La Rama

This is part of a chapter in a book I wrote, Viajando sin Mapas (Traveling without Maps). It's a follow-up to my last diary entry, an example of how I turn a diary into a story

I left quickly, drove for another twenty minutes, and saw a sign in the country for a Buena B&B, Hotel La Rama. I asked a middle-aged indigenous woman with a soft, pleasant face about dogs; “No hay problema,” she said. Thirty-five dollars with breakfast. The right choice. Bed and breakfast for thirty-five dollars.

I had a wonderful afternoon with Lola. La Rama had expansive grounds beautifully landscaped, with an ancient tennis court overgrown with weeds and black mold farther down the hill. It looked like a court one would discover in the jungle where the Aztecs played. Then beyond the tennis court lay Laguna de Arenal, a huge lake formed by a dam and encircled by volcanoes and mountains.

Lola was very happy running free, chasing a coconut down the hill, and bringing it back up to me. She loves to run—she looks as if she is laughing when she runs. Over to the right lay another area with a pond, which Lola jumped in and splashed around, hitting the water with her paws and trying to bite the froth.

We went back to our room, and I wrote until the day began to fade. I went onto my patio and played my guitar, singing, “I Go to Where I Want To.”

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I go to where I want to

I don’t pay not rent

I ride a motorcycle

I sleep in a tent

I follow the sun

To where the sky turns pale

I’m just an old-time cowboy

Who rode off the trail

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My room was private, on the lower of a two-deck hotel/restaurant. I think there were only about four rooms in the hotel, and I hadn’t seen other renters. I thought I was singing only to myself (and to Lola, who seems to listen while complaining about high E). But when I finished my song, I heard clapping from the restaurant deck above me. I shouted, “Gracias,” and a thin, handsome, young Hispanic man, Philippe, came down to find out who was playing the music. He didn’t speak English, but we managed to combine our languages, and he asked me to join him and his friend and play more songs.

His friend was a beautiful Anglo, Maria, in her mid-thirties. Maria’s beauty lay in her open face, not the kind of beauty you see on TV—just a very pleasant, open face, no makeup. We had a few beers, and we told each other our stories, mixing English and Spanish so that we could all be in the conversation. This is the thing about traveling: people want to learn about each other, and I suppose because we know we probably won’t meet again, we open up about our pasts, our struggles, and where we think we’re going. We had a lovely, soft evening.

They left. For dinner, I had spaghetti and wine, sitting alone on the patio with Lola, the lights from a small village shining across the lake.