Our Costa Rica trip is quickly fading into the past. My skin has officially transitioned from eggshell white back to bone white. I can now eat foods without them immediately liquefying in my stomach. I’m also back to being vaguely angry all the time.
But before our trip recedes fully, I wanted to get a quick story down on digital paper.
Our hotel wasn’t in a town so much as it was situated at the end of a little highway dotted with charming, but very modest restaurants. In fact, the highest rated place in the area was literally a garage with a couple picnic tables.
Every night, we would stroll down the little highway and visit a new little colon scraping spot. There was no sidewalk to speak of, so Diana and I would walk closest to the road to shield Elijah and Luca from the stream of motorcycles and cars. We were never really that scared of the vehicles, because everyone behind the wheel was super friendly.
One night, we were all sitting at a roadside bar/restaurant watching the boys not eat their food. It embarrasses me to no end when we sit like dumb, rich Americans and throw out dinner because it might taste yucky. I started telling servers that we simply like to look at food, but our religion forbids us from allowing our children to eat.
I was about to launch into a “These people would kill to eat those fish tacos” speech that was almost worse than not eating the food in the first place when Luca very matter of factly said, “I just saw guy get hit by a car.”
I had to admit, it was a great way to distract me from forcing him to eat fish tacos. But we all turned our heads and saw a crowd of people rush over to help a victim of a head on collision involving a motorcycle and an SUV.
I was a little scared Luca was in shock. I asked him if he saw the whole thing. “Oh yeah. The guy was on his motorcycle and then, bam! The car hit him and he went like this.” He gave us some pantomimes of the accident.
I was also worried Luca had seen his first dead body. The crowd obscured my vision, but Luca assured me the motorcycle driver was “Moving his head a little.” So he may just broken his spine.
We waited for an ambulance to arrive. And waited. And waited. After 20 minutes, a police car crawled up and two officers stood around a bit. But no ambulance. I really second guessed my decision to let the boys jump from the big rock “Bros Nest” into the pool. A broken arm would most likely have to wait until we got back to Evanston.
Eventually, our bill arrived and we walked home, not knowing the fate of the man on the motorcycle. We walked a lot farther off the highway. But not too far as to risk stepping in oxen poop, which was everywhere.