew at that moment, I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, in the wrong state of mind.  I tried to quickly wave him away without revealing my Gringo accent.  My only hope was to retrace my steps and get back to Babylon in a hurry.  I found the bar and decided to take a cab back to the hostel.  The cabby, upon seeing my state of drunken despair and not being able to translate slurred gringo, didn’t know where I needed get to.  Bottle of milk, I slurred over and over.  La Botella de Leche was what I was actually trying to say, but all I could remember was the English translation.  I knew that walk to the bar was only 15 minutes at most, so when the ride started to take awhile, I got concerned.  Was I going to end up a statistic of what not to do on my very first night?  We finally came to a lit intersection where there seemed to be some people gathering.  I demanded he let me out of the cab; which he declined.  I gave him the sternest look possible and yelled to be let out.  Before the cab could come to a complete stop, I was half way out and rolling on the ground.  The huge gash in my leg didn’t bother me at the time, but it would be a nuisance for the rest of the trip.  I obviously got the attention of the crowd at the intersection.  I explained to them what was going on and a Good Samaritan immediate told the cabby to take me where I was going; and quit messing around.  He assured me the cabby would get me home, so I got back in the cab for another go at it.  Two minutes and 12 American dollars later (any ride in Tamarindo is only 2 dollars), I was home sweet home.  I was Bleeding and incoherent; but home none the less. Thankfully, I was not a statistic of what not to do.

When I awoke in the morning trying to piece together the night; I was a little ashamed at my behavior.  Then I laughed it off as another learning experience while dressing my wounds.  If I can impart anything from this experience it’s the following.  Number 1#, get the business card of the place you’re staying at.  A rule I learned the hard way roaming aimlessly around the street of Nice at 5 a.m. in the morning.  Rule #2, always try to go out with a drunken buddy, to inebriated minds is better then one.  Rule #3, wait until you know the lay of the land before going harder then you wanted at the night clubs or bars.  Rule #4, when in doubt, look for and trust in the Good Samaritan, there everywhere and I consider myself to be one of them.  Cheers and Pura Vida forever.