And Thus Began Our Longest Journey Together

Now what?!

As of a few hours ago, 23 January 2015, we own a home on 1.65 acres, more or less, in Montaña Samara Estates, Samara, Nicoya Peninsula, Guanacaste, Costa Rica. Lock, stock, and barrel . . . or perhaps in Costa Rica one says Surf, turf, and bats! We even have a name . . . Rusty's selection, though I certainly have no objection. As for truly, finally being the owners of a property outside the United States . . . I'm paralyzed. We're about to be expats, again.

Casa Jalapeño. Evidently there is some argument about that little symbol above the N. I've always called it a tilde (natural master of foreign languages that I am . . . not); but a search of the always-authoritative Internet says that its real name is virguilla. Potato, potato; tomato, tomato . . . let's not call the whole thing off. I can't pronounce the virguilla anyway; and so what's in a name?

What's in a name? Really, Kathy?! It's merely held-tight at the tip-top of my things-to-obsess-about-today list since 18 October 2014. There are worse things about which I might obsess, right? And in the obsession process I've practiced my font work with InDesign, always big fun for me. After all, we've got a yet-to-be-purchased plaque to consider. The plaque that will hang at our doorway to announce to visitors: You made it to the correct home/casa/finca. The plaque that will have a little toucan (beak and tail-feathers made from Jalapeños) painted by moi-meme. Whoops, wrong language, yet again.

Look what the world's best realtor did! He photographed our builder/developer (Lubos) and his architect/designer wife (Cynthia) at the closing table. He did this to memorialize the closing since we couldn't be present . . . well, we could have; but we weren't willing to spring for the airfare merely to sign some papers. After all, I still have patio furniture to purchase. That patio furniture! Clearly, I refuse to let it go.

But in lieu of a casa, I want a finca . . . a farm. And the plat/survey/lot-block document, the one that shows our river, clearly states that this 1.65 acres, more or less, is a finca. I think owning a farm holds many more romantic possibilities than a mere casa. After all, you've never heard Isak Dinesen (or Sydney Pollack) starting a book/movie with I had a house in Africa. Hardly inspiring. Heck, even I had a house in Africa. On this issue I am as tenacious as a terrier -- holding tightly as only a terrier can. I won't let go. It's got to be a farm/finca! So I'm thinking Finca los Jalapeños. At the very least, it means more of those cute special-font letters on the plaque.

So when my paralysis subsides . . . after it's turned into mania, I'll come back from being over-the-moon with glee and get down to the details of the move. And one day in the spring Rusty, Jill-the-Pill, Nut-Meg the cat, and I will depart the U.S. for Samara. To paraphrase young Scout in Miss Nelle Harper Lee's timeless tome: This night my mind was filled . . . and thus began our longest journey together.  A journey and an adventure . . . filled with gallo pinto, bats, monkeys, snakes, insects, humidity, rains, unknown animals, and earthquakes (true, I like to downplay the earthquake part). Earthquakes in Samara? or civil unrest in little Pô? . . . six months of torrential rain in Guanacaste? or dengue fever in Pô . . . and/or also in Samara? . . . ant invasions in Pô? or an ant invasion on another continent? Bring it!

I feel as if I've live through all of this before. Bring it . . . because lo que hay! And it's a finca!