#2

The sun pokes his head over the cresting waves at about 6:00 am here in Uvita, the  same time that we typically rise from our androgynous double to give a quick yawn and stretch. Our bodies' internal clocks have adapted and settled remarkably; these days, our ups and downs mimic that of the sun and moon. It is a astoundingly simple, yet beautiful life here in Uvita. After all, its Uvita de Oro.

Five days ago marked our welcome departure from the sweat-lodge of a bus that carried us to this nugget of Costa Rican gold.  Noting the kilometer markers as we drove down coastal Rt. 34 - Dominical 18 km, Uvita 34 km - a moment of sedentary panic set in. The bus was still yet to make a stop since our departure nearly four hours before from San Jose. And soon, past Dominical - Uvita 10 km! Sure this was the right direction, but were we on the fast track to Panama or something? After quick deliberation, we decided that one of us must make a move towards the front of the bus to alert the driver as to our desired destination. Stumbling over various limbs and awakening quite a few ticos form their slumber along the way, Nick ambled up to the driver with a declaration, "Pardon senor. necesitamos Uvita!" After mumbling something about equipaje to him, it seemed clear that he got the drift and before long we were veering off the road and coming to a stop. There was not a semblance of a town in sight, not a single dwelling or street sign, a lonely power line our only compadre. Somewhat begrudgingly we stepped out into the mid-day sun, grabbed our packs and took off down the road in search of our Atlantis. The walk was not terribly far, and in no time were emptying our backpacks, assembling our belongings in the one room apartment we now consider our home.

For those of you who know Nacho Libre think of Nick as a slightly taller, marginally more attractive Jack Black interrupting a group of playing children, "Ninos! Necisito su ayuda! Donde esta la playa?" He pulled it off exquisitely. They pointed west, and we arrived at the water just in time to soak our bones in the warm, Pacific backlit by diminishing pinks, purples, and reds in the sky. The sand here is as fine as we've ever felt; each step our feet are elegantly swallowed, as if the beach were dining in the haughtiest of brasseries. Jungle palms form a sort of Maginot line, a clear demarcation between the lands of earth and sea that collide with explosive inevitability here in the Costa Rica. The land is a rustic, bucolic paradise. 

Our days here have begun to coalesce, absorbed into one and other like a set of Russian nesting dolls. Each sunrise marks an indistinguishable beginning; each day is both a derivative of the one before it and an independent entity all its own. The meal we eat for breakfast could be the meal we eat for lunch, or the one eaten the previous evening for dinner. Our morning jogs always lead us to the same destination, the only variable the solvency of the earth beneath our feet, a reminder of the torrents that fell from the sky the evening before.  The afternoon playlist differs, but our embrace as we dance delicately around the chairs and tables of our one-room always echoes the same sentiment. We are home here, together, for today.

xo,
nick tiberio and noelle graupner