Sergio the Great

Recently I was sorting through flights for a potential trip back to Costa Rica, and I found myself being pummeled by the same waves of nostalgia as I always do when my ridiculous brain starts thinking about traveling to literally anywhere outside Pensacola city limits.  I pulled up a few travel sites and punched in some options for departure airport and date combinations, and it happened. Just like it always does. Seriously. Every single time.

Los Locos de Big Momma

This particular instance, I found myself reliving a unique weekend in which I ventured out with two of my Tico buddies, Daniel and Willman, into the wilderness. Now, when I say wilderness, I'm not talking about a patch of forest that some folks choose not to explore because it's off the beaten path. I'm not talking about a hike that might be classified as something your sweet grandma probably couldn't quite handle because of some tougher, steeper hills. I'm not talking about a place that you saw on some obscure Instagram account and thought, "Oh shoot, I wanna go there too."

No, no, no. (That's two English 'no's and then a Spanish 'no' for good measure)

I'm talking about a place that literally no human being had been to. A place that'd only been seen through satellite camera lenses. A place that had never been charted or documented. A place that was truly untouched, in every possible sense of the word.

How did we come up with this ridiculous idea? Well, it all started with a Facebook message. One of my fellow waterfall aficionados is a kind man from the Northeast named Dean. Dean and his friend Bryan co-manage the World Waterfall Database (Click here to check it out), and we had spoken briefly about a few of the lesser known waterfalls that I had had the fortune of exploring in my free time in Ticolandia. Dean sent me a message one day that really, really caught my attention; he forwarded to me the coordinates for three separate spots on a map that he'd discovered during his routine scans of satellite imagery on the lookout for waterfalls.

Being the obsessed waterfall fiend I was/still am (as much as I can be in the attitudinally-challenged flatlands of northwest Florida), I immediately pulled out my tablet to dive into this. Zooming in on the three sets of coordinates, I saw what to this day remains one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

Tiny little threads of joy

Okay, I admit - it may not look like much; however, in the darker spaces of this satellite image, if you look reallllllly closely, you'll see them. Look super closely. Those wonderful little white threads are - as far as Dean was convinced - waterfalls. He also mentioned that he had done some rudimentary calculations and estimated them to measure somewhere between 200 and 300 meters - between 656 and 984 feet tall, or, for reference, between half to two-thirds the height of the Empire State Building.

Inspired by these basic images, I shot a text to Daniel, a Tico pal of mine who had already accompanied me through the Costa Rican backcountry. I knew that if I was to make this idea a reality, I would need a companion, and I felt Daniel would be just the right person to join me. His eternal positivity, his appreciation for the small things, and his adventurous spirit would be important on a journey like this.

At Las Orquídeas Waterfall with Daniel in December 2016

I also did my best to scout out information on the local area, but I soon discovered that... well... there wasn't any. Despite my best investigatory efforts, not one thing existed in reference to those coordinates, the surrounding area, or any nearby terrain. It was, by all intents and purposes, completely untouched. The best I could muster was the place names for a handful of what seemed to be dairy farms on the other side of the main peak to the south, closer to a valley nestled almost squarely between a pair of active volcanos. 

Armed with very limited information, I sprang the idea on Daniel, who almost immediately mentioned his brother-in-law, Willman. It just so happens Daniel's sister married a topographer who has a knack for outdoorsy experiences. He said he'd pitch the idea to Willman and get back to me. Less than a day later, I was making plans to get over to San José so I could meet Willman and the three of us could start planning this crazy adventure. 

Willman did not disappoint. We stood at the desk at Casa Colón and pored over all of the topographical resources he had via his job, and an idea began to form. We knew it was going to be a rough hike. We knew we'd need a minimum of three days to get to these giants and back. We knew we'd need to bring more than just a walking stick. Considering all of these factors and more, we chose to plan an exploratory trip just to get a feel for the surrounding area and the true topography of the approach so we could feel as prepared as possible for the hike.

Arriving to the entrance to the expansive valley, we descended slowly through the volcanoes' pass, inching further and further into the cut. I don't mind admitting it now; as we bounced over and chewed up the gravel down the dusty, unpaved road, a small part of me wondered what we were doing out there, but that doubt quickly subsided when I saw the valley floor in all its glory. Sunshine, a cool breeze, and probably the cleanest and crispest air I'd seen in Costa Rica to date all combined for a captivating sense of adventure that dispelled my tiny fears at once.

Turrialba Volcano, off in the background, even showed off
with a little ash-spittin' as a small welcome to the valley.

Following the road through pastures and down further into the valley below, we descended slowly, taking in every square inch of the new spaces around us. Keeping track of the GPS, we realized that the end of the line for us would be right about near a small patch of land with a clearing at the edge of a steep, rocky horse path. Pulling around a curve, we leveled out and saw a small house next to a dairy farm. Stepping out of the vehicle, we introduced ourselves to a young man working to round up the livestock to feed them. Hearing the unfamiliar voices outside, the owner of the farm emerged from the house: the inimitable don Sergio.

We explained what our intentions were regarding the hike, and don Sergio was more than happy to help us by answering a few basic questions about the area as well as offer us a covered area to park Willman's Jeep while we trudged down into the river valley below. Sergio informed us that his property extends out to a certain ridge, but that no one had ever hiked beyond a point in the riverbed below, at least to his knowledge. Realizing that this could, in fact, be a true discovery trip, we cinched up our daypacks and began our descent.

A short portion of the path along the ravine
heading down towards the edge of the finca.

Getting through don Sergio's property was a task in and of itself; his farmland stretches far down the ravine for a few kilometers. We made it all the way down to what we assumed to be the next-to-last slope before the edge of don Sergio's farm, and stopped to marvel at our surroundings. Despite the low-lying clouds and the strong, constant winds pushing them across our view, we were still treated to an extraordinary panoramic view.

The hike back up to don Sergio's house was rough. It was 90% uphill, and I was already tired from caroming down the trenches and hills on our descent, so plopping one foot upward after the other and constantly pulling myself up put my legs to the test. We eventually arrived back at don Sergio's house and were welcomed with a smile. It was a familiar smile, the smile of a campesino, someone from the rural parts, who sees the city-goers after their first bout with new terrain. There was nothing malicious about it whatsoever; rather it was more so just the look of someone who knows the challenges that come with the patch of land he's chosen for his home, and knows them well.

If we ever form a band, at least we know
we've already got our first album cover.

We shook hands with don Sergio and expressed our gratitude for the guidance and the parking spot, informing him that we would certainly be in touch via text messages to let him know when we would plan on returning for the hike. Don Sergio, in his own warm and humble campesino way, thanked us for visiting and wished us well on our return to the city.

