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We hugged hello and then each had a glass of wine, and it was obvious the bottle had been open for days if not weeks. More vinegar than wine. He told me about his life in San Jose, if he would ever return to the States. “My parents are worried I won’t,” he said. “And to tell you the truth, I can’t see it.”
We then went to a tapas bar, split a bottle of Rioja, and shared two plates of tapas.
“How about some Cuban dancing in El Pueblo?” he asked.
In the bathroom of the salsa club, I stared into the mirror. My face was sweaty and flushed from dancing. I said this: Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it , as if anyone ever talked herself out of something in a bathroom mirror. I went back onto the dance floor and after one spin, my resolution was broken. I knew what I was about to do, and once again, the lover and the place would become inextricable, so there would be no way to separate one from the other. But my emotions over the young prostitutes crowded my thinking. I wanted to make sure it was my choice, that I wasn’t just going along with something because I had been taught that above all else, a woman’s worth is dependent on whether or not she’s desired by a man.
The truth is I had gone to Costa Rica because I was trying to escape a humiliating living situation, where I was living with my ex-husband, which was an even worse idea than it sounds. But I also knew that piling another affair on top of the ones I’d already had would make things worse, not better. Messier and more complicated.
When we got to his car, he said, “What do you want to do?”
It was 1:30am. I was jetlagged and tired and a little bit drunk. I looked at my hotel key, which I already held in my hand, but still I asked, “What are our options?” I probably cocked my head in a way I thought would look alluring in the dark car. I probably made sure there was a lilt to my voice, that I emphasized the word options . It makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it. Not because I think there is anything wrong with what I was about to do, but because I was 33, old enough that I should have seen this coy act for what it was: silly and more than a little bit sad. As girls, and then women, we are taught these small gestures, so that we can lure in a man. Make them want us. Nobody tells us to make sure that’s what we really want. To make sure the man is worthy of our wantings. To decide on our own terms, and then once we have made the decision, to go forward with none of the usual shame. Without later inventing our own inquisition and mounting it against ourselves.
To fuck him and leave him and call it all good. The way any man would.
“Well,” he said. “We can go to another bar, go to your hotel lobby and talk, or go to my place for another drink.”
“I’m too tired for another bar,” I said.
“And your hotel lobby smells like fake perfume.”
“Then to my place for a nightcap?”
“Okay,” I agreed, though I already knew it would come to this, despite the chit-chat.
When we arrived to his apartment, it was confirmed that it wasn’t a drink we were after. We had both switched to water hours before and the only thing he had to drink was cheap whiskey.
“I can’t drink that straight,” I said.
“Well, we can mix it with milk or pink lemonade. Your choice.”
He poured himself a shot of whiskey and mixed mine with pink lemonade. I can’t report what that mixture tasted like because before I took a sip, we were tangled up on the couch. I do remember being embarrassed because my sandals had cut indented stripes across the tops of my swollen feet. But after the shoes came off, the clothes quickly followed, making me forget about my puffy feet. By the time we made it to the bedroom, a trail of clothes following us, I said, “I wasn’t expecting this.”
This, of course, was a lie.
In bed, he told me he had been a pastor, a virgin until 29. Then he said, “I can’t stop touching you.” Then he switched to Spanish, and I had no idea what he was saying. And I loved the not knowing.
I loved the lie more than the truth.
We would stay up all night, tangled in his sweaty bed sheets, the streetlamps, the barred windows casting shadows like teeth.
Then the blare of the taxi through dawn rain. “There’s still time,” he said, reaching for me as I rose from the mattress on the floor.
“No,” I said. “The taxi’s already here.” I gathered my things, dressed in the dark. The rain was a yellow spray in the taxi’s headlights. The streets were beginning to fill with the madrugadas , early morning workers.
There is no word in English for madrugada — that time between midnight and dawn, the gray nearly. He followed me barefoot into the street, kissed my cheek, handed me my bag, and I said, “ hasta ,” meaning soon. Hasta meaning I won’t see you again.
Dating Costa Rican Girls isn’t Worth it While Visiting.

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