Muerto el perro, se acabó la rabia

Literally, this idiom means "died the dog, finished the rabies," with the figurative implication being that when the reason for a problem disappears, the effects of the problem also disappear. For example, when we left San Jose, our problem, to spend a week on the Caribbean coast, our problematic stress seemed to dissolve. Even though we encountered some obstacles, including a persistent flat tire, our heart rate still never rose to the same levels as when we are doing the daily grind.

This idiom is also apt for this post because this trip was the first where we were able to bring our dog. Unlike our last planned expedition to Puerto Viejo, we were allowed to rent a car, because we had entered from the United States less than three months ago. One problem dead. As relaxed as he is, Sage is not a stress-free pet. Recently, he was attacked by a dog in our neighborhood, and even before that, he was starting to be less sociable. When he fought with two dogs right before we brought him home from the kennel, we realized our tension was part of the problem. We had concerns that our nerves would cause him to not be friendly with all the roaming dogs on the beach, but he proved us wrong, thereby helping him and us chill out.

One of our favorite places to hang out, including for the dog, was the porch of our beach house rental. It was a good place to drink potfuls of coffee, read three whole books, and do dozens of Sudoku puzzles, which is what we did for the first couple of days because it rained so much. And we didn't mind at all.

Since Sage seemed comfortable enough and is not a fan of water in any form, we left him at home while we explored nearby Punta Uva and Manzanillo. Unfortunately, we got trapped behind a fallen tree coming back from our first trip, which meant that I walked 3 kilometers back to the house to make sure Sage was all right. He didn't even seem to realize that we were gone. So later, when we went to see Playa Chiquita and Cahuita later in the week, we weren't as worried about leaving him alone.
On my way walk home, I saw even more downed trees, some of which were precariously and scarily hanging on power lines. Even though the tree our car was stuck behind was moved within an hour (Tim pulled up to the house just as I arrived on foot, of course), the storm wreaked havoc on the local infrastructure, leaving us without water and electricity for the evening, so we had to head into Puerto Viejo for dinner. After a straight 24 hours of rain, we decided Sage would have to suck it up, so we drove him down to Manzanillo and took him out in the light drizzle. He wasn't exactly thrilled to get damp, but he seemed to enjoy the empty beach. And he even got along with a frisky street dog who was overeager to play, giving Sage a dose of the medicine he doled out when he was a puppy.
After the rains receded later in the week, we took Sage to the remote sands of Playa Chiquita, within walking distance of our house. Because the beach is rocky there, we saw hardly any people. But Sage did get to meet yet another friendly beach dog, who hung out with us for at least an hour before he suddenly whined loudly and, after I didn't respond to his request, inexplicably ran off.
We didn't see very many people, but toward the end of day, we did see a group of 20 or more monkeys migrate down the beach through the treetops. We tried and tried to get Sage to look up, so he could figure out the source of all the rustling branches and falling leaves, but he never did spot them.In fact, it was hard enough for us to spot them because they were moving so fast, but I did manage to get at least one photo where you can tell from the tail that it is actually a primate. We couldn't tell for sure, but we think these were capuchins, because they were not making the noises of the ubiquitous howler monkeys, whose early-morning grunts would've made me think monster if I hadn't been made aware of their presence.Sage also didn't see this sloth, literally hanging out about 100 meters from where we set up camp on the beach. I wanted to get the animal's face, but it refused to budge, and besides, I wouldn't have had the patience to wait for it to move; their actions truly are slo-mo. Some other wildlife too quick to take pictures of that we saw and Sage didn't were the green and black poison dart frog, chesnut-mandibled toucan, and blue morpho butterfly.When the weather had cleared for good, we were too afraid popular Playa Cocles would be packed on a Saturday, so we left Sage at home. But even though the sand was smoother, we still saw very few people, and even fewer dogs. Clearly, we would've been okay to share the waves with Sage, not that he would've swum in them.
On our last day on the coast, we decided to give Manzanillo a third chance to be the cool beach town we hoped it would be. We were rewarded with the most swimmable water in the region, the most welcoming Caribbean community vibe, and the most picturesque (and actually only) view of the sunset.

