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He said he and the older rich gay guy and some of his friends were drunk in Alajuela and he lost his shoes down some rocks and everybody was positive there was a lake down there, but it was actually just sewage, and he cut up his feet.He said they were running down the beach to get back across the border and this customs official asked for a bribe and he gave the bribe.We'd teach our gringo children perfect Spanish.
They were everywhere; the North Carolina mountains echoed with their screams.I walked up to a restaurant and bought a juice and offered him some and he said he didn’t want any.I asked why he didn’t want to go back to Charlotte and he said all his friends there just did coke and he didn’t want to go back and just do coke. I think that's what we did have in common: a desire to get out of whatever we were in, though little clue what else we wanted instead.His diary was a spiral-bound notebook like a middle schooler would use.“Do you write about yourself? He accused me of talking about things he knew nothing about.” I pried.“Just people, places I went, things I saw,” he said, setting it on the highest shelf, out of my reach. He said, “If you’re so much smarter than me—” and I said, “I’m not,” which was a lie, and true.
We'd look at the white mansions on the hill and Tico kids and dogs would run about and iguanas stood sideways on trees.