On our drive back to civilization, we began to discuss the immense challenge that awaited us on the hike. We all agreed, with the requisite jovial laughter at times thinly concealing the nerves, that this would surely be an epic, once-in-a-lifetime kind of trip. Taking turns, we glanced through our respective schedules to come to an agreement on when this trip would actually take place.

And then the waiting. It would be another four weeks until we ventured out to see Big Momma. In order to maintain my sanity, I thought it necessary to bite off as much as I could of other, more accessible (read: at least one person has been to them) waterfalls. In the three weekends leading up to our trip, I was able to knock three more off my list, taking trips to Caño Seco near Turrialba, Dos Novillos just west of Siquirres, and Pozo Azul in Bajos del Toro.

With trips to four separate waterfalls, February 2019
will surely go down as one of my all-time favorite months

All of these were delightful in their own ways, and I always treasure the opportunity to go to a new waterfall - especially when I get to do it with awesome people (shoutouts to Bethany, Gabriel, Daniel, Lara, Susan, Amani, and Gabo). That said, there was this itch, deep down, that I knew I wouldn't get to scratch until the last weekend in February.

It finally arrived. Packed up and filled with coffee, I grabbed the early bus to Cartago where we'd planned on meeting up. Due to some logistical issues, we were unable to use Willman's Jeep to get to don Sergio's property, so one of Willman's co-workers kindly agreed to drop us off. We'd planned on having someone come pick us up after we hiked out a few days later.

And so it began.

I still remember the moment we started walking. You'd have to ask Willman and Daniel, but I'm pretty sure I was basically running down the steep path, beyond excited to get this hike underway. It was a cloudy day, but I didn't let a lack of sunshine rob me of my childlike joy at the prospect of hunting down a waterfall in the untouched backcountry of that gorgeous place. We meandered our way through the steep paths among don Sergio's cattle pastures, stopping every now and again to wrap markers around trees as reminders for a return.

Being that we started the hike somewhere around 2,100 meters (nearly 7,000 feet), we had to descend quite a bit into the initial river canyon. As we passed through the pastures, we drank in our surroundings. We were completely and utterly drowning in green, lush nature. Despite the dry season, this particular zone didn't seem to be affected by the change, as the vegetation was thick and heavy. And we continued to descend into the valley below.

It was pretty clear to us when we arrived at the end of don Sergio's property. What was once soft hills with fairly well-maintained pasture quickly turned into exactly what we expected: nothing but dense vegetation forming an intimidating green wall along the trees. We stopped for a water break and unpacked our machetes.

Cutting through the thickness, we inched forward along the southern cliff of a smaller river canyon. We took careful steps along the freshly-cut path taking turns in leading the way, and came to a sudden stop when a familiar sound began to grow in volume. All three of us gazed out to the north, searching for its source. There, not even an hour into our hike, we caught a glimpse of our first waterfall. She was nothing in stature compared to what we'd hoped to be our target, Big Momma, but it was definitely a welcome sign.

Continuing slowly through the virgin forest, we fought for a balance between safety and pace, recognizing that nightfall would hit soon among the volcano peaks. I recall a moment when we came to the obvious end of the ridge, and we were faced with no other option but to lower ourselves and our packs by a tree trunk down to the next passable section below.

We took our time and shimmied down the rope, careful to not slip along the damp forest floor, until all three of us along with our packs safely landed further down along the rocky path. As we hacked our way into a path, we instinctively slowed down in anticipation of nightfall. We settled on as flat a space as one would find in such terrain, and I began to unpack my hammock while Daniel and Willman set out to clear a spot for their tent.

Panza llena, corazón contento

Once we'd settled into the campsite, we fired up the gas grill to boil water and grill some cuts of sausage for our little dinner. I came well-prepared; I think I had packed in something like 6 or 8 different Maruchan ramen noodle cups. Cold and wet from the elements, I'm pretty sure that night I ended up eating three whole cups of the blessed noodles.

It wasn't until after the sun disappeared and I was settled into my hammock that the rain really picked up. I was confident in my preparedness, though; I had brought along a tarp that I was sure would keep me dry despite the pouring rain. I have been wrong in my life, but I cannot recall a moment when I was more wrong than that evening between the volcanos. The pouring rain turned to driving rain, and it began to fall at an angle just enough to splash and spray against me underneath my once-useful tarp. Looking over to Daniel and Willman, I also noticed the rain was about the soak through the thin rain fly on their tent. They had not packed anything to cover the tent, and so I pondered a mutually beneficial solution. We ended up combining our material forces, piling like sardines into the two-man tent (NOTE: None of the three of us is to ever be described as thin), but I did not complain. I had two more sources of body heat and I was dry beneath the tarp-covered tent roof.

Home sweet home, complete with good coffee
and enough ramen to feed half of Central America

Awakening to the crisp, cold air the next morning was extra special for me. It just so happened that it was February 23rd. It was three years to the day from when I had originally arrived in Costa Rica for the start of what would end up being one of the most epic journeys of my life, and there I was in the middle of an epic journey in the backcountry with some quality people. It was a nice moment, and suffice it to say the coffee tasted a little extra rich that morning.

Here's to three years of Pura Vida.

Finishing up our breakfast, we broke camp and set off for the next leg sometime after 7am. We continued to eagerly carve our way through the thick vegetation and, after about an hour or so, we arrived at another impassable point. Looking out to our left, further down the canyon wall, we noticed that we had descended quite a bit from the original height of the valley wall from which we'd begun upon reaching the edge of don Sergio's property. From our best guess, we were only about 8-10 meters up, and we decided it was as good a time as any to go ahead and get down to the riverbed.

Opting for the same method of lowering ourselves, we anchored a length of utility rope around another tree trunk and used a chain of our best version of controlled falls to make it down. Our feet hit the boulders that lined the riverbed, and I felt a new surge of energy. We'd reached the end of the first leg of descent; we were one step closer to Big Momma.

Getting down from here would prove too tall a task for the Locos...
For now. 

Scrambling to get our bearings, we pulled out Willman's GPS locator tool and, comparing it to the maps that I'd downloaded for offline use, we realized that we hadn't quite made it to the main riverbed as we'd previously considered. It turns out we had only reached a feeder creek of sorts - albeit wildly long and deep itself - that continued another half kilometer or so until it reaches the main riverbed we would eventually need to reach in order to continue the planned route.

And then the sad news. The moment was a tough one to stomach, but we finally accepted our fate and admitted that we would not be able to continue on as we'd planned. It was clear that this trip would require much more gear than what we'd packed in, and we resorted to enjoying a calm moment in the riverbed before deciding on what was next.

