And Semana Santa swelters on. 

I love Semana Santa.  Not because of how it is, but because of how I remember it the very first time I came to Costa Rica 35 years ago.  Every day was magical and I ate so many rosquillas con café that I made myself sick. 

I love rosquillas in vasos of hot black sugary coffee.  It’s the only time I put sugar in my coffee, unless I’m in Italy. I don’t even know if I’m going to get any rosquillas this year.  Maybe tomorrow.  I remember trying to make them out of grocery store masa and Mexican cheese during The Cold Years in Moses Lake.  I tried, but they never turned out to be edible. 

Tomorrow Hernan and I are going to Guaitil for the afternoon.  Something about hidden dusty Guanacaste towns in Semana Santa sparks this fierce and defensive type of love in my heart.  I love it so much I almost don’t want to even go so that it won’t be in any way different than what it is.  But I belong there.  It’s one of My Places. 

I have quite a few.

Speaking of My Places, I have a roof!  My not-so-little house in a hidden dusty Guanacaste town has a roof complete with a layer of insulation (to keep the heat out, not in) and two canoas internas that apparently work perfectly and with no leaks.  How would I know such a piece of information?  Because THE DAY that the workers finish installing them, it rained.  You should have seen my rain dance!

The Insane Cooking Schedule was supposed to settle down after Semana Santa, and it will.  Not immediately, though.  It’s going to take a few days for the madness to peter out.  Next week is a bit of a zoo and then…Then I can do the things I’ve been dreaming of doing all summer long.  Write.  Take walks.  See friends, if they still remember me. Make pretty beaded necklaces.  Surf! 

My youngest sister turned 50 yesterday, and at the end of the month I’ll be traveling to the USA to celebrate my mom’s 80^th birthday.  It’s not that I didn’t think we would all get old, it’s just that I thought it would take longer.

And, the USA.  Wow.  The only thing I can say is that I remember sitting in the lounge of the dorm during my first (or second? I forget.) year of college and having this oddly clear sense that the wheels were about to fall off the wagon and that I might be wise to relocate.  That may be wrong or it may be right.  I guess it depends on who you ask, doesn’t it?

Ten years ago, Pio and I moved back here from our years in the USA.  I’ve been back twice as long as I was even gone.  I remember how happy we were when we got off the airplane.  I remember waking up the next morning and feeling like I had died and gone to heaven.  Heaven turned out to have a few bumps in it. 

The other day I had this sudden memory of Pio the day before he died, during the (thankfully) short time that he was “confused.”  He frequently said things that didn’t make sense to anyone, as people who are at the end of the process of dying often do. He told me that he wanted the measurements of something we were building.  Then guess who was confused, lol. 

He floated away from that subject and onto the next before I had to provide any measurements, thankfully, because he no longer had the capacity for patience and I didn’t want to say, “What measurements?”  But that came back to me, the other day.  I wonder what we were building. 

I think I might know.  At the time, I attributed it to “confusion” which is the only way I had of understanding something like that.  But I now I think he wasn’t confused at all. I suspect he was achieving a different perspective that was unavailable to me.  I channel him all the time when I am trying to decide how the windows should look, or which way the doors should open.

That’s all for now.  Time to pack the boxes and go to tonight’s performance of “I Am a Chef and This Is Your Dinner.”  And let’s hope the tips are generous because after Semana Santa come the electric installations, the water lines, the windows, and the doors!