Thankfully San Jose is far more cosmopolitan than the other Central American capitals and the threat if death is not constantly at your door. As well as being safer, San Joseans love to party so together with our manservant Darius we left where we were and arrived at where itīs at - El Pueblo
. This mess of bars in guarded confines looked like it catered for clueless tourists. However, this was not the case. Locals streamed in with many heading for a bar in particular. With the majority of these locals being semi-clad ladies, Darius decided this would be where we were to go. Little did we realise that said bar was ladies night and it didnīt mean just free drinks. "Mujeres noche" oddly seems to translate to naked men gyrating on stage behind a curtain where only women could go. As soon as we stepped into the bar, Heather was dragged kicking and screaming to watch the "porn" while Woody and Darius sat nursing beers with three other lonely and overly-friendly looking guys.
Three hours later Heather emerges smiling and the three of us leave contemplating very different things.
PS (poo situation), Heather: Bright lights, Big shitty, Woody: Costa-pated
Itīs odd what becomes the norm. It seems I may need to have a word with Merriam and Webster and have the defination of bed updated from "a piece of furniture on or in which to lie and sleep" to "a pile of bug-ridden cow-dung recently scrapped from the road". So it was which much Bliss that we laid our head to rest in a hotel in the Costa Rican capital of San Jose with a double bed complete with fresh sheets and fluffy pillows and a bathroom with mini-soaps. I almost missed scraping mould from my body before toweling myself down from a shower. With all this luxury it was time to paint the town rojo.