American in disguise

(from hand-written journal)

Deplaned onto the tarmac and ran into a cattle line of beautiful humans and flat out ugly Americans. I was in the former category. Why? No socks, flip-flops and an iPhone receiving dictation. But I also had to pee my brains out, so as soon as I cleared customs I made my way to my first Central American rest room and pissed for about 5 minutes. Then I caught my luggage before the weirdest thing happened. As soon as I made my way to the other side of the airport, a driver came up to me and said, “Hello, Mr. Patrick.” How the fuck he knew me, I’ll never know. Fuck him, though he was a nice guy. I asked how he knew me and he said. "Isn't da weter nice today? Perhaps you should let me drive." So I shut up. And he took my private car voucher, put me in his luxury bus, and drove me to the resort. The landscape of Costa Rica is interesting. It was the dry season, so the river and creek beds were dry, the cattle and horses were skinny, and the hitchhiking hookers were kind of bosomy. My driver was nice enough to play Mr. Roboto by Styx 3x. In a row. Got to the resort and found my room to be perfectly placed near the pool and beach and bar. It took me an hour after checking in to decide what to do first. So I went to the beach. High tide soon washed upon me so I moved to the pool. Got some sun, then went to the bar. Met a mother and daughter on vacation together. They were doing shots.