After a brief chat about the possibility of scaling the mountain face on the other side of the riverbed, we decided to call it a hike, and, instead of heading straight back to camp, we chose to follow the riverbed up to the waterfall we'd noticed on the way in. Despite being fairly fatigued from two days of rough hiking and the lowered morale upon realizing we wouldn't get to see Big Momma, we scurried up the riverbed at a decent clip until we turned a corner between the jutting canyon walls and saw her. And then, all of a sudden, everything was okay.

I give you: Catarata Dawida

We did it. We may not have gotten to the exact waterfall that we'd set out to discover, but we discovered a waterfall. None of us had mentioned any potential names that we'd want to give her, but we agreed on Dawida, a combination of the first letters of all three of our first names, Daniel, Willman, and Dakota. I pulled out the small flask of Panamanian rum that I had been keeping stashed for the discovery moment, and we shared a toast to Dawida.

As with most journeys, the return didn't take nearly as long, it seemed, as the approach. We even chose to cut part of the ascent in half by climbing up the southern wall of the canyon surrounding Dawida, which, after quite some effort, spit us out right back on the original path we'd cut the morning before. Arriving back at the campsite, we packed everything we'd left behind, took one last look around and at each other, and turned back toward civilization.

The portion of the return hike, especially after we reached the open landscape of don Sergio's property, turned out to be more difficult than I'd expected. Maybe it was the physical toll of two days' worth of slogging through thick forest undergrowth, maybe it was the mental weight of not quite reaching a goal you'd dreamt of for months, or maybe it was a combination of both, but I noticed a new sluggishness to my steps as we made our way back up the steep terrain.

We finally arrived back at flatter land as we neared the farmhouse and home of don Sergio. Unclipping the backpack straps and freeing the weight of the journey to rest on the ground below me, I was greeted by a friendly voice that I recognized and welcomed. "'Arajo, amigo, ¿cómo les fue?" Don Sergio, the perfect image on rural warmth, was asking how our trip went. As Daniel and Willman arrived and placed their items on the ground next to mine, we were invited into don Sergio's home for a moment to warm up and rest before we made arrangements for our ride.

Not a moment after we crossed the threshold of don Sergio's home, we were offered a bathroom to shower, a space in the back of the house to change into drier, cleaner clothes, and - most surprising of all - warm, homemade tortillas and hot, fresh coffee. Humbled, we happily took turns peeling off the trail-worn clothes and scrubbing off in their heavenly hot water shower before joining don Sergio and his wonderful family at the dinner table.

We sat and told the tale we'd only just lived, and we made sure to not leave out any detail. The genuine smiles on the faces of don Sergio, his wife, and his daughter as we described the last 48 hours in true storytelling form brought a certain contentment to my heart that I believe I'm actually still processing.  Not only that, but when we were unsuccessful in organizing a ride to come pick us up from such an off-the-grid spot, don Sergio even offered to give us a lift to the access road where Willman's wife was able to meet us. The ride in don Sergio's vehicle further deepened my understanding of the Costa Rican concept of Pura Vida, as we enjoyed light-hearted discussion about don Sergio and his own life story while sharing bits and pieces from our own lives. It was a fitting end to the whole experience.

You see, to don Sergio and his family, Daniel, Willman, and I were complete strangers. We showed up out of nowhere, wholly unannounced, asking to take a walk in the woods through and beyond this family's otherwise-undisturbed land. Then, when we returned from our crazy little jaunt, we were welcomed into their home like family, and treated like royalty. It still blows my mind to this day. A trip that was such a unique mixture of emotions and endless highs and lows somehow ended up like that, with the altruism of three folks from the Costa Rican campo proving to me, once again, that there is good in this world.

Don Sergio and the Locos.

My time in Costa Rica with the Peace Corps will always be filled with lifelong memories that I will cherish and never hesitate to share with those around me, but that afternoon sticks out as the moment in which I truly felt connected to the people of that beautiful country. Along with my fellow Locos, I met and passed rich time with a family that I can now consider my friends.

Maybe one day we'll be able to organize another attempt to get to the base of Big Momma. Maybe we'll get a hold of the proper gear to be able to make that a reality. Maybe we'll make that dream come true. I hope we do.

But I'll tell you what: Even if we never set foot anywhere near that river valley again, I still have a full heart from an extraordinary experience, and it's all thanks to a random dairy farmer named don Sergio who became my friend.

Pura Vida.

A Final Salute to the Colonel

My grandfather, Colonel Lonnie Raymond Spivey, lived one hell of a journey. 

Leave it to a damn movie trailer to bring me to the edge of tears. I just watched the new one for the upcoming Marvel flick "Endgame," and a specific line really got to me. As one of the main characters is recording his supposed farewell, he says to his loved ones, "Don't feel bad about this. Part of the journey is the end."

The message I'd been dreading yet hoping for finally arrived

I agree with Mr. Tony Stark. Part of the journey is undoubtedly the end. Although it is surely a great sadness to know that my grandpa is gone, I also find solace in knowing that his pain and suffering here on Earth are finally over, once and for all. There is joy in knowing that he is, at last, free of that burden. 

Our final photo together, from back in July as I visited
with Papa and Gram one last time before returning to CR

As one does, I begin to think about Papa. If there is one thing that will always plaster a smile on my face, it is the way Papa greeted everyone. He was always just so happy to see you - whoever you are. He was always so glad to have people in his home. One of the best storytellers I have ever had the joy of listening to, I like to think I got a little bit of that in my genes. Hearing Papa recount stories of his youth, as he and Gram traveled across the world, I was speechless at the mammoth tales that he'd share with us as kids.

Papa was always willing to listen to anything you had to share

Another fantastic attribute that will resonate with me is his extraordinarily sage wisdom. It never failed - Relationship trouble? Talk to Papa. Big financial decision looming? Talk to Papa. Questioning your life trajectory? Talk to Papa. Doubting yourself and need some uplifting words? ABSOLUTELY talk to Papa. He was such a great listener and always to patient and understanding. I can recall so many times when I came to him with the latest mess I'd made in my own life, and he would sit with me, listen, and then offer the most delicately detailed and perfectly planned out explanation of not only where I may have gone wrong, but also what I could do to get back on track.

Papa sure did love his family, and we love him still

As I think about who my grandfather was and what kind of legacy he leaves, it starts and ends with family. He meant and still means everything to our family. He is truly one of those people who stands as a pillar, holding up the rest of us, often in faithful silence. Papa was never a flashy individual. He never sought the limelight. His pleasure was found in the company that surrounded him. He genuinely loved being among his family and friends.