A las anchas de uno

I have to admit, it took me a while to figure out how the literal meaning of this phrase, "to the width of one," translates to the figurative meaning, "feel at home." But I guess it means that if there is only one width, you are a part of it, and that's what I felt during our trip to Nicaragua. Tim has always told me how comfortable he felt amid Central American cultures, something that hasn't been apparent in Costa Rica. But when we got to Nicaragua, I understood. All the kids smiled and waved. Their parents exchanged hellos with us. Nicas did not have the "chip on their shoulder," as my landlady describes Ticos as having.

The warm welcome began with the arrival at our first hostel in Managua; even though we showed up in the middle of the night after ringing in the new year on a plane, our host graciously got out of bed to give us our room, trusting us to pay in the morning so she could quickly go back to sleep. The next day, we headed to the city's malecón, or promenade, on Lago de Managua. Despite the fact that we were clearly the only foreigners in sight, we were enthusiastically greeted and served the first of many cheap liter cervezas and ceviche cocktails (all emptied with impunity).
Before catching the bus to our next destination, we wandered around the Área de Monumental, one of the few tourist attractions, if you can call it that, in the capital. One church was left in ruins after two earthquakes. A sign on it read "Christmas for solidarity"; in this country, apparently, the holidays are politicized, not commercialized. A photo posted in front of the cathedral showed how Faith Plaza is where people recognize the anniversary of the Sandinista uprising that felled Somoza's dictatorship in the country.
On the eve of New Year's Day in León, the whole town seemed to be shoring up their resolutions with a mass Mass in the central plaza, which was filled with hot dog, fried chicken, T-shirt and other vendors. There was even a trampoline and bouncy house to occupy the youngsters while the adults exercised their piety. The former capital appeared to be suffering from a clash of its colonial customs and its liberal leanings (rumor has it, the entire town fought against Somoza).
The mass ended in a flourish, with a small series of fireworks set off from just beside the church, which sealed the deal on this being a progressive city. As if the Jesus figure adorned in Christmas lights atop the cathedral wasn't enough. But just to make sure we had seen our full share of forward-thinking, before we left the next morning, we visited the home of Rubén Darío, who helped spread the Modernist literary movement from the Americas to the world.
From León, we headed to its cross-country rival, Granada. The city was the first colonial outpost, leading to its establishment as an economic powerhouse. Not to be outdone, León chose to get a foothold in the political arena by endorsing an American to control Granada from abroad. The competition ultimately led to Managua being declared the capital and Granada choosing to be politically opposite of León in the Sandinista revolt, even today considering itself the more conservative city. Indeed, one sign indicated more restrictions: At the "tourist center" malecón on Lago de Nicaragua, people aren't allowed to swim in the water. But apparently, cows and horses may graze on the basketball court nearby.
The real tourist center of Granada is a pedestrian-only street connecting the central plaza to the lake. While walking back toward the square, we stopped to watch a sandlot baseball game, where players sang the praises of former Cleveland Indian Dennis Martínez, the first Nicaraguan to play in the Major Leagues, and tipped us off to game that night at the local stadium. The liberalness of León still lingering on us and not sure whether the game started at 5 or 6 p.m., we stopped for a beer. We made it to the game only an hour late, but it was already in the seventh inning. Apparently, the action moves faster without TV timeouts. And in another distinction from American stadiums, beers were being sold until the last out -- for less than a dollar!
Our next stop, San Juan del Sur, was plenty American, but we had to spend at least one night at a beach, right? Many people had told us it was overwhelmed with tourists, but on a Sunday night, we had no problem finding a room. But those same people were right about the beach being overrated. The sand and surf wasn't spectacular, but the view from our balcony was serene enough.
The tourists in San Juan del Sur must head to the surrounding hills after the sun goes down, because after drinking happy-hour beers right up until the 8 p.m. deadline, the town seemed to shut down. I was a little worried about finding something to eat, but when we wandered into the locals part of town, plenty of people were out and about. An enticing odor lured us to the first of many standard grilled meals: chicken, rice and beans, plantain chips, and cabbage salad. Our thanks goes out to Juanita for keeping us from starving and making our first BBQ platter the best.
With that load of food still filling up my belly, we headed to another coastal location, but this time it was on the freshwater Lago de Nicaragua. As we rode the ferry to Isla de Ometepe, with lots of waves and little breathing room, I was hoping not to be that tourist, the one who gets seasick. I needn't have worried, though, because an old lady native beat me to it; and yet, after seeing her do the deed, I was still able to keep my chuck down.
After another packed ride, this time by bus, to our hotel in Altagracia, we ended up resorting to another BBQ meal in a sleepy town. But it was a good idea to power us through riding bikes the next day around the island, which happens to be quite hilly and have very few paved roads. Our first stop was Ojo de Agua, a natural spring that manages not to get heated by the two volcanoes that make up the island. But the cool water pools -- which reminded me of Blue Spring in Florida, but with more English speakers -- were refreshing after nearly an hour of bumpy biking.
After cooling off, we continued on to Santo Domingo, purportedly one of the nicest beaches on the island. The rough water didn't look enticing to me, but the smooth beers at the beachside huts did. Plus, the view overlooking the lake was a nice reward after another leg on our rocky ride.
Tim did brave the waves while I stayed safely on the shore, worrying that we wouldn't make it back on our bikes before nightfall, especially if he got tired out by the battering whitecaps. But I did at least discover how to use the full digital zoom on my camera, which let me shoot Tim, photographically that is, from at least 400 meters away.
The boat ride back from the island was not only less jarring than the first ferry trip and bike trek combined, but it was also more scenic. The mystic majesty of Volcan Concepción, foreground, and Volcan Maderas wasn't a bad impression to carry in my mind as we took a 9-hour bus ride (okay, three were spent getting through the border) back to Costa Rica.

