Vol.3

The Flight

It was as if I flew from the land of asphalt and slow talking cowboys blaring chop and screw music to land filled with much rain, insects, and reggeaton. Living in cozy Costa Rica you have bugs galore, the type of bugs you would think crawl on you only in the scary movies. Large, some poisonous, others buzzy, colored black, blue, orange, one would be wise to avoid. Indeed, crossing from the cool breezes of Houston in mid November into the very hot and humid Coronado make me miss the fall wind my family and friends would feel in Texas. Landing into a country filled with greenery and environmental abnormalities like volcanos, waterfalls, jungles, even caters I realize that I miss my university’s homecoming. Ironically I flew from my home in United States into a new homecoming. My friends would say back home say “Go cougars!” here the people say “Beinviendos, pure vida mi amigos.”

The fearsomeness of the wood had been a good bit rubbed off for me by Master Case’s banjo-strings and graven images, yet I thought it was a dreary walk, and guessed, when the disciples went up there, they must be badly scared. The light of the lantern, striking among all these trunks and forked branches and twisted rope-ends of lianas, made the whole place, or all that you could see of it, a kind of a puzzle of turning shadows. They came to meet you, solid and quick like giants, and then span off and vanished; they hove up over your head like clubs, and flew away into the night like birds. The floor of the bush glimmered with dead wood, the way the match-box used to shine after you had struck a lucifer. Big, cold drops fell on me from the branches overhead like sweat. There was no wind to mention; only a little icy breath of a land-breeze that stirred nothing; and the harps were silent.