Colonel Lonnie R Spivey

Over Papa's shoulder is a very special photo of him and
my grandmother welcoming President Ronald Reagan
to an Air Force base during his service in Germany

As much as Papa loved his family, he also loved his country, having served for decades in the United States Air Force, eventually arriving at the rank of Colonel. During his decorated career, he hosted presidents, facilitated some of the greatest operations of his time, and always conducted himself with a warm yet rigid professionalism that exuded confidence in himself and his countrymen as well as the faith to keep fighting in support of his values. He was an exemplary individual.

Simply the kindest man I have ever known

I remember being asked in the interview for Peace Corps, "What is the one thing that would hold you back from going and serving with the Peace Corps?" My answer was always the same thing - that I would miss spending time with my grandpa. In the months leading up to my departure, I remember when I first had a chance to speak with Papa about the notion of moving to CR and serving with the Peace Corps. Despite his broken speech and surely weary soul, he looked me right in the eyes and in one of the most vivid moments I carry with me in my memories, he said to me, "Go help them."

Rest in peace, Colonel. You will be missed. 

Being far from my family at such a tough time is difficult, and I've already shed my fair share of tears alone here in my apartment as I type out this tribute to my larger-than-life grandpa. I find myself inundated with a deluge of memories as I think back on all the moments, events, and reminders of what made my grandpa who he was and is to all of us. I ponder the example he leaves behind, the legacy that begs us to love one another no matter what. I cling to those three words that he so softly whispered to me, and I smile as I consider that the Colonel is up there, somewhere, looking down on us with his own big smile.

I love you, Papa.  I hope to see you again one day.

Democracy from a Distance

I wake up this morning to a cool breeze coming in through my back window. My neighbor's dogs are barking at something or someone down on the street, and I hear a few birds beginning to stir and sing as the sun rises over the mountains to the east, just over the palm trees that line the main boulevard here in Turrialba. I roll over in my bed and reach for my phone. A few messages from volunteers along with a meme or two, a link to a website about a new waterfall in a message from one of my Tico friends, and an email about the latest solar power tech greet me as I sit up and rub my eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary, by any stretch of the imagination.

By all appearances, it's just another Tuesday here in Costa Rica. You wouldn't know it, but a few countries to the north, big things are happening. Today we have the Midterm Elections to decide a number of key Senate, House of Representative, and gubernatorial races, along with who knows how many amendments and referendums. It is a day that has been coming for some time, and it's finally here. But the cool breeze still blows as soft as always, and my water boiler clicks off to let me know it's time to pour into my tiny, single-serving French press. The same sensation and sounds I experience every morning.

Stirring a packet of Costa-Rican off-brand Splenda into my coffee, I boot up my laptop and log on to see what's already unfolding in the United States. Facebook reminds me, yet again, of the growing divide in our bipartisan political system. Twitter reminds me of the sublime truth that humor can be found in the direst circumstances. My hometown news outlet, Pensacola News Journal, offers a fair and balanced (a bit surprising for having been written in Escambia County, Florida) write-up on the biggest issues facing our great nation, down to the county level back where I was born in Pensacola.

It's a sobering moment of separated inspiration in which I realize that I am part of what is happening, having cast my overseas ballot by fax this past week with the help of our main office in San José. I think about all of the conversations happening over breakfast, some amicable and others perhaps not so much. Political lines have long since been drawn, crossing states, counties, districts, neighborhoods, streets, and, in some cases, living rooms and kitchens. It is an exciting time, to be sure, as the entire voting populace readies itself to go to the polls, stands in line, casts its vote, and sits back waiting with bated breath for the results that will (hopefully) come out later this evening.

"To confirm that your ballot was successfully
sent to the indicated fax number." thanks to Olga!

I take another bite of oatmeal and scroll through my Instagram feed and notice a post from the main Peace Corps account, highlighting volunteers serving in countries like China, Botswana, and Kosovo who have taking the initiative just like I and many of my fellow Peace Corps Costa Rica volunteers have done. I smile as I double-tap the image, content knowing that I am from a place where we are afforded such rights.

Today is a good day. Today I know my voice will be heard and will help to shape the future of my district, my county, my state, and my country. If you are, by chance, reading this and you haven't yet gone to vote, please go. Exercise your right as a citizen of the United States, and go vote!

Un Año, Pero Lleno

Even the locally-grown, gourmet coffee I purchased
the day before was stolen that night, so you know
I'm not joking when I tell you it was rough. 

One year ago tonight, things changed quite a bit for me in my journey in Costa Rica with the Peace Corps. 
Waking up to an empty apartment and the sobering discovery that virtually all of my personal possessions had been stolen while I slept in my bed will always be one of my most difficult memories. The flood of emotions that swept through me - fear for my personal security, despair for the loss of material items, anger toward the guilty person(s), and failure in my role as a volunteer in my community - tossed and turned inside me for what seemed like an eternity. 
In the hours and days that followed, however, I began to realize the stellar quality of the people I had around me. My neighboring volunteers, numerous office staff members, and a few wonderful host country nationals rallied around me and offered some pretty outstanding support in my process of starting over. 
It would be a sisyphean task to try and depict the twists and turns of the following twelve months. So many changes unfolded as I worked to reset my trajectory: A new site, a new community, a new region, a new host family, a new local development association, new documentation, and many other intricate adjustments were required in the new undertaking. It would be some time before I felt even a shred of what we call normalcy.

My site change landed me
back in San José's backyard

Despite all the tumult of those days, I still say - with no hesitation whatsoever - that I look back on the overall outcome with a broad smile across my face. One of those ear-to-ear jobs. I landed in a very special place in El Llano, working with motivated individuals and groups, living with a tender and caring host family, and I ended my two years of service on what I think was the highest note possible. 

Sonia Mora Bermudez, my host mom in my
second site. She's one of the best people I've met. 

The experience absolutely led me to consider extending my time here in Costa Rica with the Peace Corps, and it surely influenced my decision to apply for the Regional Leader position - a role I'm very much so enjoying these days. 

My newest family: PCCR's Regional Leaders along
with our wonderful coordinator, Mónica Salas

Bottom line: I'm not here to deny that life comes with enormous challenges; no one could ever claim such nonsense. Life is hard, and then you become an adult. Rather, I'd simply like to reach into my own tattered bag of life experience and pull out a glimmer of hope for you. If you find yourself in the midst of some considerably trying times, press forward. Press forward with as much positivity as you and your support network can muster, and I promise you it will end up for the better. 
Learn from everything, and you'll always come out on top. 

Love y'all.