Valer la pena

Literally, this Spanish phrase means "avail the punishment," which is a little harsher than the figurative meaning: "worth the effort," which is an apt description of how I felt after spending a day making tamales with one of our colleagues, who was nice enough to invite us to participate in one of her family's Christmas traditions. It reminded me a lot of my family's tradition of making popcorn balls, where a third of the time is spent cooking, while the other two-thirds are spent socializing and eating, totally undermining the task at hand. It was also similar in that people take on different roles in contributing to the food production. For example, as a kid, I was always put to the easier and more mindless task of popping popcorn. In Costa Rica, the assessment of my prowess was much the same: My first task was to clean off the banana leaves that make the casing for the tamales, not to be confused with the corn husks that are used for the Mexican version. As you can see, I was assisted by an equally able toddler: The heavier lifting, literally, was left to the more experienced in the kitchen, where they made the masa, the doughy mass that binds all the fillings together. Masa is a simple recipe, mostly just corn meal and chicken stock (the preferred option over lard by the nutrionist matriarch), but the procedure requires more upper body strength than I have acquired. But they were good-natured enough to at least let me have a go of it. Once again, though, the toddler got a shot, too, and I think she bested me: The masa-making gets even harder because after the ingredients are mixed together, they must cook on the stove, with continual stirring, a difficult prospect while standing. And as the mixture cooks, it gets thicker, requiring even more effort to stir. This is one reason men should definitely be in the kitchen: As the masa simmered, I and most of the rest of the family were left to the less strenuous task of preparing the fillings. This included cutting peppers, beans, pork, chicken, a mixture of vegetables in a mustard-based sauce, and twine as well as putting peas, prunes, olives, and rice into serving bowls, ready for the assembly line. I was more than happy with this assignment because it afforded the possibility to drink wine in between cutting and pouring: When all the prep work was finished, we took a break for lunch, to fortify ourselves for the upcoming ordeal. When production began, the pros were in the lead, with the mother splatting just the right amount of masa on a banana leaf, followed by one daughter on rice and mustard vegetables and another on pork and chicken: Then Tim and I got in on the action, with him on beans and carrots and I on peas and peppers. I was followed by the granddaughter, who had fun mooshing in a date and prune for each tamale. But man, sometimes that toddler got distracted, and I had to cover her station as well as mine; I guess that's what you get from free child labor: Last but not least, the son-in-law had just the right knack for folding the leaves around the stuffing (and I do mean stuffed). The whole assembly line shut down whenever he had to chase down the aforementioned distracted toddler. Then dad tied two tamales together with twine to create a piña, or pair: The magic number of the day was 80: 80 pieces of carrots, 80 pieces of pepper, 80 slices of beans -- the list goes on and on, because we were shooting for 80 tamales. Once we reached our goal, it was time to relax (or in some toddler's cases, nap, or in some adults' cases, drink more) while the piñas boiled for a couple of hours: By late dinnertime, our payoff was to be had. Normally, we'd get to take the fruits of our labor home with us, but since we were leaving the country the next day, we took our loot on site. I only had enough energy to eat one, but Tim demurely accepted double the pleasure: