Those I Met Along the Way- 1. James

 

 

(James is in my email address book as JamesCR.  He is the first of many I’ve met along the way. They are each in my address book with the initials of whatever town or country I met them in. I’ve not seen James again, but we have corresponded throughout the ten years since we met one night in Costa Rica.  He remains special to me for the friendship we’ve shared and the one night that started it all.)

 

 There was a bonfire on the beach near my hostel.  It was the night before I was to return to San Jose, to eventually return to the States. By this time, the States seemed more foreign to me than anywhere I’d ever been.

 I sat alone on a log near the fire, an Imperial in hand. Someone was playing a guitar. Someone else was playing bongos.  The tide kept better rhythm.  I watched as he left the bonfire and headed down a path through the woods.

 I followed him a few minutes later. I saw flashlights up ahead and for some reason felt like I should be more discreet, more hidden, like all of a sudden this was some undercover spy mission. I came upon him and some other traveler I had not seen at the bonfire.

“Whatcha doing?” I said.  Hands were shoved in pockets, flashlights turned off.

“Oh, an American,” He said.

“Ya, that’s right.” I said.

“Bloody hell,” He said. (I’m not sure if that’s exactly what he said or not, but he is British and I’ve heard him say it loads of times since. I've also come to know this as a particularly common expression when a Brit hears an American accent.)

 I don’t know what made me so confident as to simply follow James into the woods to catch some illicit drug trade happening. Nor what made me so confident as to follow him back to the bonfire like we were old friends, but I did. And he let me.  And when we were back at the bonfire, to everyone else, we were the old friends we’d become in the length of the five minute walk back.

 We listened to more of the music, another drummer had joined. The keeper of the fire had given up, in a huff, demanding someone else do the tending. Someone reluctantly did. They always do. A joint was passed. James left to get us more Imperials.  When he returned, he took my hand and pulled me from the log.

 We went walking. Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica is a tiny little town.  There were few places to go, but we found them. A crowded dance club on the beach, where we lost each other a time or two, an empanada stand with the hottest chilera I’ve ever had, a spot on the beach where the waves couldn’t reach us.

 We were up all night, two strangers, a little less strange to one another. The relief of a night spent in the freedom that comes with knowing you will never see this person again. No pretense, no restraint.

When dawn came, we walked to the hostel to get my bags.  I wondered if I needed to pay for the night’s room.  He walked me back to the bus that would take me to San Jose and waited till it pulled away.

 It was more a ‘see you later’ than a ‘good bye.’  It was not tearful or long. We did not exchange addresses or numbers.  There was a simple smile shared between us. A wave from the window as the bus rolled out of sight.

 It dropped me near the hostel where I would be staying for my last night before returning to The United States.  I showered and napped and organized. I went to the common area to hang out and watch some American TV. I was lying on the floor, half on a bean bag when he tapped my shoulder.

 Another simple smile shared between us.  We had become numb to the various coincidences and run-ins that happen while traveling.  We had perhaps come to expect them, though I never anticipated seeing him again.

 Serendipity rarely strikes twice.  We recognized the moment and the anomaly of it. We exchanged addresses this time.  We sat in the common area a little unsure how to proceed.  It only took us a moment to realize there was no need for either of us to do anything. Things had clearly been set in motion.