Build It Better

There's a song I've recently come to really enjoy called Build It Better by an artist named Aron Wright. The central theme is the deep notion of starting over, of going back to the beginning, of trying again - especially in the wake of a sorrowful season of loss. The lyrics reference what one would assume to be the remnants of a building following a flood, as the narrator claims, "You can still see where the water was, in a line at the top of the chimney bricks."  The lyrics go on to describe, with certain and positive verbiage, that "you always build it better the second time around."

I've tried to be careful to not broadcast too much of the story in its entirety, but I feel comfortable enough to mention now, some three weeks later, that there've been some unfortunate events that took place in my old Peace Corps community related to my safety and security. As a result, I was working with leadership at Peace Corps Costa Rica to realize a site change. Since those events back in SIAC, I can tell you with unequivocal confidence that I am and have been in great hands.  The Peace Corps Costa Rica office staff has done a truly incredible job attending to my specific needs in light of what took place. From the top to the bottom, I've felt as supported as ever - if not even more this time around -  by this amazing group of people.

And that's not even mentioning my fellow volunteers! During the nearly-four weeks in which I'd been awaiting final confirmation for the official move, I had the delight of working with a number of fellow PCVs here in Costa Rica. For example, just a week and a half ago, I had the opportunity to head back up north, an hour from my old site, and help with an employability workshop that one of my fellow volunteers had previously organized. I got to give a class about interviewing dos and don'ts, and then we were able to do a handful of mock interviews to help the students become more comfortable with typical questions that come up in a professional interview.

For me, it was a very needed breath of fresh air. Being there in that classroom, in front of those students, seeing them each pay attention with real and overt effort, and feeling the passion for a legitimate job and means of self-support floating in the air... it was just what I needed at that point in my Peace Corps journey.

In the in-between, as I was still awaiting the final confirmation and the green light to move to the new site, I was asked to take on a role with a few other groups. It only served to open my eyes even more to how vast the reach of this organization is in this beautiful country. Never one to sit on my butt for too long, I'm grateful to have had these opportunities. At the same time, I was also very eager to get to my new site.

My old site (the star) was a six hour ride to San José.
El Llano (the pin) is literally 45 minutes from downtown.

Speaking of my new site, it has been made official. I arrived yesterday to my new host family's house in the semi-urban community of El Llano, which is in San Miguel de Desamparados. I'm only a day into my experience here, but I can tell you that it seems to be a very, VERY good fit. Considering that in my old site I had witnessed the ups and downs of a number of different projects, I'm cautiously optimistic about how a few of these former projects wiggle their way into my work in El Llano.

For example, in SIAC, we'd worked to develop an Environmental Committee that had slowly begun to lose momentum due to some of the members having had children. I'd also worked with a community member to begin giving a community computer class/economic registry project which had been put on hold due to a change in venue. Finally, I'd organized a second round of a women's entrepreneurship course that was just getting started with the help of a former course graduate as a co-teacher when the events that caused my departure took place. Imagine my contentment when, as I read through the information packet about El Llano, I noticed a mention of local environmental awareness, a computer class based in the local technical high school, and a strong desire for developing entrepreneurship among women in the community.

The housing situation was quite a story in and of itself. Having heard that the only real housing option had since changed her mind and now was not open to having a volunteer, we set out to find a few other options. We heard of a couple small homes and went to check them out earlier this week. Not quite desperate but most definitely ready to get started, I was willing to move into a less-than-awesome place. My program manager don Luis and I stopped by the first option, looked around, took some pictures and notes, and agreed that it would do. After leaving that house, we ended up in the living room of the former host family option, where doña Sonia and her family live. She invited us to coffee, and we sat and shared small talk. Eventually, doña Sonia took a deep breath and said, "Well, the thing is I don't know if he (me) would be happy here, because it's only the women. But I tell you what. I'll talk to my daughters and we'll see what they have to say." I left that house honestly not expecting anything but a delayed no from her.

The next day I went back down to the community with Aimee, my regional leader, to do an official house check on the first option and, hopefully, get a chance to see the second one which we were unable to see the day before. We made our way around the back streets and eventually arrived to the second option, only to find that it was almost certainly going to be denied, due to its proximity to a river and being next to a hillside that was susceptible to a landslide. And so, we stopped in to the local school to have a quick bite to eat before we headed back to San José. I had essentially begun to mentally accept the fact that I was going to have to move into the only real option I had. It wouldn't be the end of the world, and I was certain I could make it work.

It was at that very moment I got a phone call from an unknown number. "Hello?" I answered. "Hello, Dako, how are you?" the voice on the other end of the call said. "Uhhh.. I'm well, but... sorry, who is this?" I inquired. "This is your new mom, my son," she said. I instantly realized it was doña Sonia. She asked us to come by the house for a cup of coffee, so we scarfed down the rest of our empanadas and bolted. Upon arriving, we were greeted by a house full of family, and we sat down to some little snacks and a warm cup of coffee. After a little more small talk, doña Sonia turned to me and said, "Here's the deal. We want to offer you a place to live." I couldn't believe it. Here was this woman who had all but told us that her home wasn't an option, and yet she was inviting me to live with her and her family.

It ends up working out perfectly, too. She has a small house on the same property (behind a big, metal gate too) in which another woman is currently living, but she's on her way out around the end of the month. At that point, I'll be able to slide into that spot and have my own place for the remaining seven months or so until the end of my service.

And so, in less than a month, I've gone from some pretty difficult circumstances to an overwhelmingly positive situation. I'm still wholly undecided as to what's next after May of 2018, but I will say I'm very thankful for the way the Peace Corps staff and my fellow volunteers have helped me get through this little hiccup. I'm excited to see what's next.

Here's to building it better the second time around.

Speak American

This morning I watched a video of an older lady in line at a mall in Louisville, Kentucky, completely berating a pair of Latina women for no reason. [The video claims that one of the women stepped in front of her to join her friend in line; hardly a felony] The older woman, in one of the worst showings of racism and bigotry that I've seen on social media, unleashed a barrage of slurs and horrendous claims, telling the women to "Go back from where the f*ck you come from," and "You're probably on welfare. We probably paid for all that stuff." When one of the Latina women tried to tell her - in English - "I say sorry," the older woman replied, "It's OK. Speak English. You're in America."

This raises something that I can't help but share today. As you know, I'm currently living in a foreign country. In this country, I am afforded certain privileges and rights, given my particular job with a U.S. government organization. When I see things like this video, I can't help but ponder what it must be like to be a minority living in the United States these days. My goodness, the contrast that must exist. Politics aside, there seems to be an ever-growing fear of the unknown when it comes to foreigners, and it's heartbreaking. 

I just checked the United State of America's Wikipedia page, and - wouldn't you know it - under the section entitled Official Language, it says None at a federal level. Interesting. So, regardless of the state in which you find yourself, there is no official language of the good ol' U.S. of A. And yet, what is the long-running joke? "You're in America! Speak American!" 

I'm aware that the older woman didn't say "Speak American" in the video, but she did make an error in her explanation. Telling the women they're "in America" is about as vague as it gets. The funny thing here is that unless these women are from Spain or Portugal, they are undoubtedly from America. Most of you will understand this already, but think of what it means when you say America: both continents of North and South America qualify. So a person from Ushuaia, Argentina, near the southern tip of the continent, has just as much right to claim themselves as an American as someone born in the urban jungle of New York, New York, or the plains of rural Nebraska.

Me and my (Central) American family

Back to the video. Something strikes a chord in me about the way this older woman felt so comfortable acting like that in front of complete strangers. She had no shame whatsoever casting loud and biting judgment on these otherwise innocent women. My heart goes out to the minority in the United States today. I'm not speaking about the current political leadership nor its landscape. I'm talking about the average small town where someone of a different race is trying to make ends meet but is fighting an ever-steepening uphill battle against seemingly impossible odds.

I was born into a middle-class, white, USAmerican family. In other words, I hit the damn jackpot. That said, living in a different country has exposed me to what it is to be that different person. To be looked at and, quite possibly, judged. But even so, because of my particular genetic makeup, I end up getting treated - on average - so much better than other minorities in other countries, including the good ol' U. S. of A.

So what's the solution? Well, I'd say that in order to find the solution, we need to better understand the problem. What is it that divides us? As I mentioned before, I believe it's a basic fear of the unknown. I imagine it unfolding like this:

The line at the supermarket is long. The Latina mother of three is trying to quiet her youngest child's cries while she waits her turn to purchase diapers, groceries, and other basics for her family. As she shuffles closer to the cash register, she glances over her shoulder and sees a tall, middle-aged man wearing a red hat looking - literally and figuratively - down on her. The toddler won't stop crying, and the man mutters something under his breath about a wall being built. The high school boys between the Latina mother and the man overhear the comment and start to giggle among themselves. The mother, bilingual and completely aware of what the man said, decides to play dumb and act as if she didn't understand what the comment was about. She offers an obviously fake smile and turns back to face the cash register. The older man feels accomplished, as if he's fulfilled his duty as an American, the young boys got a little laugh in, and the Latina woman and her family feel a little less welcome. And the cycle continues. Little do the man or the youngsters know, that mother of three works from home - legally - on her college degree while her husband works at the local factory - legally - assembling the very vehicles that the man and the high schoolers will get into once they've finished their business here.

Do you see the disconnect? Do you see the problem? It's a massive breakdown in communication. It's one of the saddest examples of misunderstanding I can imagine, and it really does break my heart. So many ridiculous assumptions made. So many needless, hurtful comments hurled at minorities for nothing more than being different, for looking different, for sounding different. 

I know that the majority of people who would read this may not be Spanish speakers, but do you know how beautiful the Spanish language really is? You don't have to be fluent to hear the beauty in the rhythm of it. To hear the accent as it dances from syllable to syllable. I've been completely enamored with it since I began re-learning it back in February of last year. And so it amazes me that some people would lose their mind when they're asked to press a button on their cell phone to select English, meanwhile sweating each second they have to endure hearing a Spanish sentence. 

I honestly hope and pray that we as USAmericans can find a way to be more welcoming and loving to our fellow man and woman, no matter how different he or she may look or sound. If I can help in that, I want to. I've had interesting conversations recently about what will come following the end of my service, and it's become clear that there's a corner of passion in me that wants to see this injustice come to a swift end. We'll see what happens.

I'm proud to be an American, and I know so many others who'd say the same thing - in a completely different language.

Siempre Esperando

< sigh >

You were probably just as exhausted from 2016 as I was around 11:30pm on December 31st. Amid all the horrific headlines, ridiculous memes, and news of celebrity deaths, it was a pretty tough year for a lot of people. I count myself among those affected by the throes of the previous 12 months.

Among many things, I...

• Moved to Costa Rica (in case you missed that)
• Endured 3 months of PCCR training
• Met some of the most amazing people in this world
• Ate cow tongue
• Ate cow tail
• Went to my first international soccer game
• Fell in and out of love
• Became a cat person (RIP sweet Molly)
• Survived my first earthquake
• Endured Costa Rica's first hurricane in over 100 years
• Rang in the 2017 with some of my Tico 31 fam

Puerto Viejo w/Dan, Tory, & Joe - 3 of the best folks I know.

One of the many, many other things that took place over 2016 was an uptick in my Spanish-speaking abilities. Combined with 3 months of language lessons during training, immersion in my site has gone a very long way in helping me sharpen my español. There are so many things I've learned about this beautiful language that I never, ever knew before coming here, and that's what I want to write about here. 

Not pictured: +/- 2,500 people and every star
known to mankind showing up just in time
for midnight on New Year's Eve.

As I stood on the beach in Puerto Viejo to ring in the new year among so many other anxious souls, I found my thoughts drifting to one simple Spanish phrase: Siempre Esperando. I've only now begun to fully understand the impact of it. See, I thought for the longest time that the word siempre only ever translated to "always." As it turns out, it can also be used to mean "still" - as in an ongoing action. I also thought that the verb esperar - especially in its progressive form esperando - always translated to "to wait/waiting" or "to wait for/waiting for," but I've learned that it can also mean "to hope/hoping." 

So, feeling the sand between my toes and the cool water from the Caribbean flow over and around my feet, I stared up at the stars - nostalgic as ever - and considered the enormous difference between both compound phrases made by those two words.

Siempre esperando... 

That night, looking back on 2016, I could have easily classified myself as still waiting. With everything that transpired over the last 12 months, I could have thrown myself into that category and said that I was still waiting for some specific things / outcomes / results / answers from last year - in other words, still waiting for some shadow of what I thought might've been. Perhaps it was a project that didn't unfold the way I expected. Or maybe it was a friendship or a relationship that turned out a little differently from how I'd planned. There were more than a few things that simply didn't go the way I'd foreseen, so one could make the argument that on that beach that night I was still waiting for something - anything - to give meaning or purpose to any number of the wild events of 2016. 

Then again, I considered, maybe I can take that small but crucial step that we're so wont to do and yet often fail in our attempts to accomplish: to look ahead. And so the other side of the concept behind siempre esperando could be always hoping, That is to say that, in spite of all the perceived negativity from last year's 366 days of ebb and flow (yes, it was a leap year), maybe I can say that I'll always hope for what is to come.

What an incredible difference between the two potential translations. 

[Just to clarify, I believe it's 100% okay to wait for some things. I feel most folks would agree that it all depends on what or who you're still waiting for, but there's nothing wrong with holding out for something good. That said, in some cases it's wise to simply let go and move forward - always hoping for something better.]

Wherever you find yourself as you embark on this new year, know that you're right where you're supposed to be. Whether you find yourself looking over your shoulder still waiting for something, or you've got your eyes on the horizon always hoping for what is yet to come, breathe easy knowing that everything's going to work out just fine.

 ... but if it doesn't, you can always come sit with me on my porch here in San Isidro. You and I will sip good coffee together as we wait until it does.

Pura Vida, my friends.

Lessons in Humility: José the Incredible

This morning I caught a bus to the capital city of San José. Tomorrow night, the United States men's national team plays here against Costa Rica in an important World Cup Qualifying match. I've got some other business to attend to tomorrow morning, so I chose to come a little early. I'm so glad I did.

The only two buses that go directly to San José from my site leave at 3:30 in the ever-loving morning and 2:00 in the afternoon. The latter arrives around 8:30PM in one of San José's many 'red zones,' so it's never a great idea to take that one. I chose to delay a little bit and took the 7:30AM bus to Liberia, and then I grabbed the 10:00AM direct route to San Jose.

As I stowed my bag beneath the hulking monstrosity of a bus out of Liberia and climbed the stairs, I checked my ticket to find out where I'd be sitting for this little jaunt. Seat number 51. Hmm. A window seat. Well, okay. I'm not the biggest fan of window seats, but at least it's the very last row, so I can lean my seat back more than normal. I squeezed into the last row and shifted over to the window seat, placing my backpack down between my legs in anticipation of a full house. I reached down to grab my headphones, and, the moment I looked up I was met with a sight that - to be perfectly and ashamedly honest - I wasn't happy about. There before me, storing his tattered coat and Dora the Explorer backpack in the overhead area, stood a gentleman easily into his sixties in a weathered and stained button-down, a ragged pair of slacks, and a filthy, decrepit pair of ancient penny loafers.

Settling into his coveted aisle seat, he turned to me and flashed a smile that I was not expecting. He had some of the whitest, straightest teeth I've seen on a Tico since I got here in February. He extended his hand, greeting me and saying, "Hola, my name is José. How are you today?" in some of the cleanest, purest English I've heard from a native. It took me a moment to collect my thoughts, what with all the differing facts floating around in front of me. Here was this man who appeared to have just gotten off the back of the truck after a full day of work in the field, and yet his teeth were as perfect as his command of the English language (or at least basic greetings). I was dumbfounded.

"Uh... excuse me," I uttered, "Hello, José! It's nice to meet you. My name is Dakota. I'm well, thank you. How are you?" I shook his calloused, leathery hand. His grip was firm, as one might expect from such a character. He maintained eye contact with me, with his eyes peering into mine beneath the edge of his wide-brim hat. After providing a firm handshake and a hearty report on his day to that point, he leaned his seat back, took a deep breath and set his hat down on his knee. As he ran his wrinkled fingers through his hair, a coy smile crept over his face.

He looked over in my direction and promptly asked if I was married. (NOTE: Costa Ricans are very open and forward. I have been asked this and other rather forward questions by complete strangers many, many times) I took off my headphones and smiled, shaking my head to signal in the negative. He looked genuinely sad at my response, so I explained that I'm currently serving in the Peace Corps and that it doesn't lend itself to being married or getting married during the process blah blah blah. He said he understood, and there was a brief pause. I could tell he was asking for a reason, so I channeled my inner Tingo (For those of you playing at home, that's a cross between Tico and Gringo, the names for a Costa Rican and a US citizen in-country, respectively) and asked him if he was married. Another long, deep sigh. He look at me, and I watched as his eyes welled up with tears and his mood changed rapidly. "I was. A long, long time ago. Still am, thank God."

Okay. There go my reading plans for this trip. Somehow I could tell this was gonna be one hell of a story, and I was legitimately interested. I took out my headphones, rolled them up, and stored them in my backpack so as to demonstrate to my new friend that he was working with my full attention. Then José went on to tell me one of the most riveting, heartbreaking, yet hopeful stories I've ever heard someone tell.

I'm going to do my best to share it with you.

Years ago, José worked for his father-in-law on a farm in Guanacaste, the northwestern province in Costa Rica. He lived with his wife, Lilian, in a house on the farm's property.  In exchange for a place to live and a small allowance for basic necessities, José worked from sunrise to sunset six days a week, performing all kinds of maintenance on his father-in-law's farm. However, after years of failed crops and smaller and smaller returns, the entire operation came to a sudden and tragic halt. Lilian's father decided to sell his property - all of it - meaning José was out of a job and, unfortunately, a home as well.

In the wake of this rough turn of events, José and Lilian decided that it was best for him to travel to the U.S. to try and find a job and, hopefully, earn enough to move Lilian up there with him and finally start a family. In the meantime, Lilian would stay behind and help around the house with whatever the next step was in the lives of her parents, waiting until José sent back for her. Eventually connecting with a construction company in the Dallas/Fort Worth area, José hit the ground running and found himself way ahead of schedule. Then came the unthinkable.

In a letter from his beloved Lilian, he read the horrible news of a car accident that she'd been involved in. Apparently on an unusually rainy summer day, Lilian's father lost control of their vehicle and crossed the median, plowing into an oncoming truck at a high enough speed to eject both her and her parents onto the highway. Her father was killed instantly, and she and her mother were taken to the emergency room. Her mother passed away that same night. Lilian would be paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of her life.

As José recounted this part of the story, tears rolled down his face freely, and I put my hand on this stranger's shoulder in some attempt to bridge the cultural gap. He apologized profusely, and I could only muster "Tranquilo, tranquilo. Está bien, hermano." He gathered himself and continued.

Upon receiving the dreadful news, he panicked. He was completely helpless to be there for his wife in the single greatest moment of need she could endure, and he felt horrible. He tried to make arrangements to return immediately, but he had trouble with his visa. The Costa Rican government, for reasons unknown to José, was claiming that he was unable to re-enter the country with his current papers.

He was on an island of despair and had no way to get off of it. He wrote to Lilian incessantly, as often as he could (this was, of course, before the days of emails and text messages), trying his best to encourage her and keep her spirits high as he sorted out the issues with his return to Costa Rica. Despite his efforts to reach out, he never heard back from her. Not one letter. Fearing the worst, he frantically tried to contact anyone and everyone who might know her status, but it was all for naught. No one knew anything. It was as though she had disappeared.

After seven months of waiting in despair, the Costa Rican government finally allowed José to re-enter. As he made his return trip plans, he let his employer know of his impending departure. To his dismay, his boss informed José that he would be forced to fill José's position if he chose to leave. Without a second thought, José chose to continue on back to Costa Rica. He purchased his flight, boarded the plane, and landed in Alajuela. Almost an entire year had passed since he left Costa Rica with hope and opportunity, only to return home in the wake of a tragedy with no clue where to find the love of his life.

Upon arriving back in Guanacaste, José followed up with many of the same individuals he'd reached out to from the U.S., but there was no news of Lilian's status nor her whereabouts. He described the feeling he had at the time as that of being in a field at midnight with no light and eyes shut. "I had no way to know where I was, what direction to go, or what to do. I was completely alone."

José then described his years of alcoholism and drug addiction, leading to a short stint in prison and a brief stay in a clinic. Once he was clean and able to begin coping with his heartbreaking loss, he decided the only thing that made sense was to continue with his previous plan. He arranged for a loan through a friend he made during his clinic stay, and purchased airfare back to Texas to search for another job in construction.

As had happened before, José found himself very fortunate to land a job with decent pay, and he was back on his feet in no time. After a few months of hard labor, he decided to invest his time in something else, and he began taking night classes at a local high school offering English as a Second Language to the numerous members of the working class Latino community. It turns out, English came easy to José (I jokingly mentioned I wish his language came as easily to me as mine did to him, to which he flashed his brilliant smile and laughed aloud), and he became fluent in a few short months. Time flew by, and José continued working until he was able to secure his papers and decided to stay in the U.S. indefinitely.

You couldn't imagine the smile on my face as I listened to his account of the successes José worked so hard to achieve in those tough times. The months turned into years, and he eventually bought a small house in the suburbs, and accepted a promotion to foreman. He began to lead a crew on smaller jobs in downtown Dallas, and things were going wonderfully. He was happy with his work and proud to be a homeowner in the United States. He chose, however, to remain single, holding out hope that one day he would someday be reunited with his love, Lilian.

I had a feeling, at this point in his story, that something was about to change again, and, unfortunately, I was right. At the end of 2015, José was on his way home from work and arrived to find his home up in flames. He still has no idea what the cause might have been, but it was almost completely lost. The fire department was unable to salvage much of anything. The following day, as José walked among the wet ashes of his hard-earned home, he heard a familiar voice from out by the road. It was his mailman, whom José had developed a friendship with. He was astonished to see the horrible scene, and he got out of his truck to comfort José. After a few moments of consoling José, the mailman announced that he would need to get back to work. José thanked him for his time and kind words, but, just as the mailman was about to pull away, he remembered that he had a letter for José. Surprised, since he never received much other than bills and typical junk mail, José said he sprinted to the mail truck to take the letter from the mailman's hand.

The next part is a little unbelievable, but I stared at José's face and listened all the same. The letter was from Lilian. She had, after some 25-30 years (the dates were a bit fuzzy for José), finally tracked him down through some friends who had also moved to the Dallas/Fort Worth area. They remembered having seen José's name in an ad in the paper, and put Lilian in touch with his boss. Small world.

Instead of calling, Lilian explained in the letter that she preferred to write down the story of what had happened in order to control her emotions. After the accident, she woke up a few days later in the hospital, realized what had happened, wrote the letter to José, fell into a deep state of depression, and was eventually admitted to a mental hospital on San José. Unknown to José, she spent years there going through all forms of counseling as well as physical therapy to acclimate to her new physical limitations.

Because of the informal nature of their marriage in rural Guanacaste, there was no official record stating that Lilian was, in fact, the wife of José. Therefore, when José returned after the accident, there was no way for him to know or for the Costa Rican government's record to show where Lilian had been moved to. She, in the meantime, worked hard to overcome the mental trauma that followed the accident, and eventually moved back to her small town in Guanacaste years later. Because of the nature of José's work back then, his address was something of a moving target, and Lilian was simply unable to locate him.

At the end of the letter, after telling her side of the story, she closed by saying that she still loved him and wanted to be with him, as long as he would still have her in her broken state. (I may or may not have been leaking from the eyeballs as I listened to that part) José, wiping tears from his own eyes, explained to me how, in the wake of losing everything in the fire, he lived on the streets for months as he continued to work, saving every penny he didn't spend on food and shelter for his return flight. Today, José was on his way to San José from the Liberia airport, and he was heading for Lilian's aunt's house outside of Heredia.

I've been in the presence of some incredible and awe-inspiring people in my life. I've learned from wise, deep people. I've felt the raw emotion from some of the most heartfelt souls I could ever have the pleasure of meeting. Taking nothing away from them, the man that sat next to me on the bus today, although ragged and tired, has the biggest, strongest heart of any human being I think I've ever met in my entire life.

I felt completely wrecked inside. Just a few short hours earlier, at first glance of José, I made an entirely incorrect judgment call. There I sat, throwing out my embarrassingly shallow opinion of this man, and I was a fool to do so. Even now, as I sit down and write this out, I'm a little overwhelmed with emotion. I feel like I don't deserve to have heard this man's story.

José gathered his backpack and coat from the overhead storage area, and we waited next to one another on the curb as the driver unloaded each bag from underneath. I collected my bag, waited for José to get his, then turned to face him. His face was so bright, despite years upon years of doubt and defeat. He stood upright with his shoulders back. I stuck my hand out to say goodbye, but José set his bag down and - a bit to my surprise - threw both arms around my midsection and pulled me in for the best bro-hug I've ever had in my life. I thanked him for sharing his story with me, and he, still wiping tears, said "You are welcome. I hope that you find love in your life as I have found it in mine." With that, José gathered his things and walked away. He didn't ask for money, didn't ask if I'd check on him, none of that. He was kind enough to share his story with a stranger - a Gringo, at that - and go on about his way in the hopes of reuniting with Lilian.

Based on what little information I have in regards to travel times and Costa Rican geography, I'm guessing by now José has found his beautiful Lilian. I cannot fathom the emotion that's being shared in these moments. Years upon years and miles beyond miles of separation, finally together again after so much pain and hurt.

Odds are good that I'll never see him again, but I will never, ever forget that man. And the moral of the story? Hell if I know. I started this day thinking I had a good idea of how it would go, but here I sit with a deepened understanding of determination, belief, faith, and love. José's words, uttered mere hours ago, are still resonating in my mind and in my heart. I hope I find love in my life as he has found in his. I hope we all can and do.

Here's to you and your beautiful bride, José, wherever you are. Thank you for sharing.

Love y'all.